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Chapter Text

String of Time

by WinterWrites23

Prologue: Boy, That Sure Was Weird

September 1st, Edinburgh, 1997

"That's your stop, lad, off you go, now." Scotland slowed his grey Honda Civic to a stop, putting his emergency lights on. He glanced at his passenger who hadn't moved with a frown. "I don't have all day."

Northern Ireland ignored him, looking at the window with his arms crossed and brows furrowed. He glared at the people bustling on the street, some heading to work as others enjoyed the rare sunny September day they were having.

"Come on, you can't stay over my house forever, y'know?" Scotland rolled his eyes. "As much as I like having your lazy arse here, I have a life too."

The boy stayed silent, just as he stayed silent during the whole twenty minutes long trip. He picked at the strap of his backpack by his feet, lips tight shut.

"Oh, for the love of- he doesn't even live there. Just go back home and be done with it."

"Don't wanna," the boy muttered.

The older brother let out an exasperated sigh, switching off the emergency lights before pulling over to a parking lot he saw earlier. He cut off the engine and shifted to face the boy with an annoyed expression.

"North, you can't keep coming up here whenever you throw a tantrum."

"I'm not throwing a tantrum!" The boy immediately snapped, eyes flashing in anger. "He started it, complaining and blaming me as always for everything. He doesn't listen to a thing I say and won't accept his fucking mistakes and-"

"Why was he over your house, anyway?" Scotland asked but immediately waved his hand when he saw North taking a deep breath. He knew that if he let him speak, he would never hear the end of it. He grimaced. "You know what? I'm not gonna hear it. This is between you and him. For my sake, spare me the bloody soap opera."

"But-"

"No, you're going home like a good lad and stay there without blowing something up with your mad experiences, you hear me?" He pointed a finger at North with narrowed eyes. "You owe me a new toaster by the way."

"Wasn't my fault your toaster was too shite to handle the centrifugal force!"

"There's a hole in my roof."

"Well… wasn't my fault your roof is-"

The boy yelped when Scotland cuffed him on the side of the head. North leaned as far he could while being in a car, rubbing furiously at his head.

"Why can't I stay over longer?" He all but whined, not even a bit embarrassed about it as he slumped back to his seat. He didn't want to go back home. Not right now, and he wanted to stay as far as possible from him. "Just another week? Just until England and Wales get back! I can stay out of whatever you call life. I can even do the dishes for you! Buy you a new toaster or-or brush your hiking boots or-"

The expression on the man's face remained impassive.

Time to change tactics.

Putting a hand over his heart and widening his eyes as much as he could, North gasped meekly, pouting his bottom lip. "Are you really going to abandon your little brother out there all alone, in that cold selfish island? Your own blood and kin?"

"Aye," Scotland said, not a hint of remorse in his voice. He scoffed when the boy blinked innocently at him. "That trick doesn't work on me anymore, lad."

Dropping the façade, the boy puffed his cheeks as he unbuckled his seat belt. He grabbed his backpack. "You're an arse."

A shit-eating grin pulled on the Scottish nation's face as he started up the car once again. "Always glad to help!"

North squawked when Scotland ruffled his hair and quickly got out of the car before he gave him a noogie. He slung his backpack over his shoulder and slammed the door behind him. He grumbled as he tried to put his hair back to normal.

"Oi!"

North glared over his shoulder. "What?"

Leaning over his seat, Scotland handed out a few bills. "In case you got hungry on your way back."

Sighing, North approached the car, though he was internally grateful because he didn't have much change left and grabbed the money.

"And look," his brother said, his grin dimming to a small one-sided smirk because Scotland didn't know what smiling was. "The storm will pass, Norn. You two will soon find common ground. It won't last forever, y'know."

"Feels like it," the boy muttered bitterly, letting the ridicule nickname pass this time. "He's always yelling the second he sees me, giving out on every little thing I do. 'No North, you're wrong. No North, you're not doing it right! Listen to me, North, I'm always right.' It goes on and on. I bet he curses my name in his fucking sleep."

"No, he doesn't. Just... just give it time, aye? You'll see the light at the end of the tunnel or whatever inspirational metaphor there is," Scotland said awkwardly, never one to give heart-to-heart conversation. And it showed. That was Wales' forte, not his. Scotland cleared his throat. "He'll come around, just let the firecracker cool down for a few days and he'll be his annoying old man self again. He has a lot on his plate lately."

"As if my plate wasn't already full too! You always do this; you always take his side!" North complained. "Is it because he's the eldest or some shitty excuse like that? You never back me up when-"

"I will when ye stop being an immature child just like yer doing right now." Scotland snapped, patience thinning. "If you want to be taken seriously, you need to act yer age."

"Act your age, stop being a child. Can't you be more contradicting than that? What do you care how old I am? The ocean is old as fuck and it will still drown your arse with vigour."

"Ach, for fuck's –" The man pinched the bridge of his nose to keep from throttle the boy. He took a deep breath and looked at his little brother sternly. "Look, from what I gathered you two had a big fight and you told me your version. Or part of it— shut up, I know you didn't tell me everything. Until I know his version, I'm staying back. He and England are too stubborn to be reasoned with at the moment so don't even bother getting in their way. Just go home and stay there, is that clear?"

The boy clenched his jaw, stubbornly staying silent.

"Is that clear?" Scotland asked again, eyes narrowing in a warning.

North looked away with a huff. He muttered tersely, "Yeah, yeah."

Rolling his eyes in exasperation, the Scotsman looked at the rear-view mirror for an exit. "If ye really want to be coddled, talk to Wales instead of me. God knows how much of a mother hen he can be. Especially when you're on your own."

North scowled, glaring at his brother. "I'm not a baby, I can travel on my own just fine."

"Then stop being one, twiggy."

"Prick," North called out with a huff. He flushed when he realized people were watching their back and forth.

Completely oblivious or not caring at all about the attention, Scotland lowered his window. He glanced at North with a smirk and said loudly, "Remember, Seán, don't take sweets from creepy old men!"

"Shut up." Turning beet red, North swirled around with hunched shoulders and started walking in a brisk pace.

"And watch both sides when ye cross the street too!"

Without turning, the boy flipped him off and hurried to the train station, pointedly avoiding the looks from bystanders and the loud laugh of Scotland as he drove off.

God his brothers were the worst.

North pulled his Walkman out of his backpack, grumbling under his breath as he tried to untangle the mess that was his headphones. He gave up a moment later and put them on, despite the knots dangling awkwardly against his face.

Because Scotland had a meeting at 11 with his boss, which knowing him would purposely be late by 15 minutes just for the hell of it, he had to drop him off much earlier than his supposed departure.

Which meant, much to his annoyance, North had two hours to kill before 13h35.

North pressed play on his music player and adjusted his headphones, blocking the world around him as he started walking down the east hall of the Waverley shopping center. He could spend the twenty quid Scotland gave him, maybe buy a chicken sandwich for lunch or a slice of pizza.

With that in mind, the boy wandered around the shopping center, stopping every now and then to pretend to be interested in whatever was on display. He found a small grocery store and bought a chicken sandwich along with a bag of BBQ crisps.

As he waited in line, he spotted a strange-looking sign from the store across the hall. It was an advertisement for repairing computers in a really-shady-but-somehow-no-one-says-anything kind of way, with flickering lights and dubious deals. But what caught his attention was the slogan written on fluorescent pink cardboard. Scribbled in black marker, it said: 'It's time to tend your wounds!'

What a strange slogan for an electronics store.

"That would be £17.43."

"Uh?" North blinked at the cashier in confusion before realizing it was his turn. Pulling his headphones off, he fumbled to get the money out but paused when he saw the price. Dumbfounded, he asked, "Excuse me, miss, but why is it that expensive? The sandwich only costs £2.65 and the crisps £0.85."

The cashier frowned, a young woman in her early twenties named Marie T., and looked at the screen displayer. She made a frustrated noise and punched a series of keys with a sheepish smile. "Sorry about that, our machines have been malfunctioning all morning. Someone's coming over soon to have a look at it… ah, it's working now. That would be £3,50. Sorry about that."

Nodding, North handed the money and glanced at the window while he waited for the change. He did a double-take when he noticed the advertisement sign said, 'Telly half the price!', instead of what he saw earlier. He mumbled his thanks to the cashier once he got the receipt and left the store. He sent one last look to the computer repair store before leaving.

An hour passed and the Northern Irish boy all but forgot about the strange slogan as he wandered in the shopping center.

"Jack, get back, come on before we crack…" North sang under his breath, hands in pockets and bobbing his head to the rhythm of the music. He paused when he saw a small bookstore at the end of the hall and decided to go have a look.

He wasn't much of a bookworm as Wales, but he did like spending time flipping through books now and then. Maybe there was a science section where he could buy a new issue of Science: Beyond the Limit.

He walked over to the bookstore and smiled a little as he read the cursive banner that said 'Alba's Wee Library' followed in much smaller letters 'Grand Opening'. He entered the little store and could already tell it was the antique rustic style with the warm colour and dark brown bookshelves. On the right side, beside the cashier stand, was a section with decorations such as tea sets and globes. Maybe he could find a snow globe to add to his collection.

Overall, it looked like 'a bubble of pure warmth from heaven itself' as Wales would call it whenever he visited a bookstore.

"Welcome to Alba's Wee Library. Are you searching for a specific book?" The owner looked up from the book he was repairing, a gentle-looking man in his sixties with a thin moustache and greyish short hair.

"Hi, um not really, thanks. I'm just passing by until my train arrives." North smiled, pausing his music as he looked over the rows of bookcases.

"Feel free to look, then, it's always nice to see weans interested in books these days instead of roaming the streets." The owner laughed and nodded his head to the side. "I have comic books at the back over there if you're interested."

Thanking the man, North went to the back. He wasn't a big fan of comics, but it was worth a shot. He preferred watching the shows anyway. After flipping through an issue of the Amazing Spider-Man, he started looking for the science section. A smile quirked upon his lips when he found it. He was pleased to see a whole alley dedicated to it.

He skipped the space and astronomy section, focusing on anything related to chemistry and experiments. As he was reading the label of a magazine about chemical reactions on plants, he didn't notice the other browser leaning over a counter until he bumped into them, causing the books they were holding to tumble across the floor.

"Oh, dear!"

"I'm so sorry, I wasn't paying attention," North blurted out in embarrassment as he picked up the books. He handed them over, stuttering another apology as he looked up. It was an old lady with yellow-tinted cat eyeglasses that made her eyes comically big, wearing a dark green felt overcoat and a brown shapka. In other words, a typical 'I live with fifteen cats and I'm proud of it' old lady.

She laughed a bell-like sound, voice laced with mirth as she waved a dark blue gloved hand. "No harm done, little one, thank ye for picking them up. Such a nice young gentleman."

"You're welcome and sorry again, ma'am, I wasn't looking," the boy said with a sheepish smile, politely ignoring the fact that none of her clothes matched. France would have burst into tears if he ever saw her.

The smile on the old woman's face suddenly faltered as she looked at him for a moment and sadness flashed in her magnified pale green eyes. "Ooh, you poor bairn, God will send you down a stony path."

"Uh… what?"

He jostled when she grabbed his hand and gave it a gentle pat as if in comfort. A wan smile appeared on her wrinkled face as she said, "May He give you strong shoes, then."

With that, the old lady turned around and disappeared as she rounded the corner on the next aisle, leaving the boy blinking in confusion. What was that about?

North shook the weird feeling off and grabbed the first magazine he saw with the word chemistry on it. He hurried towards the front desk, not wanting to stay one minute longer.

"Found what you were looking for, young man?" The owner asked, scanning the magazine.

"Um y-yeah, that is all." The boy bobbed his head, quickly checking over his shoulder for any sign of the old lady.

"That would be £3,25, do you want a bag with that?"

"No, it's okay." North handed the money, fingers fidgeting with the strap of his backpack.

"Here you go, enjoy your reading." The owner handed the magazine back with a friendly grin, but somehow that made North even more uneasy. He stashed his purchase in his backpack and slung it over his shoulder. The man gave him the receipt. "Have a safe travel!"

Plastering a smile, North snatched the paper, blurted out goodbye and quickly left the bookstore without looking he was sprinting off from there. He looked over his shoulder one last time, not seeing any sign of the old lady. He shook himself. How ominous that sounded, Jaysus.

"I think that's enough shopping for today," he said to himself as he walked down the hall, heading for the train station.

As he was approaching, he spotted two men in maintenance uniform at the central clock of the train station. The one at the base of the structure was gesturing wildly at the other one who was at the top of a ladder, toolbox in hands.

"The other red wire, ye wallaper," the first man said, pointing at the open panel above, "Now the hands are going mental again."

Following at what the man was pointing, North spotted soon enough the hands of the clock spinning out of control. The repairman on the ladder said something back at the other as he tweaked something and looked back at the clock.

The spinning slowly came to an end, the hands stopping at 5:43 before a sputtering hiss came from inside the machinery. A small trail of smoke came out a second later.

"For fuck's sake, Ian, look what ye did!"

"I did what you asked! I cut the red wire!"

"Clearly you didn't! Get down here, I'll check it myself."

North rolled his eyes at his ongoing misfortune and went to the information booth to ask both the time and his ticket's platform. Once it was done, the boy passed by the two bickering men at the clock and finally sat down in the seating area. He deserved it after all the weird things that happened since he got here. Opening his backpack, he pulled out his chicken sandwich and his new magazine.

North was pleased to know he chose a good issue, Chemistry: Nature vs Synthetic. It would be fun to read during the ride. From a quick glance at it, it talked about the possibility of recreating skin tissue by modifying the molecular structure of cells. With any hope, in the future, they could put this technology in use for the medical field. He wondered what kind of experiments the researchers came up with.

Some would say Northern Ireland was the 'scientific' one of the family in which logic and science always came first. After all, if you can prove your theory with a test, then there was truth within. Sure, he enjoyed fantasy stories (not as much as Wales with The Lord of the Rings. That man could recite the whole thing by heart and would kill if you ever insult the book in front of him) but not as much as he loved reading science-fiction or the Sherlock Holmes series. Not to mention the experimenting side of science where you perform tons of stuff to learn how the world around you worked.

Come to think of it, North should start saving money so he could buy the right equipment to make a do-it-yourself storm glass. England refused to buy him one by lecturing him about buying 'rubbish knick-knacks' and instead buy something more useful like a broom or a shoe rack. What was cool about a broom when you can have instead an instrument that can predict the weather by the way the liquid inside crystallizes in specific patterns? And this magazine may be his solution to his financial problem. Maybe he could find the ingredients in the local store!

"The train heading to Glasgow Station will depart in 15 minutes, please head to platform 17 with your ticket ready to aboard the train. The train heading to..."

North paused mid-nibble of his chicken sandwich, lifting his headphones to listen to the scratchy barely recognizable voice in the intercom. He looked at the central clock, realizing the two repairmen already finished their work as the time showed 1h20.

With a dejected sigh, he put the magazine inside his backpack and slung it over his shoulder. He shoved the last bit of his sandwich, balled up the wrapping and threw it into the bin, along with his empty bag of crisps. He pulled out his ticket and headed for platform 17 at a speed of a man walking for his death sentence.

Less than 15 minutes left before he headed back to hell.

"Stupid Dylan and Arthur for being who knows where for a stupid meeting," North grumbled under his breath. He could crash at their flat if he wanted to. He did have their keys after all, but knowing them, they'll throw a fit spewing nonsense about manners and respect of one's house.

Before he headed for the gate, North stopped by a drugstore to buy a Curly Wurly chocolate bar and a bag of Skittles. Might as well have a little of the 'taste the rainbow' for the ride.

Maybe it would clear out the imaginative miserable clouds floating above his head.

He waited in line with his ticket in hand and headphones on his ears, munching on his chocolate-covered caramel candy. Once it was his turn, he handed his boarding ticket to a stern-looking middle-aged woman with short hair and too much makeup for her own good. He was about to get in but was stopped by a bright red nailed hand clamping on his shoulder.

Can't he have a bloody break?

"Where are your parents, boy?" The woman asked in a haughty tone that immediately grated North's nerves.

"I'm travelling alone," he said calmly, though deep down he just wanted to scream to the skies. Not this again.

The woman narrowed her eyes, the makeup around her eyes wrinkling like crumbled paper. "Do you have your parent or guardian pass?"

"A what?"

"We have a new policy that requires all children below 16 to have a parental pass or guardians to board the train. Do you have a parental pass or your guardian's?"

"No, I don't." North couldn't help to snap, not liking her patronizing tone. Who does she think she was? He was older than her for Christ's sake. "I always travel alone when I visit my brother, I was never asked that before."

"That is no excuse, young man, the new policy still applies. I need a parent pass if you want to board the-"

"No, I don't have parents, nor do I have guardians or whatever. When my brother bought the ticket, he wasn't asked that crappy question about a parental slip. I even asked the information booth lady earlier when I was trying to find the platform. Again, I wasn't asked." North flushed at the attention he was getting, his mouth going dry. He swallowed and pointed at the sign in front of the gate, trying to keep his voice from cracking. "Do you see any information about that policy? Any indication that I should have the piece of paper beforehand? No. I don't see anything. Therefore, I can travel just fine by myself without your stupid pass."

The makeup almost fell off the woman's face by the glare she sent, her puckered lips forming a blotch of red. Clearly, she wasn't used to be talked like that. Not waiting for a response, North snatched his ticket from her hand and flashed her a stiff smile. "Thank you and have a great day."

He boarded the train, ignoring the way his shaking hand was clutching his ticket as he shuffled through the other passengers. It took him a while to find his seat and by then, his patience was on the brink of collapse.

North had to ask not one but three staff members for directions because the first two didn't believe seat In43 even existed in their freaking train. The third just shrugged and said, 'maybe it's that way'. Luckily enough, the bloke was right because his seat was in fact 'that way' but at the very end of the train, in a cold poor lighten wagon filled with graffiti that made North questioned Scotland's definition of an 'adequate seat'.

After almost face-planting on the floor because a part of the carpet floor was ripped open, the boy reached his seat only to have to fight the compartment above to put his backpack before giving up when the little door got jammed halfway through.

At last, the young nation put his backpack on the seat beside him, not caring if it was someone's place and slumped into his seat. He leaned back and took a deep breath, feeling the beginning of a headache and the lingering frustration from the argument with the prickly old barbie woman.

He hated when people treated him like a helpless child, thinking he wouldn't know how to function like a normal person without the help of an adult. He may look young, but he was by far much independent than normal human kids. He had his own house for heaven's sake.

Sure, his house was under the name of Ireland because it would be weird for humans to see a fourteen years old kid living in there alone, but it was still technically his as much as he hated to accept he didn't legally own it. And yes, he lived ninety percent of the time at England's because his brother was a complete mother hen and didn't trust him to be on his own, but his point still stands. He wasn't the best cook in the world, coming from a family that could literally burn water, but he can whip out a meal or two if he was motivated enough.

Portugal always praised his spicy sausage spaghetti whenever he visited England. And his banana pancakes were sound.

It was the main reason he hated taking the train instead of having one of his brothers drive him home: to face those kinds of shitty situations. And to add salt to the wound, it was a daily occurrence. The moment he stepped out of his house, adults all but fret over him as if he couldn't fill a glass of water without breaking it. How ridiculous was that?! He could do his grocery shopping, thank you very much. He even repaired the fridge once, for Christ's sake.

North looked from the window, watching the other passengers gathering at the line, noticing the old barbie looking woman was a totally different person when talking to adults. She was actually smiling, as nauseating as it was to witness.

Hmpf, typical hypocrite old hag.

The boy put on his headphones, hoping some music will help pass his headache and of course forget his shitty day. He pressed played and closed his eyes only to let out a curse when a high-pitched static blasted into his ears instead of his 80s music remix. He tore his headphones off with a yelp, glad he was alone in the wagon because the colourful words that followed would surely have raised a few eyebrows.

"Want to piss me off too, you stupid thing," North muttered angrily, wincing at the buzzing in his ears as he tapped the cassette inside the device in question. The Walkman responded by sputtering a pop before running smoothly as if it didn't try to blast his ears off to Kingdom Come.

Rolling his eyes, North pressed play again and carefully put one side of his headphone. Once he was sure he wasn't going to bleed from his ears again, though they were still ringing which wasn't helping his headache at all, he put them back on and leaned back on his seat.

He closed his eyes as Rhapsody started to play, finally relaxing for good. After all the crap he went through since Scotland drop him off, he was so done with the world right now. He didn't want to go back home.

How he wished the next 7 hours would last forever.

The voice of Freddie Mercury filled the silence.

Is this real life?

Unfortunately, yes.

Is this just fantasy?

If only.

With that thought, Northern Ireland fell asleep, immersing himself in the music as the buzzing world around him disappeared.

Chapter Text

Chapter 1

Mate, You're Not Going to Believe This

Northern Ireland woke up to a sunny blue sky.

He stared at the clouds passing by, breathing heavily as the buzzing in his ears dimmed into silence. He propped himself up by the elbows, looking at his surroundings with a frown and immediately knew something was wrong. Very wrong.

Instead of the crappy seat of the train, he found himself in a forest with vegetation so dense he could barely look from a few yards of where he was. Scrambling to his feet, the boy did a whole spin, his eyes darting in any direction in mounting confusion.

"How in the world did I…?"

He looked around, hoping he could find any clue to locate himself. However, the more he went through the forest, the more he realized he didn't have a single idea of where he was. There weren't any familiar locations. No signal post, no benches, no roads. Nothing.

His brows knitted together in confusion. He was at Edinburgh Waverley Railway Station just a few minutes ago, waiting for the train to leave. He couldn't have been so distracted he walked out of the train when he arrived at Glasgow to catch his bus for the ferry and decided to take a walk into a park. Sure, he had a bad habit to daydream when listening to music to the point he sometimes ended up going the opposite direction he was heading. But this was downright ridiculous!

The young nation climbed over a fallen tree, his confusion growing as he looked at the tall trees and foliage. The last thing he remembered was falling asleep on the train, listening to music. His seat was by the window with his bag beside-

He looked over himself, realizing he didn't have his backpack with him nor his music player. Patting the pockets of his jacket and jeans, he noticed in mute horror they were empty as well. His money, keys, his trusty rubber band, his bag of Skittles… Gone.

Was he dreaming?

Along with tending to daydream, he was also a lucid dreamer with an infinite imagination that was both a blessing and a curse. A blessing when he needed inspiration for his projects and a curse when France surprised England by showing up with a serenade while wearing only a rose to cover his... you know what. Luckily, England kicked him out of the house with a decoration sword before he finished his show.

But it was too late to save North from that sight. His eyes almost bled when he saw that. He shivered in disgust just at the thought of it. It was worse than learning Scotland liked to sleep naked for godforsaken reasons.

Living nightmare aside, it was hard to separate himself between reality and dreamworld whenever he dreamed. Maybe if he closed his eyes and pinched himself, it would wake him up.

"Ow, nope, not a dream." He rubbed his arm with a wince and looked around again. He blew out a raspberry. "Ooookay, no need to lose our mind just yet. There... there must be a logical explanation for whatever is going on. Yeah, that's it. Let's first check the obvious."

North closed his eyes and concentrated to locate his Heart, Belfast, but instead of the familiar gentle tugs from the ground and the faint whispers at the back of his mind, he was met with silence. Frowning, he tried locating any of his brothers' presence and felt his heart skyrocket when it came to the same result. He tried to sense his Land once more, but the sinking dread was his only answer.

His heart hammered in his chest.

Why can't he feel his Land? Where was Belfast? Why can't he feel his brothers? Where are they? Was he outside of the British Isles? Is that why he can't feel his Land?

His breath quickened, his eyes going wide in panic, and he looked at the sky for the stars only to remember it was daytime and he was shite with constellations to begin with.

He blew a raspberry and ran a hand through his tousled hair.

Okay, okay, okay.

Let's backtrack for a bit.

So, he got into the train after arguing with a snappy old woman, sat down on his seat and put his headphones on. His Walkman went all Exorcist on him, almost bursting his ears into oblivion, and then he fell asleep while listening to Bohemian Rhapsody.

What else? Think Seán, he thought with forced calmness, there must be something else he was missing.

He groaned loudly when he came up with nothing, kicking a rock in frustration. Great, just what he needed. Waking up in Nowhere Town and losing his stuff in the process. He didn't even have the chance to enjoy his bag of Skittles.

He glanced at the nearest tree, weighing his options. He doubted running straight into a tree to wake him up would be a good idea.

Okay, new plan. First, find a way out of this forest. Maybe he'll come across a trail or a road sign. Then, he'll swallow his dignity and ask for directions because he has no idea where he was. His nation senses were going haywire, making him slightly disoriented, as if they too were trying to search for his Land. And even if his senses were fine, he wouldn't know where to go. He was terrible with directions, couldn't tell his North from his South. The irony.

He also didn't have any change left for a phone booth or call a cab. He didn't know where to go and he was getting hungry and the sun was going down any time now. Who knows what lurked in these woods? He'll get devoured by a bear or a pack of wolves for all he knew.

Huffing at his spiralling thoughts, he shook himself. He rubbed his hands together, breathing slowly. "Right, no panicking yet. I don't need help to find my way. I'll be fine on my own. Yup. Just find a path, North, and find civilization. Find a store to borrow a phone or hell, find a police station. They'll help, for sure. Yeah, easy peasy."

Glad about his pep-talk, Northern Ireland set his shoulders straight, chose a random direction and walked with determination...

…For about fifteen minutes before he lost his patience. There were only trees and not a single sign of a path or whatsoever.

He was ready to start yelling at the forest for his situation but was startled when he heard rustling coming from a bush nearby. He whipped his head to the right and tensed at the sight of two piercing blue eyes staring at him between the foliage.

With bated breath, North watched as a red fox poked its head out from the bush, black snout flaring as it sniffed the air around. The boy let out a sigh of relief, making sure to not scare the mammal off with sudden movement.

It was just a fox.

North cocked his head to the side with a smile, watching as the fox took a step further, its slim body low on the ground as it continued to stare at him. It was a curious one. "You wouldn't know by any chance where the feck am I, would you? The closest sign of civilization, maybe?"

The fox flinched at his voice, black-tipped ears flicking towards him but didn't back away. Instead, it cocked its head to the side just like him, regarding him with a flat look that probably said: 'do I look like I can speak human?'

North grinned at the gesture, already taking a liking to it. Yup, he probably looked like a right eejit talking to a fox but what could he lose. It wasn't like his day could get any weirder than it already was.

"You know, you look a lot like Finn. I think I'll call you Finn," he mused out loud, nodding to himself as he eyed the fox carefully. "You even have his eyes. It fits perfectly!"

Finn the fox was in fact, a stuffed fox toy he used to have when he was little. He didn't remember who gave it to him, probably Wales, given his collection of stuffed dragons hidden under his plethora of pillows. It was made of soft material stitched together with two sky blue buttons as eyes, one getting torn off when he attempted to throw it from a branch to see if Finn could fly—he couldn't, but he was willing to try. Of course, he didn't sleep with it anymore because he was older, hence more mature and not in need of a protector against nightmares. So good old Finn had become the sole ruler of his bookshelf in his room ever since, at the very top so he could oversee his empire that was his snow globe collection.

Alas, as much as he liked foxes, a blue-eyed one nonetheless, he better let this one be. He was probably trespassing its territory and foxes could be territorial of their den.

"Sorry to bother you, Finn or… Fiona if you're a girl," he said, slowly stepping back. "I'll be on my way. I won't disturb your den."

The fox growled, eyes narrowing as it bared its sharp teeth at him, its fur bristling in warning and tail ramrod straight. North stopped moving, his foot still in the air and raised his hands in surrender.

"I'm leaving, I'm leaving! Sorry, let me just-"

He yelped when the fox lunged at him only to run past him and disappear behind a tree. He turned slowly, watching the fox poke its head out to stare at him, tail flickering anxiously and paws scratching the ground, its ears flat to its ears.

Perplexed, North moved closer but kept his distance as the fox chirped as if pleased and turned to trot a few yards before looking back at him, blue eyes blinking.

Oh. It wanted him to follow.

Should he? Who knew, maybe it would lead him to a path or a road.

Before North could decide, a blur of red to his right caught his attention as a set of footsteps broke the silence.

Like someone was running.

"Hey! Wait!" the young boy called out as he ran in the opposite direction, forgetting the fox already. Once he caught on, he could see the figure of a man wearing a red jacket, an obvious contrast with the greenery of the forest.

Finally, a sign of civilization!

North grew confused when he noticed the man was wearing a tricorne black hat, white trousers with black knee-high boots and what appeared to be a red uniform instead of a jacket. In fact, the stranger looked a lot like the uniforms of British soldiers back in the 18th century.

Did he accidentally step into a movie set? Was he near a festival of cosplayers? Or a medieval fair?

Whatever it was, he could still ask for help.

"Hey, you! Wait!" North shouted again and this time the man stopped. He turned around and North was both shocked and impressed he was holding a musket.

If he was in a movie set, he had to give credits to the people in charge of the costumes. They looked very realistic; the man wore the exact uniform from the ones he saw at the museum he visited with England in London.

North jogged closer, waving in a friendly manner with a smile. "Excuse me, sir, could you please tell me where am-"

His words died shortly when the man pointed the weapon at him and for a second North thought that maybe the man didn't hear him and was still playing his role. He was mistaken however when a loud bang filled the air and splinters of wood exploded near North's head. With a yelp, the Northern Irish nation dropped to the ground, covering his head as another bang rang through the forest.

As if on cue, a group of redcoats burst out of nowhere, shouting orders and aiming their weapons. Northern Ireland scrambled to his feet, hiding behind a tree.

"What the fuck was that?!" he whispered in a panic, his heart pounding loudly against his ribcage. Was that a real shot? Was he really in a movie set?

He spotted another group coming from the other direction, wearing uniforms of darker colours. They were shooting back and shouting orders, spreading into the woods.

Was he in the middle of a recreation of a bloody war?

North yelped when a stray bullet almost hit his foot and his body lurched on instinct. He sprinted as fast as he could, jumping and dodging branches as more bullets flew over him. Movie set or not, he didn't want to find out if the bullets were real.

He looked over his shoulder, spotting a British soldier fighting a man wearing a tip-sided bonnet and a bluish-green-looking skirt. Wait, no... It wasn't a skirt. North squinted, noticing the man wore something similar to what Scotland wears when he-

His foot caught on a root and before he could grab something to hold onto, North went tumbling down a hill. He curled into a ball, hitting what felt like every single tree of the forest before crashing into a bush.

"Ow…" he groaned as he rolled on his back, spitting leaves and dirt out of his mouth. He sat up, wincing when he moved his right foot. God, everything was going 'downhill', he thought dryly.

He jerked in surprise as another shot rang in the air, this one much closer to his taste. Right, he almost forgot he was being shot for no apparent reason. Ignoring the pain on his ankle, North stood up and forced his legs to run away from the skirmish.

He didn't run for long because as he rounded the corner of a large rock, he stopped dead on his track and came face to face with an English soldier crouched by a stream. The man looked different from the others, his uniform was neater and had golden strips on the cuffs and lapels of the jacket.

The soldier looked at him, revealing the face of a man in his mid-thirties with dark eyes and brown hair tied in a low ponytail. By the look of it, North could tell he was the general or leader of the group of soldiers.

Neither of them said a word as the man slowly rose to his feet. North felt a dread twist in his stomach at seeing the man grab a musket off the ground. Now standing, the boy could tell the man was taller than him by at least a head and had a sword strapped to his belt.

Swallowing the knot in his throat, North spoke, "Who the hell are you?"

It might be the worst way to ask for questions, especially to a high-rank soldier but North's logic was thrown out of the window at the moment. He was beyond confused and scared to even think straight.

The man raised a single brow, his face impassive and North knew he wouldn't like the answer.

"I'm Jeremiah Alexander Johnson," the man said, eyeing his dirty clothes from head to toe with a strange glint that made the boy stiffen and his stomach churn. "Captain of His Majesty's seven Dragoons." He bowed and locked eyes with North. "At your service."

Alarm bells sprang through North's mind. This man screamed 'stranger danger' with a bright neon above his head if it was possible.

North backed away and was reminded of his sore ankle as pain shot through him. He attempted to run anyway, but before he could even turn, the man cornered him into a wall. A second later, a sword was pressed to his neck. Fear thundered down on him as North froze, wide eyes staring at cold dark ones.

The captain leaned uncomfortably close; expression flat as he asked. "Who are you, boy?"

North could practically hear his heart pounding in his ears, the adam's apple touching for a fraction of a second the cold tip of the sword. Taking a gulp of air, he rasped. "My…my big brother will look for me in ten minutes if I'm not there, sir. I need to go back to him."

"Your brother? What's his name?" the captain asked calmly, though it didn't give any effect on North. Instead, it made him uneasy which prompted him to say the first name that popped into his mind.

"Luke."

"Luke what?"

"Killough," North answered, desperately trying to come up with a story. "He's a… he's a carpenter from the village we live."

Captain Johnson stared at the boy for a long moment, the sword never moving away from his neck. And North wanted nothing more than pushing the man away from him, but his body was frozen from fear. He couldn't move or do anything.

After what felt an eternity, the man tipped his head in greeting as if holding a sword against someone was completely normal and said, "A pleasure to meet you, young Killough, brother of a carpenter."

North cried out when the man suddenly grabbed his hair in a tight grip, snapping his head up. "You must take me for a fool to believe the words leaving your mouth, boy," the man said calmly, eyes darkening in warning. "I advise you to tell me who you are and why are you here."

The boy struggled against the man's hold, skin shuddering in revulsion as he felt the breath of the man on his face. He stiffened when the sword was pressed even closer to his neck as the man leaned even further. "Don't test my patience, boy," the man growled, inches away from him, "unless you want your pretty little neck slit open."

Instincts finally kicked in as North raised his hands to shove him back. "Get the fuck off me, you creep!"

For good measure, Northern Ireland spat at the man's face. A part of him felt smug at the shocked expression of the man's face, but it was gone as quick as it came.

Dark eyes turned into slits as the captain growled, "Wrong move, boy, I should teach you some manner with that filthy mouth of yours."

North was roughly pushed against the wall, knocking the breath out of him as the captain pressed himself on him. The boy started kicking and pushing in earnest, panic rising when the man caught his hands with a bone-crushing grip.

Before he could process what was happening, the weight was off him in a blink of an eye. One moment he was crushed between the wall and the captain and the next he was free, gasping as he recoiled as far as he can.

North watched in stunned silence as a stranger tackled the captain to the ground with a shout as if he had dropped from the very sky. The stranger wrestled for a minute before knocking the English soldier out with a single blow to the head.

He was one from the other group of soldiers he saw earlier, and by the tip-sided bonnet with the plaid kilt, North could immediately tell who he was.

The Scottish man quickly got to his feet, turning to face the boy. It was a man in his mid-thirties, with a brown beard covering the entire lower face and dark curly hair. His face was covered with sweat with a mix of dirt and blood.

The man called out in Scottish Gaelic, "Tiugainn!"

Staring dumbly at the man, the boy sputtered, "What?"

"Siuthad!" The stranger snapped, gesturing him to grab his hand. Not knowing what to do best, North complied and stumbled forward by the surprisingly brute force of the stranger.

"Where- where are we going? Who are you?!" the young nation asked, the pain on his ankle forgotten as he tried to keep up with his rescuer. The man didn't answer as he pushed him behind a large tree just as a series of voices was heard from the hill up ahead.

"We have no sign of Captain Johnson, sir," a young man called out with an English accent, the clip-clops of a horse drowning his voice.

"No sighting of the Highlanders as well, sir," another man said, this one with a deeper voice than the first voice. "They left just as quick they attacked."

A third man spoke, sharp and strong that held power despite the young voice and North felt his heart lurch to his throat. "Search the whole area again, I want them dead or alive, except for their leader. And someone search for that incompetent Captain, he always wanders around."

North's breath hitched. He recognized that voice. He heard it every time he got scold over something.

"The rest of you, head back to camp," the man said sternly, letting no place for an argument. "We'll send another patrol. I have enough of this bloody wild chase!"

"Yessir!"

"Mamrphthmr!" North tried to shout, but a hand clamped over his mouth. He struggled to get free and was ready to bit the man's hand before pain exploded on the back of his head.

The last thing he heard was the fading of galloping horses before everything went black.

Meanwhile at the train station in Glasgow…

"It's your turn to check the back," the girl said as she punched his arm, startling him out from the book he was reading.

"Ugh, really?" He groaned, swatting the hand away when she went for another punch. "Why can't you do it? I did it last week."

"Oh well, you see, Mr. Roberts just asked me to help with a situation in the front, something about an angry mum and stealing a teddy bear," she said as she flipped her hair behind her shoulders. She looked at him with eyebrows raised expectantly. "And you know how I live for drama like these."

"Of course, you need a daily dose to survive," the young man said flatly and sighed when she batted her eyes at him. "Alright, I'll do it, but you owe me one."

The girl clapped her hands in delight and promptly pushed him towards the door. "Thank you, Liam! You're the best. See you at lunch break!"

With that, she left in a skip before he could say anything. He let out another sighed and checked his watch before begrudgingly heading down the alley. 15 minutes before the train embarked the new passengers of Glasgow Station.

"Let's hope they repaired the heating system yet," Liam muttered to himself. He walked the length of the train, nodding politely at the remaining passengers until he reached the last wagon.

He reached out his hand for the doorknob, peeking in from the little window. It wasn't that he was scared or anything, he had done it several times over the year since he got the job. But there was something eerie about the last wagon of the train.

There was always flickering lights and ominous creaking and despite the teams of electrician checking in who knew how many times, it was always cold. No matter the time of the year. When nothing got improved as time passed by, employees started to come up with theories and spreading rumours. It ranged from reasonable enough such as rats messing with the circuits, faulty wires, the owner too lazy to pay for renovation to straight out conspiracies of somebody having died on this wagon a long time ago or a curse was put in there by a displeased client or even a portal to a demon world. He lost count of them soon after that one.

And although Liam didn't believe in ridiculous stories like those, he was still wary to be here. Because who knows, maybe there was a colony of deranged rats with tiny scissors for paws.

Straightening his shoulders, he entered the wagon and looked for lingering passengers. Not only it was creepy to be here in the first place because of the tales he heard, but it was filled with graffiti and weird drawings done by delinquents that managed to sneak in. Even though the prices were low, barely anyone came here. There was even a weekly give-away event for free seats in the hope to attract people, but Liam knew it was a waste of time.

Because whoever paid for a seat here were frugal bastards.

Liam scanned the room, happy to skedaddle out of here if there was no one present. Although, he did hear one of his coworkers mentioned a kid asking where his seat was and was sent here.

Hmpf, what kind of parent would send their kid in here.

Grimacing, he swiftly walked down the aisle, looking at each side of the seats as he passed by. He stopped at row In when he spotted a backpack. Picking the item up, he glanced at the cabin at the end of the wagon.

"Hello? Anyone here? We arrived at Glasgow station, I will need you to leave soon if this is your stop," he said as he walked over the loo cabin. He knocked twice but was met with silence. "Sir? Uh, kid? You in there?"

He noticed the door was unlocked and wondered for the umpteenth time why he chose this job to begin with. Alas, his rent didn't pay itself. He glanced over his shoulder and looked back at the door. With a gulp, he shut his eyes and pushed it open. Once he was sure he wasn't attacked by the rumoured scissor-pawed rats, he peeked an eye open. He chuckled sheepishly seeing it was empty.

"Yeah, okay. I'm freaking out for nothing. Glad no one saw that." The young man rolled his eyes and grabbed the backpack. He spotted a Walkman laying on the seat beside the window. He took it and paused when he heard music.

Putting the headphones to his ear, he grinned as Another Brick to the Wall's chorus played along. "Huh, whoever you are, you sure have good music taste. Too bad it will go to the lost and found department." He looked at the unopened bag of Skittles resting on the armrest. "Sweet, free candy!"

He turned the music player off and picked up the sugary treats. He checked under the seat in case there was something else. Once he was sure there nothing but old chewing gums and weird-looking symbols, he headed for the exit. As he munched on the bag of Skittles, the door slid closed behind him, the lights flickering once again before it settled.

Northern Ireland groaned as he fluttered his eyes open, trying to fight the heavy sleep off him. Man did he have the strangest dream. He needed to write it down in his dream journal before he forgot about it.

He somehow woke up in the middle of an endless forest instead of the train he was taking to head back to Belfast, met a cheeky looking fox, only to be chased by what he thought to be redcoats from a historical movie set but turned out to be real redcoats with real bullets. Not to forget one of them was creepy as hell and tried to bloody molest him. And then a kilt-wearing man poofed out of nowhere and knocked the captain out only to knock him out a minute later.

He had his fair share of mysterious and bizarre dreams now and then; from a talking cat warning him about a pizza delivery gone wrong to a flying pirate ship in space going to a royal wedding. He kept track of them in his dream journal, but this one took the cake.

North groaned again, a painful throb ringing at the back of his head. He limbo-ed between wakefulness and slumber, feeling his body rocking back and forth in a steady rhythm.

The strangest thing was the end of his dream. He could have sworn he heard a familiar voice. That clipped sharp-tongued voice…

North snapped his eyes open, all sleep gone in an instant and mind alert. He suddenly lurched forward, hands latching on leather.

"What the…?" He looked down, realizing he was on a saddle on the back of a horse. Then, the putrid smell of manure and everything disturbing that England ever cooked slapped him in the face, making his eyes watered and nostrils burn.

And to add the cherry on top, reality crashed down to him, slapping him again for good measure as a voice startled him from behind. "Ye better stop moving unless ye want to fall off the horse, boy."

North froze, his eyes going wide as he finally felt the presence on his back and the surrounding arms to grab the reins in front of him. No, this wasn't possible. He must be dreaming again, a dream within a dream.

Because this cannot be happening.

North stared ahead, not daring to move a muscle as they approached an old cottage at the top of a small hill. It was the kind you see in museums or documentaries, the ones made with walls of rocks and roofs of hay. Historical cottages or those found deep into the countryside.

Smoke was coming out of the chimney. On the side of the cottage, several horses were cluttered along a fence. North blinked. There was no way people were living in such a place unless it was a mini museum.

This can't be real, the boy kept repeating to himself, his head hurting more by the second. It was just a dream, a very lucid dream and nothing more, but deep down, in the small corner of his mind, he knew he was wrong.

The man dismounted the horse in a graceful jump and attached the reins to a fence where other horses rested there. He looked up at North with a stern look, giving his hand. "Come along then, I don't have all day, ye ken."

Awkwardly, North got off the horse, almost falling while doing so if it wasn't for the hand steadying him. He took a sharp breath when he put his weight on his left ankle, painfully reminding him of his injury.

"Bloody hell…" he gritted out, trying his hardest to hide his pain as he subtly shifted his weight.

He squawked when the man grabbed him by his arm and practically manhandled him towards the door.

"Hey! Let me go, you-" North was shoved inside and stumbled to a stop when he came face to face with a group of Scottish men. Hearing the door closing, the occupants of the cottage turned to look at him and North suddenly felt small compared to them.

Because these men were huge with beefy arms and looked like they could kill you on sight with only their pinky. They were five of them as far as North could tell. Each of them wore the same patterned kilt with a section of the same blue-green design thrown over a shoulder. With swords strapped to their hip or back, they were all armed in some way.

A man sitting near the chimney with another one rose to his feet, speaking in Scottish Gaelic. He was probably the oldest in here, with his short grey beard and pepper hair under his bonnet.

The man who rescued him said something back in the same language, supposedly explaining the situation. The other Scotsman threw their two cents in the conversation, leaving North unsure what was going on.

"Let's have a look at ye, laddie." The middle-aged man switched to English, pulling him near the fire without asking by clasping a hand on his shoulder. "What's yer name?"

North would have snapped 'personal space, you twat, ever heard of that?' if it wasn't for the man's piercing pale blue eyes staring at him like a hawk.

He decided he would go with the same surname he came up with when he faced Creepy Captain Crunch, hoping his story will survive the questioning. Though, his bravado faltered for a second as he couldn't think of a name for himself. So he blurted out the first thing that came to mind, "Seán Killough."

North wanted to punch himself and jumped off a cliff the second the name left his mouth. He should have thought of a different name, dammit!

"Where did ye find him?" the older man asked, glancing to the man across the firepit.

"Found him having a nice chat with a certain captain," North's rescuer said, pulling off his bonnet to run a hand through his tangled hair. "Said he was looking for his brother."

The grey-haired man looked back to North, raising a brow. "Who's yer brother, boy?"

"Luke," North managed to say, wanting to shrug off the man's hand off his shoulder.

"What an Irish boy like ye doing in the middle of Scotland?" A freakishly tall man snorted with dark blond hair, raising an eyebrow.

"Did ye cross the sea in search of food, boy?" another man said with a harsh laugh, the shortest in the group with reddish tangled hair. The others started laughing, switching back to Gaelic.

Despite the unfamiliar and the probable dangerous position he was in, North felt irritation pricked at him. He hated it when someone spoke in another language on purpose. Sure, he knew a few words of Welsh and Gàidhlig for growing up around Wales and Scotland. And he was semi-fluent in Gaeilge from the lessons he took from the tutor Arthur reluctantly agreed to hire, but his brothers sometimes switch to their native tongue just to rile him up. Especially Ireland. His idiot of a brother had a knack to speak Irish quickly enough to leave him struggling with the translation. Using the Munster dialect instead of the Ulster one didn't help too. So naturally, North always said something about it.

"No. Who the hell are you lot?"

He immediately regretted his words as all eyes glared at him, their conversation cut sharp.

"You're a feisty one, aren't ye?" Old man guy said as he crossed his arms, glowering hm down. "It would bring you some trouble if you keep doing that."

"I'm still alive, aren't I?" North couldn't help to snap back, turning his body away from the man when he let go of him. He gulped at the narrowed eyes and whatever the man was about said was stopped by the giant man with dirty blond hair. He'll nickname him 'Thor'.

"What kind of daft clothes are you wearing? Ye look ridiculous with those colours." 'Thor' snorted, eyeing the dirty blue and purple windbreaker in disgust.

"Says the man wearing a skirt!" North said as he recoiled from the touch like it burned as he glared up at the man. He took personal offence for that. It was his favourite jacket, thank you very much.

"Oi, that's called a kilt, ye runt," the shortest man growled, dark red brows knitting in anger. "Ye better watch your mouth before I cut your tongue off."

Northern Ireland was about to went full rant mode, but a new voice boomed across the small cottage. "Enough! What the hell is going on?"

The boy froze, a mountain of emotions crashing over him as he blurted out, "Scotland?! Oh my God is that-"

Just as fast, the relief turned into fear.

For the second time of the day, North was cut short by a sword pressed against his neck in a blink of an eye. He didn't have time to yelp as he stumbled back, his back hitting one of the support beams of the cottage.

And again, North felt his heart skip a beat when he looked up.

A man in his mid-twenties with dark auburn hair tangled in a low ponytail was holding the sword, loose strands falling over his face. He wore the same outfit as the others, his bulky form adding an intimidating air to his already tall stature. His features were sharp with a strong squared jaw and a bit of subtle covering his lower face, barely concealing a thin scar on his chin. Dark thick eyebrows were furrowed together, casting a shadow over cold grey eyes.

What… was... happening?

He just saw Scotland drop him off at the train station just two hours ago, heading for a meeting with his boss. He was wearing his obnoxious blue galaxy button-down shirt and black denim jeans (his definition of business clothes, much to England's horror) and his ankle boots (another monstrosity according to England and a two-finger salute in response from said Scotsman). How in the world did he change into something straight out from Braveheart?

"Ye have ten seconds to tell me how you know my Name," Scotland or whoever that was growled dangerously, his face showing no sign of mercy nor a hint of recognition.

All Northern Ireland could do was stare back with wide eyes in shock. Something was wrong, something was really wrong. He was facing his brother but at the same time, he wasn't.

He gasped when the sword pressed closer and terror wracked his entire body as something warm trickled down his skin. This wasn't real. Whatever dream he was having, he needed to wake up.

Right now.

Because the man before him wasn't Scotland.

Cold grey eyes bored into wide blue and green ones.

This man wasn't his brother.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2

I Don't Think I'm Home Anymore

"You have ten seconds to tell me how you know my Name," Scotland's doppelgänger growled, the cold metal of the sword pressing too close of North's neck for comfort.

Northern Ireland stared eyed-wide, fear trickling down his spine as he pressed himself deeper into the support beam if it was possible. Thousands of questions were racing in his mind and all he could do was stare into those cold harsh grey eyes of the man before him.

It was his brother... but at the same time, he wasn't. He looked younger for some reason, not by much but noticeable enough if you know where to look. He didn't have that prominent wrinkle on his forehead whenever he scowled or his usual scruffy beard. The two silver piercings on his left ear were missing too. And his eyes… North couldn't think of a time his brother looked like he was about to commit murder, except on football matches. A dark stormy grey that promised a slow death if he didn't talk soon.

"I'm counting."

"P-please I don't- I can't," North spluttered, flailing like a fish out of water. He didn't care if he was begging for his life. He was scared shitless.

"How do you know?" Scotland look-alike demanded, voice dropping an octave that shook the boy to the core.

"Village," North stammered, gulping for air as his vision darkened from the blood rushing in his head, "I heard it from the village."

"From who?"

"I don't know."

The sword pressed closer and North's heart seized at feeling a warmth trickling down his neck.

"I-I don't know! I don't know these parts, I swear. We… we travel a lot," the boy blurted out in panic, his body shaking as he gasped, "All I know is it was the nearest village, about an hour from here. I-I heard stories of a man who is the Land and he knows every inch of it like the… the back of his hand. They say he has the strength of ten men and carries a sword that could cut through stone."

Something indescribable flashed in those grey eyes as they narrowed into slits. The room fell deadly silent, the only sound being North's ragged breaths. North wanted to look away but was pinned by the stare of the other nation. For what felt an eternity, the man finally leaned back and lowered his sword, letting the boy almost fall over in relief.

"What do you want? Why are you looking for me?" the Scottish nation said, making no move to sheath his sword.

North touched his neck with shaking fingers and his breath hitched at the sight of blood. Oh God, he was going to get sick. He swallowed the tight knot in his throat and croaked, "I… I uh I want to go home. I don't know where I am. I got lost on the way."

I have no idea what's going on, he wanted to say instead. Please, help me, brother. I'm scared. Don't you recognize me? It's me, Seán. Northern Ireland! Your little brother!

The other men in the room burst out laughing at his words and North felt his face turn bright red.

He didn't know what else to say. He was surprised he could even form words while being threatened with a freaking sword. He looked up at the nation before him, heart pounding at the cold eyes staring at him.

He knew from experience that Scotland was the most difficult to earn his trust. His own motto of life was 'there's always a grain of doubt in every truth', for Christ's sake. He doubted his brother would fall for his pathetic excuse. Maybe North should start planning a way to escape this place (without losing a limb) and hopefully find a way to England... without being shot and praying he wouldn't threaten him the second he saw him.

Scotland wannabe, however, stayed silent throughout the whole time, staring at the boy deeply into his eyes as if he was looking at his very soul. He didn't even pay attention to the men laughing nor reprimanded them. He just stared at him with an intense look that made North shrink in himself.

Should he try to duck under the man's arm and leg it for the door or should he try to use his 'puppy eyes look' on him and hope that would stir the cold heart of his brother? Who knows, maybe this Scotland was still the big softy he claims was non-existent.

Fortunately, he didn't get to rely on such tactics because wannabe Scotland spoke at last. "Alright," he said calmly.

"Uh?" Northern Ireland said dumbly as the other men voiced their confusion as well. He wasn't expecting his agreement at all, not with the almost-slicing-your-throat moment, but he couldn't help the flutter of hope in his chest.

"Sir, are you sure we should trust the boy? We have more pressing matters as we speak," the old grey-haired man argued, not bothering to hide the sneer towards him. Immediately, North decided he didn't like the man.

"Aye, we'll drop him off to the next village we pass," Scotland said firmly, letting no room to argue. He passed through the group of men, heading towards the door. He called out over his shoulder, "Hamish, you foun' the runt, he rides with you. We leave in five." He pushed the door open and left without another word.

There was a series of 'aye' as the men bustled into work, gathering their equipment. The older man sent one last look to the boy before grabbing his cloak by the fireplace and left the cottage.

Geez Louise, what was his problem, North thought sourly. From now on, his name will be Old Man Git.

North startled when he was shoved by a rough hand. He looked over his shoulder with a scowl and saw his rescuer, now known as Hamish, nodding towards the door. "Move along, boy, we have a long way to go."

He found himself led to the fence where the men were already mounting their horses. He looked at the one he was first brought in with pursed lips Horse riding was not a skill of his. Hamish must have taken pity on him because he paused on untying the reins and walked around his horse.

"Give me yer foot," Hamish grunted, scowling when North hadn't moved. "Go on, then!"

Using his good foot, North stepped on the man's hands to jump on the horse. He cursed when he started sliding off the saddle and quickly latched on the wooden pommel. He heard Hamish tsk in annoyance but didn't have time to turn around for the man swiftly got behind him.

"Do try to keep yer balance this time," Hamish grumbled, taking the reins before clicking his tongue to stir his horse around the fence.

North said nothing, opting to adjust himself before grabbing the edge of the saddle to keep from falling off entirely. Aye, not a skill of his.

The rest of the group were on their respective horses, already heading down the path to reach the main road. Scotland took the lead, followed closely by Old Man Git. The humongous blond man was in the middle, chatting with the shorter man. Their height difference would have been a comical sight if North wasn't so distraught. He and Hamish were behind them while the last man, a stocky man with a scar over his right eye, took the rear.

As they reached the road, North took the moment to process what was going on because his sanity won't take any more craziness. He looked at each of the men on their horses, biting his bottom lip nervously. He didn't know where to start.

He was almost sure Scotland wasn't playing a sick joke on him. Or whoever that looked like him. He wanted to say it was indeed his brother, but there wasn't an ounce of recognition in his eyes. Not even a flicker. Nothing. And he knew Scotland was terrible at impersonating people because he always had something ridiculous to say that would break character.

North looked to the horizon, spotting a village in the far distance passing a small river and a clearing, trails of smoke coming out of chimneys. At least his made-up story made sense, there was a village nearby.

"That's Inverness yer looking at." Hamish broke the silence, noticing where the boy was looking. Unbeknownst to him, he almost caused North to fall off the horse in shock at the information. North whipped his head to look at the village, spluttering in surprise.

That was Inverness! How the hell did he end all the way up here?!

He visited Inverness with his brothers a few years back for the Highland Games, or how he called it World War 3: Eejit Edition, and it did not look like that. Where were the lampposts? The cars? The Buildings? Freaking electricity?

North took a shaky breath, trying to calm his pounding heart down. As much as his mind was protesting with all his might, it seemed he wasn't in the 20th century anymore.

He almost barked out a laugh. God, he sounded downright mental just by thinking it. It was scientifically impossible to begin with! It made no sense at all!

He looked back at the older-younger version of Inverness before glancing at maybe-Scotland-from-the-past, trying to accept this far-fetched new reality. Nope, too soon. He needed proof. He needed to know the date or find a calendar, so he can be sure he wasn't going mental. Once it was done, he could find an explanation on how he got here instead of heading to Belfast like he was supposed to.

He was pulled out of his thoughts when they approached the entrance of a ravine leading through a mountain with jagged peaks. Shifting his weight on the saddle with a grumble, he was reminded how numb his arse got over the hours they were travelling. Once he found a somewhat better position, he craned up his head.

Trees were covering the edge of the walls, filtering the sunlight with its branches and leaves. Moss covered the sides with roots slithering through the cracks of the rocky walls.

North took in the shape of the rocks, the way it spiked towards the sky. A strange sense of familiarity came over him.

"I know this place," he muttered with a frown, racking his brain for the name as he glanced around. He could have sworn he saw this landscape before. It was on the tip of his tongue.

Hamish must have heard him because he said, "Aye, Clach a' Choillich or Cocknammon Rock because the top looks like a rooster's comb."

The boy mouthed the name, a distant memory coming to the surface of his mind.

May 1934

"Are we there yet, Alistair?" a six year old Northern Ireland whined at the back of the car. "I need to go to the loo!"

"I told you to go before we left, North, now shut it and deal with it," Scotland reprimanded with a huff, ignoring the exaggerated groan coming from the back of the Wolseley Hornet car's seat.

"He's right, Se á n, you should have gone even if you didn't need it." Wales looked over the passenger seat with a frown but then smiled gently. "Just hang in there for a bit. Once we get to Alba's in Inverness, you can rush straight to the loo, alright? I'll carry your bag."

"Fine," the boy grumbled as he crossed his arms, shifting under his seat restlessly. It wasn't his fault he didn't feel the need to go to the restroom before they left for a three-hour-long drive. "Are we there yet?" he asked a few minutes later.

"We're almost there, North," Wales said quickly, glancing at Scotland who took a deep breath through his nose in a poor attempt to calm himself but was failing miserably.

If Wales was correct, their little brother asked that question twenty-three times since they left Edinburgh. He had to admit he was impressed Scotland hadn't driven the car off a cliff yet, but Wales knew his Scottish brother wouldn't last for much longer.

And from the way the left eyebrow kept twitching, and his mouth pressed into a tight line as if he was swallowing back a scream of frustration (he probably was), that 'much longer' looked more like 'in a few seconds.'

"But, Dylan, you said that already! You said that when we passed that big red box!"

"Look, lad, you see that entrance by the mountain over there," Scotland said in such a cherry tone Wales thought he had a stroke.

"Where?" As expected, the boy immediately leaned over the window, looking at the approaching mountain.

"To yer left, the dark rocky walls over there. You see it?"

"Uh-huh, what is it?"

"It's a mountain called Clach a' Choillich or Cocknammon Rock because if you look closely, the top looks like the little spikes of the rooster's head."

"A rooster's head? Did a giant rooster use to live here? Did you see it?" North asked with wide eyes, gaping at the tall formation of rocks approaching, his discomfort long forgotten. From the driver seat, Scotland visibly sagged in relief. North jumped on his seat in delight. "Oh, oh! Was there a giant chicken too? The eggs must have been huge!"

"I doubt that was the case," Wales chuckled before saying, "No, North, they named it simply because it looks like a rooster's comb."

"Oh." The boy deflated, his assumption sounding much better than his brother's explanation but soon recovered as another thought came up as he jumped in excitement. "Are we going to see it?"

"We're heading that way."

A tiny gasp was heard from the back and both older brothers held back a laugh. North was easily fascinated by the wonders of nature.

"And ye know what else?" Scotland looked at the little boy with a grin from the rear mirror.

"What?" Northern Ireland asked eagerly, enraptured by the opportunity to pass through the mountain.

"Long time ago, it used to be an ambush point for unfortunate travellers."

"Really?" The boy stuck his head out of the window, ignoring Wales' squawk of protest as he stared in awe at the mountain. "Is it because the ground was high enough for bad people to hide so the travellers couldn't expect them?"

A long silence settled in the car as Scotland glanced at Wales, who was leaning backwards to grab on North's shirt to keep him from toppling off the window. They shared a shocked look before Scotland threw his head back with a laugh. "Clever lad! That was exactly what they did."

North grinned brightly, showing two missing front teeth as he let his brother manhandled him back to his seat. Wales adjusted his seatbelt, nagging a finger at the boy half-heartedly about safety before sitting back to his seat.

"It is funny knowing Arthur used this place to set a trap on Alistair back then," Wales said with a smirk as he adjusted his shirt, immediately shutting the auburn-haired driver up. "Arthur would send patrols, guarding the road in the hope to catch some good fish. And he did catch a good fish... a big one at that."

North giggled again, imagining Scotland caught in a fishing net over his head. He leaned over as far as the seat belt let him to look at his big brother, ignoring once again Wales' warning about safety hazards. "Is it true Ali? Were you tangled in a fishing net? Did you smell like fish too?"

Scotland said nothing and turned up the volume of the radio as he glared ahead, drowning out the laughs of his two younger brothers. He grumbled when he heard North mimicking a fish out of the water and glared at Wales when he saw him doing it too.

Against his better judgement, he broke into a chuckle, joining his two younger brothers in their aquatic impression.

North blinked at the memory, the dots finally connecting. "It's an ambush point," he said flatly.

"What did ye say?"

North looked over his shoulder to the man, an unsettling feeling gathering in his stomach. "It's... it's an ambush point. My brother once said the British use Cocknammon Rock to ambush anyone that crosses it."

Hamish eyed the boy in suspicion before looking at the approaching mountain with a frown. He tugged the reins with a click of the tongue and trotted in front of the group.

"Laird Campbell! Sir!" Once he got the nation's attention, Hamish leaned forward and informed him quickly in Gaelic.

Scotland frowned, slowing down his horse as he scanned the area. North tensed when he sharply turned to him, cold dark grey eyes narrowing into slits. "How do ye know, boy?"

"Um... down the village, there was a rumour going on," North stammered, brain still processing on the name Hamish used to call Scotland. Since when was Scotland a Campbell? Wasn't he a Kirkland?

"And what were the rumours exactly?" Scotland asked, face glowering.

"Uh-I… they- um… my brother heard they send patrols up in the mountain to keep watch…sir," the boy trailed off awkwardly, not sure how to address the man. He was beyond confused. This Scotland wasn't called Alistair Kirkland as far as he knew. And he rather not risk calling him by his human name, that could lead to his death for sure.

It was then that Northern Ireland felt a tingling sensation at the back of his mind, like the whispers of the wind passing by. The relief crashed onto him like a wave. His senses seemed to work at last.

Finally, he thought with a small sigh. He looked down at the saddle, trying to locate the signal without giving anything away, much less raising any suspicion.

For unknown reasons, he always had sharper senses than his brothers, even in another Land. At least, under better circumstances than being surrounded by a group of kilt-wearing men. He could easily detect a human presence nearby, even when they were from another nationality, albeit weakly. He once said it was because he was young unlike his brothers who were old as dinosaurs (he got a cuff in the back of his head by Ireland and an indignant squawk from England for that, Wales looked mildly affronted while Scotland just shrugged and said 'yer not wrong, I'm pretty sure Ireland saw a T-Rex once.' That comment earned the man a punch to the stomach that soon resulted in a full wrestling match. Naturally, Ireland lost but not without giving a busted lip to Scotland).

Wales had mentioned later that day while pressing an ice pack to his jaw from the elbow jab he got from Ireland when he tried to avoid the tangle of limbs, that he had a better affinity with his Land than others. Something about being 'in tune with the energy' or whatever mystical explanation his brother said. North preferred to call it his own 'Spidey sense'. He wasn't as much of a comic geek as America, but he found the comparison quite fitting.

North glanced at the mountain and then at Scotland, noticing the man hadn't sensed the presence yet and it was his Land. If he had to guess, there was a small group ahead of them. Wishful thinking but maybe they didn't mean any harm and were just normal travellers passing by?

Old Man Git moved his horse closer to say something to Scotland and from the way he glared at North, it wasn't anything nice.

"Aye, the high ground gives good advantages to whoever is up..." Scotland muttered to himself. His eyes then widened, and North knew the other nation finally picked up the other group's presence by the way his broad shoulders tensed.

"A h-uile duine, sgaoileadh!" Scotland called out, pulling out his sword from the scabbard strapped to his belt.

It was as if a switch was flipped.

The group spread out like ants, shouting orders and brandishing their swords. There was even one who cackled in delight, North wasn't sure who exactly. A moment later, a set of different gallops was heading their way, coming from the ravine. Shouts and cocking of muskets echoed across the rocky walls.

Of course, it wasn't normal travellers. Go figure.

"Stay hidden, boy, and keep yer gob shut," Hamish warned.

"Stay hidden? Where could I-" North yelped when he was roughly shoved off the horse, landing on the ground with a wheeze. Not sparing a glance, Hamish joined the rest of the clan with a gallop, leaving a trail of dust behind.

The boy got on his four, catching his breath as he gulped like a fish out of water. He dusted off his clothes, startling when he heard the first bangs going off through the ravine. He scrambled to his feet, following Hamish's advice.

He left the path and started jogging in the opposite direction where the skirmish was happening. He did not want to repeat the face to face with a gun ever again. The young nation jumped over a log, carefully with his sore ankle and gingerly ducked behind a tree when he saw a flash of red running past him.

Once it was clear, he kept jogging. He dodged branches and roots, twisting his body to keep from tripping. This was his chance to get the hell out of here and find a way to England. Or anyone in that matter, as long as they don't threaten his life again.

He looked over his shoulders, noticing the shouts and shots came to a stop. Not waiting to see if their skirmish was done, he looked back ahead only to yelp when he came face to face, not to a gun but Scotland.

Which was probably worse giving the fact he wasn't normal Scotland.

The tall nation stood there; his bloody sword pointed down in a relaxed manner yet still alert for any danger. But what made the boy stumbled to the ground was the blood splattered on the man's face as well as on his uniform.

"Where do you think yer going?" Scotland asked with a quirked eyebrow, not at all bothered by the bloodbath on his face.

North recoiled until his back hit the trunk of a tree and stared eyes wide at the nation. He looked like someone straight out of a fecking horror movie.

"It isnae my blood," Scotland said with a shrug as if reading his mind.

That didn't reassure him at all!

North looked around him for anything he could throw at the man but found nothing useful. A bunch of leaves would do nothing to save him. With nothing else to do, North slowly stood up, biting the inside of his cheeks to hide the wince from the flare of pain in his right ankle.

He leaned against a tree, eyeing the man warily. Scotland was a strong nation by nature and built like a freaking house with a ridiculous 6 foot 3 of height, so North was sadly at disadvantage. He barely reached his shoulders. However, where Scotland succeeded in strength he lacked in agility. He was like a bull in a china shop.

He was also holding his sword in his right hand, so his best shot was going right and run like hell. After all, North was smaller and quicker than him... hopefully. His sore ankle might be a wee problem, but he did outrun him whenever he grabbed the last bag of Mackie's Crisps in the house.

It will be grand.

Taking a deep breath, the boy shot off like a rocket and succeeded at dodging the older nation. A grin was starting to form on his face before he stopped dead on his tracks as the sword appeared in front of him, almost cutting him in half.

North squawked in shock, snapping his head to Scotland in both shock and fear. Somehow, the man managed to switch hands in a split of a second all the while keeping his calm posture and bored look which was even more terrifying.

Note to self: Scotland was ambidextrous in swordsmanship and apparently, he took secret lessons from Japan to move like a freaking ninja.

"Ye better start walking because I will throw you over my shoulders if you try that again," Scotland warned, appearing calm but North knew there was a threat behind those grey eyes. The man gestured his foot with the tip of his sword. "Ye won't go far anyway, not with that limp of yours."

North stiffened, wondering how in the world he knew about his ankle. Either way, he couldn't do anything but listen to the man. And to prove that psychopath of a brother he was just fine, that it didn't hurt like hell, that he could run away from him easily if he wanted to, he walked normally.

He circled the man, giving a wide berth between him and the sword as he headed for the path. He took his eyes off the weapon once he was at a safe distance and turned around, despite his instincts telling him to never turn his back to danger.

Even if said danger was his brother.

A few moments later, he heard the clings of armour and heavy steps, keeping pace with him. North did everything in his power not to visibly limp and not shudder at the eyes practically drilling holes in his skull.

They joined the rest of the group minutes later and North grimly realized the others had the same fate with the blood show and were looking way too happy to be normal. The shortest man of the group was even boasting on the way he cut an ear off of one of the redcoats with his sword.

God, he was stuck with a group of mental bloodthirsty hooligans. The lot of them!

"Here I thought his melon was splattered by a bullet by now," Old Man Git sneered once he caught sight of him, causing the others to laugh.

"Could have sworn I saw a few redcoats shooting his direction too. Can't believe they missed their shot what with that jacket of his." 'Thor' said with a snort and it was in mute wonder that North realized the man was even taller than Scotland.

"He almost did if it wasn't for him stumbling like a drunk sailor." Scotland scoffed, clamping a heavy hand on North's shoulder that almost made him lose his footing. Scotland looked at Old Man Git. "What's the report, Callum?"

Heart attack aside by the unexpected move from the other nation, North could finally put a name on the Old Man Git's face as Callum sheathed his sword after cleaning the blood off with a cloth.

"Group of ten was waiting exactly at the next turn, hidden between the trees above," Callum reported, sending a dirty look at the boy before looking at Scotland. "No deaths on our side, though Hamish got grazed by one of the bullets."

"Ach, I'm fine, mo charaid, just a wee thing." Hamish rolled his eyes as he waved a hand dismissively. Even without medical knowledge, North could see the man was in pain by the way he held his left shoulder stiffly and out of sight of everyone.

Scotland eyed his companion with a sharp gaze before nodding, gesturing the rest to mount their horses. "Let Fergus take a look at it once we get back."

"Aye, aye, sir."

"Everyone else, let's move already. I want to get there two days top."

A series of 'ayes' was said between the men as they gathered their supplies. North was about to follow Hamish but the hand on his shoulder tightened, and he stiffened, heart skipping a beat.

"You're riding with me, runt," Scotland said gruffly, shoving him forwards. "Cannae have you run off again."

The boy held back a scowl at the name and huffed, though his stomach was doing backflips with his heart running a mile per second. He was torn between feeling relieved to be with his brother or just scared shitless to be riding with a stranger wearing the face of his brother.

He walked to a tree where a dark grey horse with blotches of white was tied to. The tall mammal huffed, ears flickering rapidly and staring at North with the same glare its owner got if it was even possible.

Scotland patted the mane, untying the knot. "The runt will ride with us, dinnae worry, he doesn't bite."

North nodded and flinched when the man smirked. "I wasn't talking to you."

The boy gulped nervously but mustered what little courage he had left and approached the horse, slowly stretching his hand out with his head bowed. It was a sign of submission; a trick Wales taught him when he owned a stable back in the 50s. Always the animal lover, his brother had a whole herd of horses, each having a name and unique personality. His favourite was Midnight, a beautiful gentle black stallion with a single white dot on its chest. Wales called her like that because of her blueish hue whenever the lights reflected on her fur.

The horse snorted, stomping its hooves in warning as it sniffed his hand, its ears flat against the head. Then, they snapped back up as if in surprise as the horse neighed again, this time resting its snout against North's hand. A smile curled up on the boy's lips as he patted the snout, glad at least someone wasn't there to kill him on sight.

If Scotland was surprised by his horse's sudden friendliness, he didn't show it, but he did tsked impatiently. "Hurry up, give me yer foot."

Giving one last loving pat, North mounted the horse, faster than the first time but still struggling. Fortunately, the horse seemed to realize that because it stayed still and even leaned its head to offer its mane for support, much to the older nation's growing annoyance.

Scotland jumped on a few seconds later with a grace that was earned by centuries of practice. North sat still with shoulders tensed and back straight, not daring to move a muscle.

How he wished he could ride with Hamish. Sure, the man didn't bother to hide his annoyance at riding with him, but at least he wasn't secretly planning to strangle him. Beefy arms went around him to grab the reins and North held his breath. Jaysus, he forgot how intimidating Scotland could be without even saying a word, just his mere presence made him want to curl into himself.

"We'll lie low for the next hours, the English are sniffing the ground like the dogs they are," Scotland said to his men, taking the lead once more. "We have a great distance to go. We need to pass the bridge before sunrise."

"We're gonna ride all night?" The boy blurted out without meaning to, a sinking feeling settling in his stomach. Don't tell him they're going to-

"Aye, those bastards can be quite persistent when they want to. The captain ye met, he'll probably be sending patrols everywhere by now," the older nation explained, not seeing how the boy's face crumbled into pure misery.

Could the day get any worse?

As if summoning Misfortune itself, thunder rolled over as bolts of lightning flashed across the cloudy sky and a second later, rain came pouring down on them.

North sighed dejectedly. Apparently yes.

He pulled his hood up, despite being already half drenched and zipped it up, bunching the end of his sleeves with his hands.

Just what he needed, the boy thought wryly. One thing he knew for sure about this crazy situation, the weather was still shite no matter what.

It was grand.

They travelled for hours, not stopping once despite the rain and harsh winds and by then, North wanted to burst into tears. To hell dignity. He buried his face into his jacket in the hope to keep what little warmth he had left: his teeth clattering, nose running, and fingers numb from the cold. How he wished he had his winter coat instead of this windbreaker that didn't break the wind at all.

Well, he wasn't expecting waking up here either, but he would give anything if he could strap heater packs on himself to escape the bone-chilling cold clawing at his skin. He didn't mind the cold most of the time, but holy hell, he was starting to believe he entered the first stage of hypothermia.

He started when a weight settled around his shoulders and before he could see what it was, something was shoved to his face.

"Hold this," Scotland grumbled behind him, irritation clear in his voice. "Yer shaking too much, I'm about to fall off my own horse."

North fumbled for a bit, realizing the weight was, in fact, part of the older nation's plaid. He grabbed the corner of the tartan cloth, wondering how big it was as the man adjusted it so both were wrapped around it like a blanket. Instantly, warmth engulfed North that almost made him melt right here and there.

He was still drenched and couldn't feel his feet and fingers anymore but at least he won't freeze to death.

North mumbled his thanks, clutching the woollen plaid with shaking hands. Either Scotland didn't hear him or just point out ignored him, the man took the reins again, and they kept going.

As more hours passed, fortunately with only a drizzle instead of the pouring rain, the boy felt himself growing sleepy. All the actions he went through since he got here finally took a toll on him as his eyes grew heavier and heavier. The rocking back and forth of the horse and the plaid around him soothed him in a way he couldn't fight against.

Despite his efforts, North felt his eyes fluttering close. And the last thing he remembered was the warmth around him and the familiar scent of smoke and moss before he sank into slumber.

True to the Scottish nation's words, they arrived at wherever he was referring two days later but not before making North wish for someone to pick him up and throw him into a black hole so he could forget his torture.

Worst. Two. Days. Of. His. Life.

He truly believed his arse was going to fall off by the time they got there.

For the last 48 hours, they stopped only a few times. One was to let the horses rest for a bit and have something to eat which was a rock-hard piece of bread — North mourned for his bag of Skittles left on the train — and the other time was to tend Hamish when he lost consciousness out of nowhere.

It was in the middle of the second night; the rain had stopped for a few hours, and they were going through a small path through a forest. It was quiet, except for the faint whispers between the clansmen and the clip-clops of the horses.

North was between nodding off and trying to stay awake as he shifted for the umpteenth time under the saddle to find a better position. It was already awkward enough to have woken up the first time slumped against Scotland's chest with the plaid wrapped around him like a burrito. At least the man had the mercy to just glared down at him when he opened his eyes instead of pushing him right off the horse. After all, Scotland wasn't the cuddliest person in the world.

Nevertheless, North had needed to change position because his thighs couldn't handle it anymore. He could tell Scotland was about done with his constant wiggling because he could feel the glares drilling holes to the back of his head every time. But how could he not move? The saddle was the most uncomfortable thing he ever sat on.

He shifted again and winced when he heard the man take a deep breath, knowing what would come next but before the man could reprimand him, someone exclaimed something in Gaelic followed by urgent rustlings and a dull thud.

North had tried to look over Scotland's bulking frame, but only caught a glimpse of a figure laying on the ground. He heard the name Hamish and something along the line of 'hurt' and 'a lot of blood.'

Scotland jumped off the horse, taking the plaid with him much to North's dismay, and swiftly went to his fallen Scotsman where he was already surrounded by the others. He crouched by Hamish's side and pulled the collar down, letting out a curse in his native tongue.

Straining his ears, North gathered that Hamish was more hurt than they realized and that the bullet went through his shoulder. No wonder he fell unconscious from blood loss.

North leaned back on the saddle in the hope to see the wound and grimaced at the sight. It was just a small hole near the clavicle, but the blood still pouring was a clear sign it hadn't closed yet. He wasn't an expert in medicine and obviously had no training in this kind of stuff, unlike his brothers, but he knew they needed to clean the wound quickly before it got infected.

The boy paled when he noticed the men were now staring at him and he realized he voiced his thoughts out loud.

Him and his big gob.

"What are you saying, boy?" Scotland raised a brow in question, eyeing him in both suspicion and a faint hint of curiosity.

Forcing his panic down, North squirmed as he stammered, "His-uh… his wound must be disinfected before it's bandaged, to prevent any infection."

"Disinfect?" one of the men voiced in confusion.

"Well, yeah." North floundered for a bit. "From dirt and germs and stuff."

"Germs?" another one asked, it was the giant blond, testing the word under his breath as if it was the first time he heard it.

"Yeah, you don't want him to catch Tetanus or Hepatitis, do you?" North stared back at them, an incredulous look on his face. "Have any of you got Iodine to treat him? Hydrogen peroxide?"

At the blank looks from the group, though Scotland was looking at him even more suspiciously, the boy couldn't help to gape. Was he talking alien to them?!

"How about ethanol?" Clearly, they know what that was, right?

Alas, he was met with the same result as if he was the one making no sense. He racked his brain for another word and tried, "Alcohol?"

This time, recognition filled the men's faces as they nodded and grumbled. North let out a huff, not believing they finally understood him though he shouldn't be surprised. Alcohol was practically their everyday drink.

'Thor' pulled out a flask from his travel bag, though North may have heard he was called Ian. The man sloshed its content in confusion. "What about it?"

"Pour it directly to the wound and then wrap it with a clean cloth. It should be enough before it gets properly treated."

"And how do you know all of this, boy? Are you a healer?" Callum sniffed in distrust as Ian passed the flask to Scotland.

"No, it's called common sense," North snapped, glaring at the older man but faltered when Scotland looked up at him. "My uh… my brother used to work with a doctor as his assistant. He taught me a thing or two."

That was half a truth. He wasn't going to mention that said brother was, in fact, Scotland himself and that he didn't work for a doctor, he was the doctor. He got a medical degree from Edinburgh University back in the 19th century when medicine was thriving at its finest. It had helped him a lot during both World Wars as a field doctor. Even now — well in the present or whatever he was stuck in — when he was free from government duties, Scotland got himself a paramedic license to keep his skill in check. He was the unofficial doctor of the family.

Which was kinda ironic since most of the dumb injuries his brothers had were inflicted by him whenever they argue over something even dumber. How England lost a tooth over a slice of pie or Scotland burnt off an eyebrow for that matter, he'll never know. Or Ireland breaking his nose over a pillow. It was a mystery, really.

North stood his ground while being on a saddle as the older Celtic nation stared at him for a long moment before nodding, apparently finding something beyond the boy's awkward expression. Scotland took the flask and poured it unceremoniously onto the wound. The effect was instantaneous. Hamish jerked awake, eyes wide alert.

"Cha robh mi a 'cadal!"

"No, ye fainted like the lassie you are." Scotland huffed in annoyance, pulling out a cloth someone handed to him. He glared at the man. "Ye dinnea tell us the bullet went through."

The injured man blinked and looked to his shoulder, grimacing at the sight. "Ach, it's worse than I thought."

Scotland rolled his eyes. "I dinnea ken how you're even alive after all these years I've known you." The nation wrapped the cloth securely around his shoulder and arm, not being gentle at all by the way Hamish hissed out a curse. He leaned back, looking at Hamish seriously. "You're immediately going to see Fergus when we get back. If I see you wandering off, I'll tie you upside down by a horse."

Chuckling nervously, Hamish sat up and grinned nervously. "Of course."

"Let's keep moving. We wasted enough time," Callum called out, guiding his horse back to the path. The others followed suit, Ian helping Hamish up first before continuing.

For the rest of the ride since that night, North had kept silent, averting his eyes whenever he felt eyes on his back, or the whispers shared between them. He made a better effort to stay awake too, even if he wanted nothing but sleep for eternity but knew his bigger problem was literally just behind him. A problem that happened to be boring holes to his skull with a heavy glare.

So, North was stuck under the rain once more, freezing his arse off. Worst of all, Scotland didn't offer the plaid back.

Looking back, maybe North shouldn't have opened his mouth in the first place. They already found him suspicious, and his unusual knowledge of medicine didn't help much.

Well, it wasn't his fault they were a bunch of ignorant eejits, he thought with a huff. Everyone knew the basics of tending a wound or at least have heard of it. And you couldn't avoid learning a few tricks when your brother forced you to tend your own cuts and bruises after an experiment gone wrong.

Never underestimate the power of hydrogen in a can.

The boy was snapped out of his thoughts when they, at last, came upon civilization. At least the semblance of one. They went through a stone archway leading to what seemed to be a marketplace. North couldn't help the awe showing on his face, an unreal feeling taking over just at the mere sight of it. He didn't know how to explain it. Everything seemed so rustic and surreal.

Men and women were bustling around in their daily life, some with carts and others with baskets. There was clanging coming from the left and North saw a man striking a metal bar with a hammer, sparks flying out with each strike. On his right, he saw a man holding a large tray, the smell of fresh bread out of the oven filling the air, making his stomach grumbling. Children were playing with wooden swords on the street, chasing each other with laughter as two women in long dresses were chatting together by a well.

Completely surreal.

People seemed to notice the approaching group of riders as they greeted them, nodding at Scotland in respect and the others as they passed by.

"Good day, sir! I hope your travels were good."

"Good mornin'!"

"How're ye doin'?"

"Who's the lad? He's wearing strange clothes."

North shrunk as back as he could without touching Scotland as more villagers greeted them, squirming at the curious looks at seeing him. Fortunately, they passed through the market quickly enough, taking another road for a few minutes until they reached another archway, this one with a metal gate, a wall trailing on both sides. Two guards were posted at the gate, nodding in greeting when they saw them.

"Ah, home at last, lads!" Hamish said from somewhere behind.

"Can't wait to have a drink," Ian added with a laugh.

Curious, North craned his neck as the two guards opened the gate with a salute to Scotland. He looked over and blinked. There, beyond a garden, was a three story high castle with large windows and stone walls, but what caught his attention were the two towers protruding on each side of the building.

He didn't know why he was surprised Scotland lived in a freaking castle. England still owned a manor up in Yorkshire where they spend the holidays. Hell, the whole British Isles were filled with them. His own Land was covered with castles.

But he never thought he would witness the moment at seeing a castle with actual people living in there and not tourists visiting it.

"Oh, ye're all home, at last!" someone exclaimed brightly. "You were supposed to be here two days ago."

The boy looked at the side door on the left side of the castle as a stout woman with brown greyish curly hair walked towards them. Her eyes crinkled as she smiled up at them, holding her dress up to keep it from getting dirty, though it didn't do much with the muddy ground.

"Got caught up with a bit of trouble, but nothing serious," Scotland reassured, halting his horse by the stable as two men came out to attend the mammals. He looked at the woman with a small grin. "How's the castle holding up, Mrs. Gibson?"

"Everything is fine, sir. Got a new batch of harvest coming soon. A message from Laird Mackintosh's assistant says that he'll be here in about a month from now." She approached the group, her brown eyes going wide at their dirty appearance. "And what happened to you lot? Ye look like you all dive in a pit of mud with the pigs!"

"Ach, it's nothing." Ian rolled his eyes, jumping off his horse before spreading his arms out with a grin. "Why don't ye give big ol' Ian a hug, eh?"

She let out a laugh when she was suddenly lifted off her feet, swatting Ian to put her down. "Go take a bath already! You all rank, makes my eyes water." She quickly glanced to Scotland with a small bow. "No offence, sir."

"None taken, Mrs. Gibson. You can say it, we all look like shit. The rain didnae help." Scotland shrugged, dismounting the horse with ease.

"Oh, well, a fresh meal should be ready soon, sir." She smiled, frowning as she turned to the group. "The rest of you get clean up. I dinnae want a single stain of mud in the…" She trailed off when she noticed North on the horse, a frown on her face. "And who might you be, lad?"

North shrunk into himself, doing a poor attempt to hide under his jacket. "Um… I'm-"

What was his fake name again?

"Mrs. Gibson, this is Seán Killough," Scotland introduced, gesturing the boy with a vague wave of a hand. "We found him alone in the woods on our way here. If you could please give him some decent clothes and something to eat. He looks like a poor attempt of a jester."

"Of course, Sir." The older woman tipped her head in respect.

With that, the nation headed to the castle without another word nor a glance back. North sent him a glare for the comment, though he felt a spike of anxiety at being left alone with complete strangers. Not that Scotland wasn't already a stranger, but there was at least a bit of familiarity… somewhere.

North blushed slightly when the woman looked at him, eyeing him head to toe with a frown. He did understand the older nation's comment, though. He stood out like a sore thumb with his denim jeans, black converse, and bright blue-purple windbreaker.

"Come along, then. Let's get ye some fresh clothes." Mrs. Gibson waved him over, her nose wrinkling about his muddied appearance. "You're as dirty as an old mop."

With great struggle, North jumped off the horse, almost slipping on the mud if he hadn't grabbed the saddle for dear life. Giving a pat on the horse's snout in thanks, the boy followed the woman but not before glancing at Hamish.

The man was struggling at opening his travel bag with one hand, pretending he was patting the horse when a man came to tend the mammal.

"Excuse me, ma'am," North said, gesturing behind him where the injured man brushed off the stable man's help, "but Mr. Hamish needs to see a doctor. He's hurt."

"Ach, don't be a wee clipe, boy," the man snapped his head up to glare at him, barely holding back a wince when his shoulder jostled as he jumped down. "I'm fine."

"He got shot two days ago, his wound must be treated, and his bandages changed before it gets infected," North explained to the woman. "He needs a doctor."

Mrs. Gibson eyed the boy strangely as if mesmerized by his words though North couldn't fathom why. She looked at Hamish with scrutinizing eyes, noticing the bloody cloth around his shoulder. Worry flashed in her brown eyes before scowling, looking at him as if she caught him stealing a cookie from the jar. "Well, ye heard the boy, up you go to see Fergus. He's about to leave for a business trip." She walked up to him, tugging on his jacket towards the front door. "We dinnea want you to repeat the last time you tried to hide a wound and fell face first in yer plate in front of the whole clan."

Hamish swatted the fretting hands of Mrs. Gibson. "I'm going, calm down woman!" He yelped at the sharp smack behind his head and said something under his breath, ducking just in time to avoid another swat by the short woman. Sending a glare to the boy, the man scoffed before entering the castle.

The short woman huffed, muttering about 'stubborn man child' before smiling at North. "Let's get going. You must be hungry."

As if to remind himself, his stomach growled loudly, much to his embarrassment.

"That settles it." Mrs. Gibson laughed lightly, adjusting her apron. She gestured at him to follow her, heading towards the front door of the castle.

Throughout his life, North had visited many castles and manors. Either to accompany his brothers for an official meeting with a lord or staying over for an event: something that bored the heck out of him as a child. Still did. He used to live in a great house back in the late 20s for a few years with England, Wales and Scotland before the Great Depression happened, but he didn't remember much of it.

He knew what to expect to enter such a place: its exquisite décor, the hall of classical paintings and Roman sculptures, the intricate tapestry, the ridiculously patterned wallpapers, the collections of armours and prizes of conquest. He had seen it several times back in England's manor in Yorkshire.

But that didn't stop him from gaping at the interior when they crossed the two heavy brown oak doors.

They stepped into the threshold, leading to what North could call the lounge area. The walls were dark greenish-blue, adorned with paintings of all sizes and a crystal chandelier hanging in the middle. At the end of the room was a wide dark oak staircase leading for the second floor that separated into two on each side. Below the stairs was a large double door with a grandfather clock beside it, the ticking resonating across the air. There were two other doors on the left and right side of the entrance, leading to the rest of the castle.

North craned his neck to admire the room as much as he can.

Scotland was never a man who boasted about his wealth through ancient artifacts on display and delicate porcelain figurines for everyone to see as a certain Englishman did. No, his way was more subtle and humble, yet strong. A mix of rustic design, yet with a touch of delicacy here and there. Although for North, it was still too fancy for his taste, at least it wasn't as extravagant as England's.

That man could have a toilet seat made of gold, and he would have still demanded to add gems just for the heck of it. England could easily rival France when it came to 'who can be the fanciest twat in the tackiest way possible.' God forbid he never stepped into the Palace of Versailles. Heard it was ridiculously fancy.

The boy blinked at seeing a rather large display of swords and other weapons hanging on the right wall with two knight armour suits on each corner. From small elegant daggers to ornamented shields, North was sure if the castle were to go through an earthquake, whoever would be standing there would be turned into a pincushion before they realize it.

Mrs. Gibson guided him to the right door, and all the boy could do was follow. He barely acknowledged the staff members bustling around the place, either cleaning the room or fetching beddings for the rooms.

For right now, it felt like he was entering the castle of a freaking fairy tale.

Because this was not real.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3

There's a When Too?!

After going through a plethora of hallways and staircases that made him think he was more in a maze than a castle, Northern Ireland was brought into a bedroom. And the second he took a look around, after Mrs. Gibson left to fetch his new clothes, he felt out of place immediately.

On his left was a large four-poster bed adorned with dark green covers, pillows of different sizes placed neatly on top. The walls were a light orange colour with the classic floral pattern and hanging on the right wall, was a painting of a landscape. A dresser stood beside the door to his right, a porcelain washbasin resting on top of it with a small handheld mirror. There was an unlit fireplace just after the dresser, a handful of logs stacked neatly on the side. In front of him was a wide window giving natural light in the room, a thick maroon curtain on each side with golden threads on the end.

Aye, this was too fancy for his liking.

The bed alone looked more expensive than the entirety of his bedroom. Hell, his whole house.

If he had to guess, this would be a room given to guests staying over at the castle because as much as he didn't want to sound like a snobbish eejit, this looked too rich to be a servant's room.

Good to know Scotland had great hospitality despite acting dismissively.

North gave another look at the room and spotted a small round table tucked under the window, an armchair resting beside it. His sore legs longed for it, but he wouldn't dare to move. He looked down at his dirty clothes and muddy shoes, grimacing at the wet feeling of his socks.

Maybe it would have been better if he was brought into a servant's room, that way he wouldn't feel so bad about tracking mud everywhere.

He eyed the narrow space between the carpet and the border of the room. If he walked on the floorboard alone, maybe he wouldn't make too much of a mess.

With that in mind, the boy tiptoed on the outside of the carpet, heading for the window. It gave a view to the front of the castle where he could see people bustling in and out of the main gate. Beyond the gate, he could make out in the distance a small village, trails of smoke coming out from the cluster of houses.

It was still mind-blowing to see people going up and about in such a simple rural life. He had to remind himself he wasn't in a movie set as far as he knew and those people were actually living a normal life, that what he was going through was real and not a dream.

He watched three young children running around in the front of the castle with wooden swords in their hands, playing make-believe. He spotted Ian, the tall blond clansman, coming out from the stable with his arms raised, ready to bounce. The children noticed him and took off running with laughter as the man gave chase.

What he was seeing was real... but it was so hard to believe.

Nothing made sense. This situation he was in didn't make a lick of a sense. It was surreal.

He tried to find any piece of modern technology as Mrs. Gibson guided him through the halls, but there was nothing. He didn't spot any hidden electrical outlets or light bulbs. No sign of a telly or a telephone. All he saw were candle lights, candelabrums and torches hanging on the walls. If it weren't for the large windows, this place would be in constant darkness.

He looked back at the three children who somehow, managed to overthrow the giant man to the ground as they all but started whacking him with their wooden swords. Ian made a show of trying to fight them off, but it only encouraged the children to keep whacking him.

North huffed and turned away from the window. He pursed his lips, taking another look at the room. As he said before, he needed proof. He needed to find out if this wasn't just a long-term intricated joke. He needed to find a date. Maybe he could find a book or one of those bibles you find in the nightstand of a hotel room. He didn't know when Mrs. Gibson would come back, so he better be quick.

He walked around the carpet to head for the dresser and his foot connected with something metallic. He glanced down, cocking an eyebrow at the sight of a metal pot tucked under the dresser. Who would leave a pot in a bedroom of all place? He pushed it with his foot, confused by the object until the dots connected. He jerked back, face twisting in disgust as he let out a curse.

Ugh, it was a chamber pot.

God, don't tell him there weren't flushable toilets around here.

He was pulled out of his thoughts as the door clicked open. Mrs. Gibson entered the room, her back to him as she balanced a bowl in one hand and holding a bundle of clothes with the other.

"Here ye go, lad." The stout woman handed him the bowl before going to the bed. She set down the clothes she brought, brushing off invisible lint.

North tore his eyes from the monstrosity that was the chamber pot as he took the bowl. He thanked her and looked down, his stomach torn between feeling hungry or disgusted. It was some sort of porridge by the smell of it, but the gooey grey texture made it look more like a serving of vomit.

Nevertheless, he was hungry, and it was better than the rock-hard bread he nibbled on his way here. Besides, he didn't want to appear ungrateful. The boy mustered his courage and scooped a spoonful of the gooey porridge, bringing it to his mouth. He held back a gag at the sensation in his mouth and scrunched his eyes shut as he swallowed. He shuddered as it slid down his throat like slime and grimaced.

To his surprise it didn't taste as bad, missing a bit of flavour but that was expected with Scotland's food. Bland, but edible enough. More than England's anyway. It just looked plain disgusting. At least the porridge was warm, giving a nice feeling in his stomach.

He went for another spoonful, mentally preparing himself, but the bowl was taken from him as Mrs. Gibson set it on the table.

"Let's get you changed before you get a cough out of it," she said as she walked up to the bed. She grabbed a white shirt and turned around. She frowned when she noticed he hadn't moved. "Well, get a move on."

"What?" North blinked, not sure what she was asking for.

"Come on, take off yer clothes." Mrs. Gibson urged him with a hand, and North felt his insides freeze.

"W-what? Right now!?" He squeaked in mortification as he took a step back, face turning bright red. He wasn't going to strip down naked in front of a stranger!

"You're drenched from head to toe! Hurry up, lad," she insisted, giving him a stern look.

"I-I… Mrs. Gibson," North stammered sheepishly, tugging his windbreaker closer to him. "Thank you but I can dress myself."

Mrs. Gibson scowled, putting her hands on her hips. "I am a mother of four boys and have two grandsons. I've seen everything."

If that comment didn't make it even more awkward and mortifying than before, it was the glare she sent that could even rival the Queen's when she caught him sneaking out of a ball back in 1959.

North stood frozen, turning a shade redder by the second. When the middle-aged woman didn't budge, he finally complied, albeit reluctantly.

He started by taking off his windbreaker and handed it to her. He bent down only to pause on his way to unlace his shoes, stomach sinking at catching the woman tugging at the zipper in a perplexed manner.

Zippers probably didn't exist yet, he thought with a jolt.

Mrs. Gibson folded the windbreaker and draped it over the chair, sending a look to the boy with a wave of her hand to keep going.

Cheeks as bright as his hair, North pulled off his shoes, grimacing at the cold wet feeling of his socks. He pulled them off too, dropping it beside his Converse. He then went for his jeans, thanking the Lord above his pants were dry and didn't need to be changed at the moment, though he did see Bermuda-looking shorts laying on the bed.

No, sir, or in this case, ma'am. I'm not changing pants in front of you. He drew a hard line on that.

North snatched the brown trousers the woman offered, ignoring her huffed laugh as he hopped from one foot to another as quickly as he could to put them on. To his confusion, the trousers were shorter than he expected, barely reaching below his knees.

He looked up to ask Mrs. Gibson only to blink at the pair of long socks presented to him. It took him a moment to react, torn between slapping the socks away or jump out of the window to escape his suffering but forced his hands to grab them.

The socks were dark grey and rather thick, probably to withstand the harsh cold of the Highlands. He expected the harsh feeling of wool, but it was surprisingly soft to the touch. Hopefully, they won't make his legs itch.

With a resigned sigh, the boy walked to the armchair and sat down. He almost groaned out loud at the utter relief of finally resting his feet, his fashion crisis forgotten. The horse ride really made his legs sore beyond salvation, it was a miracle he managed to move his toes at this point.

He opened his eyes, not realizing he closed them in the first place and looked down at the pair of socks he was holding. Holding back another dejected sigh, he slipped them on, momentarily pacified by the warm feeling it already gave. At last, his feet were dry and cozy.

North then stood up, despite his legs screaming in protest, but froze when he went to reach for the helm of his blue t-shirt. His chest constricted with anxiety as he looked from his shirt to the woman present in the room.

There was nothing special about a scrawny fourteen years old boy, but it still made him uncomfortable and self-conscious. He was an introvert by heart, and he liked to keep his privacy private. Mostly because he didn't like-

"Hurry up, lad." Mrs. Gibson scowled, looking over her shoulder where she was folding the jeans on the bed. "I need to head back to the kitchen soon."

North pulled off his t-shirt without another prompting, knowing facing her wrath just by meeting her an hour ago was a death wish. He shifted awkwardly on his feet, hugging himself to keep from shivering. He fidgeted with the flat stone attached to a leather cord that hung over his bare chest.

The short woman turned around to hand him a plain white shirt and her eyes widened in both shock and concern.

The boy stared back with wide eyes and looked down where she was staring. He paled before flushing a deep red, internally cursing himself. He tried to cover his chest or turn around, but it was no use. She already saw them.

There was a reason he hated changing when someone else was in the room. Or having someone touch him without telling him first. It was why he preferred keeping his distance.

It wasn't that he was ashamed or anything. Every Nation bore scars during their lifetime as a reminder of the battles they fought, even for someone as young as him. He had seen his brothers' scars a few times: when Scotland boasted about them by telling exaggerated and ridiculous stories of how he got them, how Wales warned him about the dangers of feeding an ill dragon by showing his arm were three long scars ran down his forearm or the time England told him about how he caught the blade of a cutlass with his bare hand back in his pirate days.

Ireland always wore a tank top underneath his shirt to cover the scars on his back, even when they go to the beach. He said it was because he was more prone to sunburn which was partially true (Scotland, Ireland and himself were completely hopeless when it came to sunburns, unlike England and Wales who can somehow get a tan without turning into a lobster) but that wasn't the real reason.

Scars for nations were signs of the struggles they went through and how they fought through the hardships of history. Some of them are proud to show them off as others preferred to keep them hidden from the world.

But for Northern Ireland, scars were a reminder of how weak he was. How he couldn't protect his people.

He didn't have scars caused by an epic sword fight or a glorious battle with an army behind you. His scars weren't earned during a conquest or a duel with the enemy.

No, his scars were burns. Burns left by the Blitz in Belfast back in 1941. Burns that spread from the left side of his chest to the back, botches of pink and white smeared on his pale freckled skin. They faded over the years, but it still hurt every once in a while.

They acted up when tensions were high amongst his people, especially during the past three decades. They turned an angry red whenever an attack happened, or discord erupted in the government. It didn't hurt as much as the original burns from the Blitz, not that he could remember the first attack since he went unconscious apparently, but they can be annoyingly uncomfortable. And that constant sting of pain was always what pushed him to cover it.

Because it was a reminder of his weakness. The scars were a reminder of his incapability to help his people. The pain was his punishment for not putting a stop to the conflict back home.

Schooling his expression carefully, North extended a hand towards the woman, forcing down the bitterness in his voice. "The shirt, Mrs. Gibson."

The middle-aged woman snapped out of her thoughts, opening her mouth to question him, but closed it shortly after. She shook her head, glancing one last time at his chest before handing him the shirt without a word.

North took it with a small thank you. He knew she wanted to ask, her curiosity and worry were obvious because such burns were not supposed to be on someone. Even less a boy his age, well physically speaking. He was eternally grateful she went back folding his old clothes, turning away to give him a sense of privacy. Taking a deep breath to calm his emotions, he pulled the shirt on.

He looked down at himself, tugging at the end of the shirt. It was bigger than his normal shirt, baggier too. He was practically swimming in it. To his ongoing dismay, the front of the collar and the end of the sleeves had frills making him look like a puffy snob.

He eyed the ankle boots resting by the armchair with pursed lips. He looked back to the high-waist brown trousers, the dark grey long socks and the white frilly shirt he was now wearing. He puffed out his cheeks. He probably looked like a bloody pirate. All that was left was the silly vest.

As if it was summoned, Mrs. Gibson turned around to present him a dark blue vest with beige buttons and North wanted to slap himself.

With a forced smile, he thanked her and put it on, wondering for the umpteenth time how he came to this point.

She helped him adjust his vest, neatly folding the lapels before taking a step back to admire his new looks.

"There, now you look like a presentable handsome lad." She smiled with a nod, brushing off lint from his shoulder.

More like officially ridiculous, he thought wryly as he tugged the end of his sleeve. He couldn't wait to grab the handheld mirror and confirm his poor attempt at a medieval cosplay.

Mrs. Gibson gathered his old clothes under his arm. "If you have any trouble with your trousers, let me know, so I can find you a belt. Those clothes are my grandson's, he's a little older than you but it should fit you just fine."

"Um… it's fine, Mrs. Gibson. Thank you for the clothes." He nodded with a polite smile.

"Right then, if you're done with the porridge, I should get going," Mrs. Gibson said, picking up the bowl, not that he was entirely upset about it. He didn't want to feel that slimy sensation down his throat ever again. "Ye must be tired from the journey to get here."

If by journey you mean being shot at and threatened by a sword twice in the space of two days then yes, he was tired. That was what he wanted to say, but he only nodded to the woman.

"Someone will come to fetch you for dinner. I'll bring you some night clothes as well," she said as she headed for the door. She stopped at the doorway, looking at him with soft eyes, a contrast of her stern face from before. "Get some rest, lad, a few hours wouldn't do you any harm."

With that, she closed the door behind her, leaving North alone in the room once more.

He stared at the door for a moment, hearing the retreating footsteps of the woman and once he was sure she was gone, he blew a raspberry. He plopped down on the armchair, tipping his head back with a groan.

He closed his eyes for a moment, taking deep breaths and let it out slowly. As much as he liked the distraction Mrs. Gibson provided, even by going through an embarrassing awkward moment, he couldn't ignore the elephant in the room.

He cracked an eye open, looking at the dimming light pouring through the window. He didn't know what time it was exactly, but he guessed it was something in the afternoon. If someone was going to fetch him for dinner, he probably had a few hours until then.

Perfect time to take a rest, as Mrs. Gibson said, but alas, the privilege was taken from him. He knew sleep would never come to him if he didn't address the problem first, even if his body demanded to go to sleep.

Because he was tired and sore, his legs were practically jelly. At least the two-days trip let his ankle heal fully. It didn't twinge anymore, so that was good news.

He leaned forward on the chair, looking around the room with pursed lips. He glanced at the candle holder on the nightstand, at his clothes, then at the chamber pot.

Maybe his brain drew the correct conclusion. Somehow, he was in another... time, just like Back to The Future but without using the DeLorean. It couldn't be a dream either because it felt too real to be a lucid dream. Too real to gag at the sight of vomit porridge.

The biggest question to his problem was how he got here in the first place and why can't he feel his Land. Was he in a parallel world like in science fiction movies? Maybe in a world that was stuck in medieval times.

North shook his head, ruffling his hair in annoyance.

Who was he kidding? That made absolutely no sense. It was impossible to travel in a different world, even less at a different time.

He once made a comment to his brothers about the credibility of the movie Back to The Future, and they were pretty adamant that such a concept was outlandish in nature and that if possible, the world would have ended a long time ago by some idiot trying to mess with Time. North had read a few theories of how time travelling worked in one of his magazines, but none came true so far.

They were just theories, impossible ideas and yet, here he was. Maybe.

As for his Land, North bit his lip in worry, it was a whole new puzzle to solve. The inability to sense his Land was disconcerting, to say the least. The deafening silence at the back of his mind was even worse. He didn't know why he couldn't feel it and yet could sense the group of redcoats back at Cocknammon Rock.

The young nation put his elbows on his knees and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He let his senses expand, shut his surroundings out, and started searching for any sign of a pull of his Land. He tried for a few minutes before focusing on Scotland's Land, trying to locate his brother in the castle by Sense alone, but all he got was that restless silence.

He furrowed his brow together in concentration, feeling the beginning of anxiety at the pit of his stomach. He tried to focus on his other brothers across the British Isles and to his chagrin, he picked up nothing. Out of a limb, he tried to sense the presence of the people inside the castle, but nothing came up.

He let out a curse and opened his eyes.

Guess his senses stopped working again.

If his theory was right, and he hoped he was wrong, there was a possible explanation of his predicament. But he wanted to run a few tests first. North looked at the dresser at the end of the room, an idea popping up.

He jumped off the armchair and walked up to the dresser. He gingerly pushed the chamber pot away with his boot, grimacing when it almost tipped over. Once the monstrosity was far away, he turned back to the dresser.

He picked up the washbasin and handheld mirror and set them on the table. He checked inside the drawers, finding a blanket made of wool and a set of four candles. Once he made sure nothing fragile was left, he put a hand on both sides of the dresser. A nervous flutter filled his chest.

It wasn't a big dresser per se, about two feet by three in width and three in height. However, it was made of solid wood, not the lighter material found in modern furniture. This dresser was authentic, which meant it was heavy.

Perfect for his test.

He adjusted his hands on the dresser and took a deep breath, nervousness building up by the second.

Only one way to find out.

Taking another breath, the boy gripped the edge and lifted it. He let out a breathless laugh when he didn't struggle much, grip almost faltering in his shock. He lifted it to his chest, registering a small strain but nonetheless, it was easy. He put it back down with a dull thud, grinning brightly.

"Okay, at least one thing is normal," he voiced out loud, pushing the dresser back to its place. He wasn't the strongest of nations by any means, but he was still above the average strength of a grown man.

Satisfied with his little experimentation, he turned to sit back on the chair but decided to test the bed. He stopped beside the bed, running his finger over the soft cover and with a graceful hop, he flopped face down, limbs stretched out.

He groaned in bliss, feeling like he was on a marshmallow. He stayed still for a moment, enjoying the moment before rolling to his back.

A shift under his shirt caught his attention as the necklace slid down his neck. He pulled it out, frowning slightly as he brought it above his face. The egg-shaped flat grey stone the size of a walnut swung lazily with a leather cord attached to the top. A natural hole was on the lower part of the stone, as big as a button.

He ran a finger over the golden contour of the hole, feeling the four small bumps that formed the lines of a compass with runes engraved around the edge. He flipped it over, eyeing the strange circle carved into the stone with erratic little grooves crossing the ring.

A pang of sadness and longing washed over him without a warning, surprising him before he squashed it with a burst of resentment.

"Why did you come along of all things, huh?" he muttered bitterly, glaring at the pendant. "Wouldn't have been better if I had my Walkman with me instead? Hell, my bag of Skittles would have saved my taste buds earlier. But no, I'm stuck with this stupid thing."

The necklace swung lazily in circles, the golden lines reflecting the last light of the day.

North sighed loudly and let it drop, going back to stare at the ceiling. He startled when the door opened, snapping his head up. He scowled at realizing who it was. "Never heard of knocking before?"

"I see ye don't look like a pile of shite anymore, that's good," Hamish said without missing a beat, one hand on the handle and the other cradled to his chest with bandages going around his shoulder.

He looked cleaner than before, having replaced his bloody jacket with a dark coat. He still wore the kilt though and somehow, he managed to wash off most of the mud. At least he didn't look like a bog monster.

Hamish looked around the room as if he had expected North to burn it down before turning his grumpy glare at him. "Get over here, he wants to see ye."

"Who?" the boy asked.

The man left the room without saying a word and North sighed. Stashing his necklace back under his shirt, he jumped off the bed and followed him.

They passed through the plethora of halls, making North wonder how one could find their way without getting lost with how similar they looked to one and other. After what felt an eternity, they reached a grand wooden door on the second floor, a torch casting light on each side.

Hamish opened the door and urged him to get in. North stepped in and noticed it was a sort of an office or a study room with reddish walls and a large brown rug in the middle.

The left wall was covered with maps and paintings of different sizes, one of them North actually recognized. It was a painting of a small house in the countryside with a pond in the corner and a man sitting below a tree, enjoying the weather. He couldn't remember where he saw it before.

To the right wall was two bookshelves filled, instead of books as one would expect to, with what seems to be a collection of some sort neatly placed in order of colours. Between the two bookshelves was a well-lit fire, the snaps and crackling of flames giving a calm presence.

Finally, the wall at the far end of the room served for the desk with a wide window reaching the ceiling. Behind the desk stood a sturdy chair, draped with a plaid while two more simple yet elegant ones were facing it.

"Stay here and dinnea touch anything," Hamish said gruffly from the doorway. "He'll be here soon."

"Who are you talking-" North glanced over his shoulder when he heard a click and sighed when he was left alone again. He waited a minute in case someone got in, but when there was none, he shrugged. "Guess I'll find out on my own."

The young nation took upon himself to search for any clues that would help him find some answers. With any luck, he may find something that indicated when he was. From the weapons and clothes alone, he can guess he was somewhere in the 18th century or maybe the 19th. He already knew where he was… roughly. If those maps were as accurate as of the ones he was familiar with, which he doubted very much since the map of the New World was way off, he was in the outskirt of Inverness or somewhere in the Highlands.

Which raised another important question. How did he end all the way up north when he was in Edinburgh when he fell asleep on the train?

He looked at the yellowish maps on the wall with a frown. He wasn't as good at reading maps as his brothers, but if he had a compass, he may be able to draw an approximation of the distance. And by the horrible experience of riding a horse for two days straight without a decent break, it would take a few days, heck even weeks to get back to Edinburgh.

God, how did people survive without cars?

North shook his head, returning his attention to his task. First, find a calendar or anything with a date on it before he came. Whoever that was.

Walking to the bookshelves, the boy ran his fingers over the few books that were present, mouthing the names of the ones he could pronounce. He didn't bother to try to pronounce the one in Scottish Gaelic.

Stopping in front of the collection he saw earlier, he realized it was a collection of rocks. They came in different colours and textures, glinting when the sun hit it just right. He grabbed a small grey one with blue and white crystal sprinkled around and brought it to the window. A smile curled upon his lips as he saw the glimmers dancing whenever he turned it.

Scotland always had a fascination when it came to rocks and minerals. He could identify anything by a single glance and would talk forever when asked the difference between two that, for any normal person, looked exactly the same. Scotland once tried to teach him the Art of mineralogy, a.k.a rock fanboying in his book but was utterly disappointed and beyond furious when he found North using his rocks collection as a base support for his minted Coca-Cola rocket launcher.

Long story short, his brother never let him touch his rocks ever again. And his rocket launcher was a bust.

Putting the rock back to its place, North went back searching for clues as he headed to the desk. A pile of books was resting in the corner, covering the corner of a map. A lit candle rested in the other corner, molten wax sliding down on a small plate. There was also, North actually gaped at the sight, an inkpot with the little feather.

Old-fashioned to the extreme.

He glanced away, and his eyes caught a pile of letters neatly tucked beside a dark wooden pipe.

Bingo.

The boy cocked his head to read the first one on the top without touching it, only to scrunch his face in annoyance. It was written in that ridiculous flowery way that old people do.

How could people even read this thing?

He squinted at the paper, hoping to decipher any of it but quickly gave up once he realized it was written in Gaelic. He huffed and picked up the letter to check the others. He grew annoyed to find the rest of the letters were all written in cursive form, but at least some of them were in English.

After spending minutes glaring at the fourth paper like he was interrogating it, he finally managed to read the date written at the corner right of the letter.

His eyes went wide as saucer plates.

No…

1743.

His heart started racing as his blood ran cold, barely noticing the letter falling off his shaking hands. He stared at the number on the paper in disbelief.

The letter's date was September 1743.

The boy staggered back, clenching the chair in a death grip as his breath quickened in growing panic. Somehow, he travelled back in time. From September 1997 to September 1743.

He suspected that much ever since he woke up here, but a part of him, the logical part, always believed it was just one big joke and that his brother wanted to scare him. Or that he would wake up back at the train station and find everything was back to normal.

That it was just a nightmare.

The knot in his stomach got tighter as the same date appeared on the rest of the letters. He was going to get sick.

Footsteps were heard coming from the hallway and North all but jumped out of his skin. He snapped his head to the door, panic skyrocketing. The owner was here. He quickly put the letters back to their place and jumped as far as possible from the desk just as the door clicked open.

"Ah, yer here."

The boy froze, his heart stuttering for a beat as the dots finally connected. The painting, the books, the pipe, the freaking rocks. Now he remembered where he saw the painting. His brother had the exact painting hanging in his living room back at his flat in Edinburgh.

The owner of the office was Scotland. Scotland from the past. Of fecking course.

As calmly as he could, North turned around and watched as the large frame of Scotland walked into the room. The man eyed him up and down, probably asserting his new clothes before heading for his desk.

The tall nation stared at the said desk with a frown and North feared he had misplaced something in his panic but was relieved when the man did an inquisitive sound and picked up his pipe. He sat on his chair, rummaging through a drawer before pulling out a small wooden box.

He looked up at North once he noticed he hadn't moved and nodded to the chair across his desk. "Unless ye want to stay up, have a seat."

Forcing his legs to work, North sat down and tugged on the collar of his shirt, pushing the frills away. He watched curiously as the man opened the box and took out several little tools and a small jar. Scotland took tobacco out of the jar and put it into the bowl, pressing it with a tamper-like tool and repeating the process a few times. Once satisfied, he set it down and popped the pipe into his mouth. He leaned forwards, aiming the pipe over the flame of the candle and with practiced puffs, the tobacco turned a light orange before smoke started coming out.

The whole thing was fascinating to watch. He never took Scotland for a pipe bloke. His brother wasn't the most patient man, so to see him take the time to prepare the pipe was surprising. He guessed cigarettes weren't very accessible around here.

North was pulled out of his thought when the man leaned into his chair, leather creaking under his weight.

The man looked at him, face obscured by the smoke trailing towards the ceiling. "Did Mrs. Gibson give you something to eat?"

The simple question brought him back to attention, reality crashing on him like a wave. He bobbed his head, his mind too busy at freaking out by the revelation.

254 years in the past... Holy hell.

He was before the Great War, before the Industrial Revolution, before the American Revolution.

What were the rules of time travel again? Don't interact with someone you know?

He blinked at the man before him with a blank look, pursing his lips. Well, he obviously broke that one.

Scotland leaned his elbows on the desk to steeple his fingers in front of him. He stared at him for a moment, calculating grey eyes searching for something on his face before asking. "Where are you from? It's not every day to find a boy like yerself wandering alone in the woods."

Mismatched eyes widened, heart skipped a beat as another realization hit him like a truck.

He was reminded this Scotland didn't know a single thing about him. He didn't know who North was, who his little brother was. Hell, North didn't even exist at this time. Northern Ireland wasn't present until the 1920s, centuries later. And wasn't that a damn shocking revelation?

He also realized with a heavy heart that he didn't know this Scotland either. He didn't know if he was the same from his timeline or just a completely different person, which so far, was pointing for the latter. This Scotland wasn't the Scotland he knew.

Dread gnawed at his insides at the gravity of the situation. He can't let himself break the second rule of time travel.

He needed to be extremely careful with his words from now on. If he truly travelled back in time, he can't say anything that would hint him he was from the future. He couldn't reveal he was a Nation. He couldn't tell he was his little brother.

He swallowed the tight knot in his throat at the thought.

The man would think he was bloody mental. Would send him away before he could explain himself. If Back to the Future was any indication, one small change in the past could have drastic consequences in the present.

Third rule of time travel: change anything, change everything.

North schooled his expression carefully, forcing the panic down as he said, "I- I originally come from uh… from a small village in County Down, North- uh in the north of Ireland. My family and I came here a few years ago."

God, just the first question, and he was already failing terribly. Way to go, North.

The man hummed again, whether he believed him or not, North wasn't sure. His face was impassive. He puffed out smoke from his nose as he asked, "Hamish told me ye were talking with Captain Johnson, what were you doing there?"

North frowned, wondering who that was until he remembered. Oh, Creepy Captain Crunch. Right. Time to improvise again.

"Um... my brother and I were heading to Edinburgh to uh- to visit some relatives and one night, we were attacked by bandits," he said, not sure if bandits were a thing in these parts. "I don't know what happened next, we got separated. I tried to look for him in the morning, but there was no sign of him."

"Then I heard gunshots. I was confused and scared, so I ran away," he paused, recalling the fear and confusion as he ran through the woods, "I came face to face with the Captain near a stream. I didn't know who it was. He asked questions, but I didn't want to answer… he seemed off and weird, but he kept insisting until he threatened me with a sword. He got closer and I freaked out." A burst of righteous anger sprang to life as he gritted out, "So I spat at his face."

A bushy eyebrow quirked up on the impassive face of Scotland and the boy ducked his head, his anger dissipating like ash as he mumbled, "It-it was the wrong move because he grabbed me and tried to… uh to well, I dunno… that was when Mr. Hamish came in."

North looked up and flinched when he saw dark angry eyes glaring at him. He shifted under his seat, twisting the helm of his sleeves nervously. Spitting at an English officer was probably a bad thing to do, right? A national offence. God, was he going to be jailed for that? Or worse, get executed?

Did people still get quartered for their crimes in 1743?

Scotland took another drag of his pipe, gaze unfaltering as he leaned back to his chair. "While the Captain was indeed correct in assuming his suspicion about ye, he did ask for it." The corner of his mouth quirked up as the man let out a huffed laugh. "You have a fiery spirit, boy, I admire that. Could've had given anything to see the bastard's face."

North snapped his head up in surprise. It turned out the anger wasn't directed at him but the captain. The boy blinked. Good to know Scotland still relished on the misfortune of others no matter what time he was in.

"However," the man said lightly, and North would've missed the hidden warning in his voice if he hadn't known him all his life, "I advise you keep that spirit tamed from now on for it will bring you trouble if you don't." The man eyed him carefully. "Not many are expecting to face such... behaviour."

So I was told, North thought wryly as he nodded.

"Good. Now that's out of the way, let me properly welcome you." He gestured himself with a lazy wave. "As ye already guessed, I am Alba, the Land of Scotland. However, very few know of my existence, even less in this castle. Here, I am Allen Logan Campbell, Laird of Kaerndal Castle."

North's brain stuttered for a second, thrown out of the loop at the mention of the name. Campbell was one thing, but now his brother was named Allen. What the hell happened to Alistair James Kirkland?

He could understand variations in names like how Ireland spelled his name Kieran instead of Ciarán whenever he went abroad because people couldn't write his name correctly. He included sometimes let people write his name other than Seán because it was too much of a hassle to try correcting them, as much as he hated it. Just reading his name written as 'Shawn' made him want to pluck his eyes out. But a whole different name?

Maybe he was in a parallel world after all.

Then again, Ireland did change his surname for O'Ryan a few decades back... after he… well, after he left. Maybe his brothers have different names here. Who knows, maybe Ireland was called Patrick during this period. Pfft, Ireland named Patrick. That was peak Irishness right there.

The man before him narrowed his eyes, noticing the long silence. "I believe I don't need to ask for your discretion on the matter."

"Of-of course, sir," North reassured, flapping a hand like an idiot. "Like I said, I heard stories of it. Most people think they're just myths or legends anyway. Fairytales they tell to children."

"Count yerself lucky my men already know my true nature, or I would have gotten rid of you for that." Alist- no Allen added in such a casual manner that made North question for the umpteenth time his safety. How the man could say such a thing with a straight face was beyond him.

No wonder no one can beat Scotland in poker, holy hell.

"Let's talk about your accommodations," the man said, not noticing the mildly disturbed expression of North as he rubbed his jaw absentmindedly. "I know someone who's leaving for Edinburgh. Mr. Milligan is his name; he's a merchant who travels around here. He often has room for a passenger or two. You may go with him if you wish, he leaves on Monday. That way I can send someone to look for your brother."

"Uh… yeah, that would be grand," North stammered, his brain not quite following the fast-changing topics.

The man cocked his head to the side, a curious look on his face. "How old is he? Any idea where he could be?"

North drew a blank for a second, not sure how to respond because Luke Killough was a spur of the moment thing and knew nothing of the said fictional brother. In his defence, he was threatened by a bloody sword. Twice. He was proud he even came up with a name to begin with.

"Um… Luke is my big brother; he's 29. Same hair as mine and blue eyes," the boy said, racking his brain for ideas for a believable backstory. "He should be heading South. He told me that if uh… if we ever get separated to head to our nearest family."

"And that would be Edinburgh?" At the boy's nod, the man eyed him for a moment before nodding. "Then you may stay here until Mr. Milligan gets here, dinnae want to keep your brother worried."

"Thank you for your help, sir." North smiled politely, not missing the glint in the man's grey eyes. A part of him knew Scotland didn't completely believe him and his story didn't make much sense but if he had any chance to wing it, he'll take it. And to be perfectly honest, he didn't even have a plan once he'll get to Edinburgh. He doubted he would find a train waiting for him.

A thought came to his mind and the boy frowned, hoping he looked genuinely confused. "Excuse me, Mr. Campbell." Damn, that would be weird from now on, calling him that. He scratched his neck sheepishly. "What day are we? All this commotion made me a wee bit confused."

"Tuesday, September third. Mr. Milligan will be here in six days," Scotland informed as he grabbed the stack of letters in the corner. He picked up the quill from the inkwell and started writing, feather dancing with each stroke. Without looking up from his work, he added, "Until then, I hope ye'll enjoy your stay here and if you have any request, please inform Mrs. Gibson. I assume she showed you your quarters?"

"Yeah-uh, yes sir," North said, his mind racing at the reminder of the year he was stuck in. September third, 1743, and not 1997.

Yup, totally normal.

The man paused in his writing, glancing up at him with a quirked eyebrow as if wondering why he was still here.

North stared back dumbly.

"You may go. You're dismissed."

"Oh!" The boy startled at the words, scrambling to his feet with a nervous laugh. "Right um... I'll leave you to your Lairdly stuff. Thank you again for the help, Sco- uh Mr. Campbell. Yeah, uh well... um… bye." He made a poor attempt of a bow because he had no idea how to act and left the room with hunched shoulders, face red at the feeling of eyes boring once again to his skull.

"Ye mentioned your brother worked for a surgeon, but I heard you said he was a carpenter when you were talking to that captain," Hamish said, pointing a fork at him with a raised eyebrow. "Care to explain that?"

North chocked on his drink, fork clattering on his plate.

They were at the Great Hall for dinner. Shortly after North came back to his room from the meeting with Scotland, he was fetched by Hamish and as they walked down the stairs, North couldn't stop the dread creeping upon him.

Although he was hungry, terribly hungry really, he didn't want to pursue the act of dining with a bunch of strangers. He didn't do well with crowds or people in general. Don't get him wrong, he knew how to be polite in a dinner, what with England drilling etiquette lessons into his skull for years and Wales chastising him for grabbing the wrong spoon for a soup, but there was a reason he always avoided formal dinners.

It was a goddamn unnecessary stressful procedure. It was such a hassle; you couldn't even remember what you've eaten for thinking so much about what you were doing instead.

Make sure you sit correctly, make sure to dab daintily your mouth, don't gulp the drink in one go, keep your back straight, keep your elbows off the table and the list went on and on. From the second you sat down until you leave the room, that constant fear of making yourself look like a fool was ever-present.

North admired how England and Wales could keep it going without a hitch. Unlike Scotland and Ireland who danced between being the perfect gentlemen to the drunkest sod in the world but in the sneakiest way possible. Either by putting so much jam on your scone to catch someone's attention but not enough to be pointed out without sounding like a paranoiac tosser or timing the refill of your glass of wine casually enough to appear you were on your first instead of your tenth.

Subtle enough to be ogled at but not enough to break the fragile thread of etiquette.

So, it was a grand relief to see it wasn't the long table with a bajillion utensil and a plethora of glasses when he stepped through the large double doors.

Instead, North was brought to a vast rectangular room of an impressive height that he had to crane his neck to see the decorative ceiling. Large windows were aligned on the length of the room, the torches between them casting a warm orange glow.

Long tables with benches were aligned on both sides of the room, people already in their seats as an ambient chatter filled the air. At the far end was a raised platform with a broad table that took the whole width. Five chairs were behind it, the middle one bigger and more sophisticated than the others.

And said chairs were occupied by Callum and Scotland themselves as they chatted over a glass of whatever they were drinking. Probably whiskey, knowing his brother.

Hamish guided him through the room, greeting people as they headed towards the table where the members of the clan were, on the left side of the room. North let out a sigh, glad he wasn't going to experience a Formal Dinner after all. Eating with a bunch of psychopaths sounded better than the former.

His hope was crushed, however, when Hamish walked past the table where the clan ate. He stepped on the platform and nodded to the Laird.

"Sir, the boy's here as requested," he said before turning to North, gesturing to 'go-ahead' with his head.

North tensed when Scotland looked in his direction and was quite put off when the man smirked at him. He got suspicious when the man said nothing and just gestured the seat beside him with a nod.

Awkwardly, North sat down and fidgeted with his sleeves as a servant brought him a plate of food. This time, the meal looked more appetizing than the porridge. A nice chicken breast and potatoes on the side with a slice of bread. North felt his stomach growl at the sight.

He went to grab the fork but stopped to look at Scotland warily. Said nation paused on the way to spread some butter on his bread to raise an eyebrow in askance.

"It's not poisoned if that's that yer thinking," the man said dryly.

Blushing red, North ducked his head and mechanically picked up the fork. He mumbled 'you never know' to himself as he brought a piece of chicken to his mouth and took a bite. He almost moaned out loud at the explosion of flavour, eyes closing without even knowing.

Finally, some good fecking food.

He barely acknowledged Hamish taking a seat beside him nor the way Scotland seemed to glance at him now and then. He was just focused on wolfing down his food without looking like a starving troll.

And it was during the moment he was taking a sip of water from his cup that Hamish decided to ask him about his fictional brother, breaking his minute-long moment of gastronomic bliss. North floundered to keep from spitting out the water and coughed a few times, mind racing in panic.

Crap, he needed to make up more stories. Right now.

"I-uh I have four brothers, I'm the youngest of the family," North said, dabbing his mouth with a napkin without looking like he was trying to shove it to his face. "Uh… William is the helper of the surgeon. Luke's the carpenter."

"And the other two?" Hamish pressed on; unfazed how rude it was to interrogate him during dinner in front of the Laird. But then again, Scotland was unbothered by it, in fact, he seemed almost curious even if he pretended to not be listening.

North cursed himself as he scrambled for other names, trying to keep his face calm.

"Thomas helps the shepherd of our village; he tends his sheep and other livestock. He's the third oldest. Luke is the oldest, followed by William," he explained, faltering for a moment as he thought for one last name for his fictional brother. "As for uh, as for James, he deals with books. Change the covers and repair them when needed."

"A bookbinder, huh. Quite the variety, the lot of ye." Hamish hummed at the information as he took a large bite of a chicken, munching with poor etiquette before taking a sip of his drink. North crinkled his noise but said nothing, looking down at his plate as he took a deep breath.

Disaster diverted if he said so himself.

"How about yer parents?"

"I don't have parents," North replied automatically, mind screeching to a halt at the absurdity of his answer. He cursed mentally, rushing to add, "I-I mean, my mother died when I was a baby and-uh and I never met my father. We live with my aunt."

What the hell was he spewing about?! How tragic was his fictional family, Jaysus.

Luck was on his side for once because Hamish seemed satisfied enough for his answer as he went back to his meal, not even bothering to say his condolences as one should. Again, rude. However, Callum looked skeptical, shooting a glance at him before looking away with a grumble. "Must have left once he realized the burden he had."

A wave of unexpected anger shot through North as he looked up to glare at the man. He didn't know why, but he couldn't stop the burning urge to defend his father, even though said father came into existence just ten seconds ago. "Don't jump to conclusions without knowing the full story, sir, just as you jumped onto mine. You know nothing about my father."

Callum looked taken aback by his answer before huffing again, muttering something in Gaelic before going back to his meal.

North startled when Scotland snorted beside him, now realizing he just up and leaned around the Laird to snap at the man. He quickly sat back to his seat, face flushing when he noticed the other looks from the tables below.

Keep a low profile, he said, it would be easy, he said.

"He got you there, Callum," Scotland said over his cup, hiding the smirk on his face. The older man muttered something else and this time the Laird let out a laugh.

North eyed Scotland warily, expecting the man to be angry for his rude behaviour but then again, his brother was kind of a wildcard. No one could predict his actions. He could flip a table in anger for losing a pair of socks but could be stone cold when a burglar had broken into the house and aimed a gun at him.

Aye, Scotland was a complete mental eejit, but so was the rest of his brothers.

It was a relief to see this side of his brother, carefree and laid back. At least that meant this Scotland was similar to the one from the present if one ignored the younger features and the lack of a full beard anyway. He still couldn't get over that. He would turn into a baby if he shaved it all off.

Without looking at him, the Laird went back to his food and asked, "When did ye cross the sea to get here? Couldn't have been for too long with that accent of yers."

North bit the inside of his cheeks, feeling self-conscious all of a sudden. It wasn't that he was ashamed of his Belfast accent; it was just his way of talking. And it was true he wasn't the most eloquent with words like England or Wales, having taken more of Scotland and Ireland's quirks than them. And sure, some of his people's accent was so strong they pronounced his name differently, but it was the same for everyone. It just so happened he was exposed to four different cultures growing up.

The perks of having a dysfunctional family. Yay.

"Uh… we came over here when we got in contact with my mum's side of the family a few years later after her death. She came to Ireland when she married my dad," he spewed out, mentally cringing how cliché it sounded. "So we got here to meet our aunt and been living with her since then."

"All five of you?" The Laird asked.

The boy nodded. "Luke doesn't live with us anymore, but he visits a few times."

"He's the one you've been travelling with?"

"Yup!" North said with a forced smile, nodding like an idiot as he stabbed a piece of potato with his fork. "He came back from a trip to Ireland actually."

"Better send you back as soon as possible, then," the Laird said, apparently satisfied with his questions as he went back to eating and North had to keep from deflating in relief. His ears practically buzzing at the adrenaline he was feeling.

He had no idea how he managed to survive that interrogation, but he was forever grateful for his quick thinking. Even if most of it sounded crazy to his ears. North looked back to his plate, appetite gone as he poked a slice of carrot with his fork.

If it was going to be that way, he needed to be more than careful. With how they sprung questions on him without warning, he was bound to screw up. It wouldn't take long before someone called out his bullshit.

Which was why he needed to be cautious. To keep to himself and keep a low profile.

He needed to pass as a normal boy and nothing more. A boy who apparently had a tragic story of how he ended up living in Scotland with his aunt and brothers.

But a normal boy, nonetheless.

As long he kept to himself, he would be fine. He could pretend to be Seán Killough for a bit. Pretend to be a normal human until he found a solution to get back home.

Northern Ireland glanced at Scotland, feeling his throat tightening, as the man went back talking with Callum.

Pretend to be a stranger to his brother.

If only it would be that easy.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4

This Isn't What I Ordered

It turned out, pretending to be a stranger to his brother was easier than he thought.

Surprisingly easy.

By making a mental list of the differences between the two Scotland, Northern Ireland could easily identify his brother from the present, Modern Scotland as he decided to call him, from the current one, nicknamed Past Scotland.

Aside from his younger features, the lack of the silver earrings, the not so as prominent beard and the total lack of recognition of him, Past Scotland acted similarly to the Modern one. There were instances where the two would merge, and North would make a double check to be sure he wasn't seeing Alistair instead of Allen.

The number of times he had to stop himself from gaping at the man like an idiot was embarrassing, but he managed to control his reactions most of the time.

There was also the fact he barely saw his brother over the past week, but you got the idea.

No, the real challenge for him was, of all things, how to pretend to be a human.

It was embarrassing if he was honest. He lived amongst them and hell, he represented his people as their Nation, and yet, he struggled to act like one.

Don't get him wrong, he wasn't the hermit his brothers claimed he was. He had talked to humans before, introverted as he was and acted like them and stuff, but he never realized how demanding and stressful it was to be one.

Nations were, in a way, more durable than humans. Semi-immortality and heightened senses aside, they were stronger and less prone to fall ill or contract diseases. They also required less sustenance to keep their body going since they were tied to their Land. In simple terms, as long as there was life in their Land and people to represent, they will live.

A healthy grown adult Nation can go days without eating and not feel any hunger because the Land gave them strength. Which made sense, because if a semi-immortal being were to eat three meals a day for centuries, the grocery bills would become ridiculously expensive.

The same went for sleeping; a day-long rest and they can stay awake for the next few days with no problem. Even taking a nap was good enough to get going for another day. However, some Nations like to keep a resemblance of a normal life and adopted their people's routine. Either by eating less so they can eat regularly or taking a short nap every day, they found ways to blend into the environment.

North himself did that too. He ate a snack every day or got himself a hearty meal every few days. He also tried to sleep every night, but his mind had a bad habit to jump around without tiring itself out.

Nevertheless, he didn't have trouble following a human's routine before because he was in the comfort of his own home, surrounded by his brothers who were like him. But that wasn't the case anymore.

He wasn't just walking among humans to head for the store to buy a bag of Taytos only to return home fifteen minutes later, he was living among them now. He was interacting with them on a daily basis. He couldn't be left alone anymore.

And it was hard.

Because how could he, a Nation, explain to a human he couldn't eat three full meals a day without making himself ill. Or how he was dying of boredom from staring at the ceiling of his room during the night because he felt no tiredness whatsoever. Even more so with the fact he didn't have access to a telly or his Gameboy to pass the time.

The first day he could explain, he could explain why he was tired and hungry when he first got here. Even for him, such a stressful experience was bound to tire him out. And the piece of bread the clan gave him during the two days of riding barely fed him.

But now that he was rested, it proved to be a challenge to act like a human who ate and slept like everybody else.

Come to think of it, he had only seen Scotland during dinner time and his plate wasn't always full. Not that he wasn't ogling at him from his seat or anything, but for a man as tall as a freaking mountain, the little food on his plate would raise a few eyebrows if you knew where to look.

And North had seen Modern Scotland eat, could eat for a whole damn army if he wanted, so the act was deliberate and calculated. He felt a wee bit envious of his brother. He wished he could skip meals so he can save himself from regurgitating the beef stew from last night. It was a good stew, but way too much for him.

Overall, he looked like a right eejit pretending to be a normal human boy so far. It was a wonder Scotland didn't notice or anybody else, but somehow, he managed it. Emphasis on the somehow.

Because another thing that threw him for a loop was adapting to the current technology. It was one thing to silently lament the lack of light switches around the castle or any electrical device, but the simple request of taking a shower earned him such a baffling confused look from Mrs. Gibson he thought he'd spoken in French.

He didn't even speak French.

It took him an embarrassingly amount of time to explain what he wanted until the poor woman understood him. It got worse when she brought him to what he assumed to be the back of a storage room where a wooden tub stood near a fireplace with buckets beside it.

A part of North's soul left when he realized what was happening.

But the discomfort of feeling dirty won over the absolute misery he was feeling and so he thanked Mrs. Gibson and waited for her to leave before he slapped a hand to his forehead, cursing to himself.

To say it was the most awkward and quickest bath he ever had was an understatement. It was bad enough he felt exposed being a big room with crates and barrels, but the little block that was the soap barely lathered.

At least he smelled like wildflowers instead of a wet dog abandoned in the sewers.

Nevertheless, North survived the week at Kaerndal Castle without drawing too much attention to himself. He managed to keep to himself, either in his room or down in the kitchen with Mrs. Gibson and that was about it.

Sometimes Hamish or another member of the clan would check on him, in a totally not subtle way might he add, as if they thought he was planning to take a horse and run away.

Well, they weren't wrong per se, but they weren't right either on the matter.

He also met the doctor Scotland mentioned the other day, having finally returned from his travels.

Doctor Fergus Graham was a well-accomplished man from Edinburgh with decades of experience. After graduating with a medical degree, instead of joining the order of respected physicians in the city or opening his own clinic, Dr. Graham decided to hit the road in the noble hopes to help the less fortunate he came across.

He would travel from village to village, offering his services in exchange for a warm meal and somewhere to rest. The Highlands was a harsh place to live, whether be the weather or the lack of resources. And so, the doctor made a name for himself and was well sought after amongst the people here.

At least, that was what Mrs. Gibson told him when he asked her about him after seeing the doctor talking with the Laird one morning. He was maybe in his mid-fifties with dark brown hair in a low ponytail and black wired-frame glasses, wearing a brown frock and black slacks.

North actually wanted to talk to him, curious about the technology they use, especially the instruments and equipment, but he wasn't good at starting conversations and the man had looked quite busy that day.

And so, a week had passed and North managed to keep to himself and not stumble into trouble. He succeeded at pretending to be Seán Killough for a week. Well, almost a week.

North poked at the last remaining of his dinner, contemplating if he should shove the food in a napkin and declare he ate it all. It was a broth with chicken and leeks. He wasn't a fan of leeks, but the soup was good enough.

But again, too much food for him.

Most of the people already left the Great Hall, Scotland included, with a few staying to keep chatting. A few of the clansmen, Ian and Malcolm, were here as well, laughing from their table like lunatics over a story Hamish was telling. There was another person with them as well, a young man in his late teens or early twenties with boyish features, tousled brown hair and green eyes. He was laughing too, although more awkward and reserved.

From what North gathered, the young man was the newest member of the clan. If he remembered correctly, his name was Andrew and the nephew of the silent clansman with the scar over his right eye.

"Are you done with your plate, Mr. Killough?"

The boy startled at the voice and looked away from the laughing clansmen. One of the scullery maids, Aileen, was holding a pile of dirty dishes, looking at him expectantly.

"Oh, um, yeah. I'm done, thanks." North quickly piled his dirty dishes and gave them to her. He still wasn't used to be called by his fake name, even less a 'Mister'. No wonder his brothers said they made them feel old.

The young woman took his plate with ease, walking over the rest of the grand table to take the rest. With nothing better to do, he stood up and quietly started helping her.

Just like the other times since he first asked if he could help wash the dishes, Aileen seemed taken back by his help but didn't stop him. He couldn't fathom why she or the other maids reacted that way. It wasn't as if it was hard to pile up dishes and take them to the kitchen to wash them.

Mrs. Gibson almost balked at the idea of him helping in the kitchen, saying he was a guest of the Laird and that boys like him should be outside playing. The comment rubbed him the wrong way, but he held his tongue as he calmly said that he was more than happy to help, that it was a way to thank her for giving him clothes and keep him comfortable. She reluctantly agreed after that but not before insisting to call her 'Mrs. Gibs'.

"I heard you'd be leaving tomorrow," Aileen said as she picked up the cups and piled them on the table below. She sent him a teasing grin. "A shame, it was nice to take a break from washing dirty dishes."

"Um, yeah," North grabbed the utensils and put them in a cup. "Mr. Campbell told me I could leave with the merchant tomorrow morning. He said he frequently travels to Edinburgh."

"Aye, Mr. Milligan is the main trader in these parts. He brings supplies we can't normally find here." The young woman rounded the table, picking up the tall pile of plates. "You can take those back to the kitchen, there's not much else here."

"Alright." North nodded, lifting the pile of trays and holding it steady as he stepped down the dais.

"Thank you, you're a dear."

The boy left the Great Hall, ignoring the boisterous laugh of the clansmen and headed for the kitchen. He carefully descended the stairs and entered the kitchen.

As always, the place was a mess from the aftermath of cooking a meal for dozens of people. A few of the scullery maids were still present, cleaning and tidying the tables. There was no sign of Mrs. Gibson, but it was probably for the best lest she tried to take the dishes and shoo him away.

Balancing the pile of dishes, North slinked between the tables and walked towards the door leading to a smaller room. In there was Lily, another scullery maid with blond hair, who was in the process of arranging the pile of dirty dishes. Two buckets laid near the sink by her feet, washcloths hanging from the rim.

"Um, Miss Lily?" He cleared his throat.

The young woman turned from her task, smiling at recognizing him. "Oh, hi! You can leave it here, lad. I'll take it from here."

He set down the pile of trays in the corner of the table and shifted under his feet, not sure what else to do. It was much too early to head to bed and he rather work than staring at the ceiling in boredom. Aye, he was that desperate to do something.

How did people entertain themselves in this period?

North adjusted his vest awkwardly, realizing he was just standing there like an idiot and looked around for something to talk about until he saw the sink, noticing the lack of water. "Would uh… would you like some help?"

Lily paused in her work, the beginning of a refusal forming on her lips before she sighed, a smile on her face. She arranged the apron around her waist and gestured the two buckets. "If you wouldn't mind fetching water from the well, please." She eyed him as he picked up the two buckets, shaking her head with a small laugh as she went back to arranging the pile of dirty dishes.

North stopped at the doorway leading outside, cocking his head to the side. "Yes?"

She waved him off with a grin. "Nothing. It's just strange to see a guest of Laird Campbell helping a maid. You're quite unusual, Mr. Killough."

North held back a grimace at the formality, plastering a sheepish smile. "Force of habit, I'm afraid. I'm usually the one cleaning up after meals back home, but I'm happy to help."

"And chivalrous too!"

Blushing red, North ducked out of the room, the laugh of Lily fading as he walked down the small path. He shivered at the cool breeze in the air, pulling his sleeves down with one hand.

"What's so weird about helping in the kitchen?" He huffed to himself, though a part of him already knew. The world's view was different here than the one he was used to. Where women's sole purpose was to procreate and take care of the house whereas the man was to provide and protect. It was still present back home, but it was more balanced.

Though he can't say that from experience. Growing up with four brothers, the line between a man's work and a woman's work was a wee bit blurry. But one thing was for sure, Wales would always be the mother hen of the family, followed closely by England.

North rounded the corner but paused when he heard a clatter. He looked at the well down the path, then at the direction of the sound. Another clatter was heard followed by muffled voices.

His curiosity got the better of him as he quietly made his way to the path leading to a shed. Keeping the buckets from knocking against each other, North approached the noise until he spotted a cart. Quickly hiding behind it, he poked his head between two crates.

The sun had long set, but the few torches scattered around the grounds helped give a little bit of visibility.

A man was standing by the shed, towering over something as he growled who knew what. He raised a hand and tried to reach out, but a pale hand blocked him. It was then that North realized with a sinking feeling the man was leaning over a girl and he was drunk. Really drunk.

"-you say, eh? Ye won't regret it." The man chuckled, reaching his other hand to touch her hair, but it was blocked by a basket.

"Let me go." The girl said, her voice wavering ever so slightly as she tried to push the drunk man away. She was clutching the man's hand away from her, brown eyes wide with fear.

"I promise it will be good." The man said darkly, leaning over to sniff her hair and the girl stiffened.

North felt his blood run cold, looking around for everyone for help, but he was alone and so they were. He looked back at the cart, trying to find something to throw at the man but was interrupted by another man's voice.

"What the hell are you doing?!"

North slid behind the cart as someone stomped past him, heading straight for the drunk man. He was older, around the age of Hamish, with dark brown hair and a scowl on his bearded face.

The drunk man looked over his shoulder, still not letting go of the girl and laughed. "Oi, Kendrick, found her wandering where she wasn't supposed to."

Kendrick scoffed, pulling the girl off the man without care, ignoring the pained gasped from her and rolled his eyes. "Piss off, will ya?"

The drunk man only laughed harshly, stumbling away before leaving Kendrick with the girl. North peeked back between the crates, relieved to find her unharmed. The relief turned into shock when the man turned to look at the girl and with a swift hand, slapped her across the face.

The smack against skin echoed into the night, drowning the yelp of the girl.

"You foolish whore," Kendrick snarled, grabbing the young girl roughly by the arm, "what did I tell you about coming here?"

The young girl held her cheek with her eyes downcast, her other hand clutching the basket close to her as if it was a shield.

"If it weren't for yer mother, I would have left him have you! Well, answer me. Why are ye here?" The man spat with a faint slur, not entirely sober himself. The girl said nothing, her whole body trembling. That seemed to anger him more because he raised his hand once more.

North reacted before thinking. He slammed the buckets together to create a ruckus and stumbled into view. Immediately, heated dark eyes locked onto his, the man's scowl deepening even further. The boy straightened under the stare, opening his mouth but the man beat him to it.

"The fuck are ye doin' here?"

North's words died in his throat as he sputtered for a second, before forcing his mouth to work.

"Where's the well?"

The man looked as baffled as he was as they stared at each other for a moment until Kendrick scoffed. "Get lost, boy. Mind yer own-"

"I need water from the well." North interrupted, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. "I'm helping in the kitchen, you see and um… no one gave me a tour of the place so…"

The man narrowed his eyes, eyeing him up and down before glowering. "You're the stray the Laird picked up?"

Holding back a scowl, North held his chin up. "Actually, it was Mr. Hamish who rescued me. Laird Campbell was kind enough to let me stay." He glanced at the girl still within the man's grasp. She peeked through the curtain of brown curly hair in front of her eyes, but when she caught his eyes, she looked at the ground again.

Looking back at Kendrick, the boy made a show of picking up the buckets. "I'll be leaving tomorrow with Mr. Milligan. So as thanks, I'm helping where I can."

"Good riddance. Now go away."

Ignoring the comment, North cocked his head and waited, rocking on the balls of his feet. The man's eyebrow twitched as he spat, "What?"

"Where's the well?" North asked again, holding back a grin at the visible vein pulsing on the man's temple.

A set of footsteps came around the corner as the evening patrol made their way through this part of the castle. Kendrick immediately let go of the girl, scowl still present but not as murderous. He looked back at North, clicking his tongue in irritation.

"Take the left path when leaving the kitchen, the well will be to yer right."

"Thank you, sir, have a good evening." North looked at the girl with a nod. "You as well, Miss."

Scowl deepening, Kendrick said nothing before nudging the girl to start walking. They left the premises, walking past the two guards.

The boy waited a moment before exhaling loudly, slumping his shoulders. He looked down at his hands, noticing they were shaking and he griped the buckets' handle harder.

"That's a disaster avoided." He mumbled, his racing heartbeat slowing down. Before the two guards saw him, he turned and headed for the well.

He hoped the girl was safe. That Kendrick guy seemed like a total arsehole, but at least he managed to help her out.

Northern Ireland looked around the vegetation around him, leaves crunching underneath his black Converses. He shoved his hands into his purple-blue windbreaker's pockets, jumping over a fallen log. He paused, looking to the right then to the left before taking a right, not caring where it led him.

After all, he was just dreaming.

If it wasn't for the random tv fused into a tree playing the movie Home Alone or the vending machine hidden between bushes, it was the sight of Modern Scotland nursing a beer beside him. At least the clothes were from Modern Scotland. It was a bright neon green shirt with little yellow blue patterns that would make your eyes water. His face was younger though, his beard was missing and somehow his sword was sheathed by one of the loops of his jeans with no sign of tearing.

A sight North didn't believe he wanted to see but here he was.

They've been walking for who knew how long and North was starting to get impatient. His brother hadn't said anything yet, only drinking his can of beer that appeared to be bottomless. The boy pushed away a branch, sidestepping around a telephone booth with fish swimming inside of it.

"Are you going to say something?" He asked with a sigh.

Scotland barely glanced at him, looking at the nature surrounding them with disinterest. He absently patted his back pocket before fishing out a zippy lighter. With practiced ease, he started twirling the metallic object between his fingers.

"You tell me, lad. It's yer dream."

North rolled his eyes, kicking a small rock with a huff. He looked around the forest, not minding the oversized snow globes floating near his head. "Where are the others?"

Dream Scotland pointed over his shoulder. "Getting ice cream."

The boy looked back and wasn't surprised to see the forest gone, instead, they were in a park. In the distance, he could see an ice cream stand with a group of people gathered around. He couldn't make out his brothers from here, but he knew they were there. Wales would never pass on the chance to get ice cream.

"So, when are you going back?"

North turned back to face Dream Scotland, eyebrow raised. "What do you mean?"

His brother twirled the lighter, the little flame dancing along as he took another sip of his beer. "You're not here, are you?"

"Um…" North looked back to the ice cream stand with a frown, trying to see his brothers' faces but they were too far. He hoped England would remember to pick his favourite. "I don't know. I know I'm leaving though."

Dream Scotland hummed, flicking the lighter close before pocketing it. He crossed his arms over his chest, pointing at him with his beer can. "You shouldn't."

The boy frowned, unsettled by the younger face of his brother staring at him like that. "Why not?"

A snap of a branch made North looked away as he glanced to his right. The ice cream stand was gone, so was the park. They were once again in the middle of the forest but this time snow started to fall instead of the sunny summer day. He looked back to his brother, only to see him gone too.

Thunder rolled across the sky, the clouds above turning dark and the wind starting to pick up.

"You need to hurry, North."

North turned around, finding his brother leaning against a tree, arms crossed and a cigarette hanging off his lips. He was now wearing the familiar blue-green kilt, brown knee-high boots and grey jacket. A smirk curled on the man's lips, half-lidded grey eyes watching him lazily.

"Hurry for what?" The boy asked with a scowl, not liking the vagueness of it all, but then again it was a dream.

Only a dream.

The smirk turned into a shit-eating grin as Dream Scotland winked at him just as a clap of thunder rattled the ground, like a bullet whipping the air. The boy was startled by the sound, eyes snapping towards the dark sky. His ears rang from the intensity, his heart pounding loudly.

"You'll know, lad, you'll know. Remember, it's time to tend your wounds."

A chill ran down his back at the words as North looked back to his brother only to gasp in horror. He slapped a hand to his mouth to keep the bile from coming up and stumbled back. His brother was staring at him with blank eyes, blood pouring out of his mouth like a stream. His hands were drenched in crimson as blood blossomed from his stomach, staining his shirt beyond recognition.

"Hurry up, Seán," His brother's voice gurgled, choking on each word, "before it's too late."

Another clap of thunder burst through the sky, the falling snow turning into a blizzard. Lightning flashed on Dream Scotland's ashen face, lifeless grey eyes staring at him.

North woke up with a scream, eyes snapping open as he clutched the sheets. He breathed heavily, his heart pounding wildly and sweat running down his back. He looked wildly around the unfamiliar room, body shaking.

A flash of lightning lit up the room through the crack of the curtains, the pitter-patter of rain tapping the window. It took him a minute to reorienting himself, taking gulp after gulp of air.

It felt so real. The dream felt so real.

He patted himself with shaking hands, reaching for the necklace underneath his shirt and clutched it for dear life until it hurt his palm. Shaking his head, he looked around, finally recognizing where he was.

He was in the guest room. The one they gave him when he got here. He was in Castle Kaerndal. Allen Campbell was the Laird of this place. He was also his brother Scotland and he-

The boy took a shaky breath, fiddling the necklace as a distraction. He flinched when thunder rumbled outside, muffled by the window. It was the storm, he convinced himself, it was because of the storm. He looked back at the window, pushing the covers off him. It was still night.

"A… a nightmare. I-It was a nightmare," he whispered, swinging his feet to the floor. The floor was cold as he pushed himself to stand. He was wobbly for a moment, hand clutching the nightstand.

Taking another breath, the boy padded over the window. He pushed the curtain open, watching as rain poured down relentlessly. He rested his forehead against the window, relishing on the cool glass as he waited for the terror inside him to dim.

"A dream… it was just a dream. It's not real," He said, staring blankly at the droplets sliding down the window. "A fecking terrifying nightmare, but it wasn't real. It wasn't real."

He had a wild imagination, he knew that. He was used to having those kinds of nightmares when tensions were high back home. He even got nightmares about the Blitz every now and then and it had been decades. And yet… it was just as terrifying, but it was never like that.

Hurry up, Seán, before it's too late.

North shut his eyes tight, pressing his necklace to his chest, taking deep breaths. "It wasn't real. He's fine. Alistair is alive. He's probably snoring like a monster truck somewhere in the castle."

After what felt an eternity, his heart finally seemed to calm down. A shiver swept through him, the sweat sticking to his shirt now grown cold. Hugging himself, North glanced to the bed. The blankets were twisted as if they went into a mixer, a few pillows scattered on the floor.

There was no way in hell he was going back to sleep.

Grabbing a blanket from the floor, he turned the armchair by the window so it was facing it and sat down. He pulled the blanket around him, lifted his legs to his chest and put his arms on his knees. Resting his forehead on his arm, he breathed deeply and let it out slowly.

It was just a dream.

He stayed awake for the rest of the night as the storm raged on, running his finger over and over the pattern of lines engraved into the stone of the necklace.

"I've packed you some cheese and pastries. I've seen how you gob them right up." Mrs. Gibson said with a grin, wrapping the food with a cloth.

North blushed slightly, shifting under his feet as he scratched the back of his neck. "They're really good."

"It's a family secret." The woman's eyes crinkled in mirth, not pausing as she wrapped a loaf of bread in another cloth. "Just for ye, there's a few extras for the road."

"Thank you kindly, Mrs. Gibs." North smiled sheepishly, eyeing the ever-growing basket the woman was currently filling.

It was the morning, around 7 o'clock according to the last chiming of the grandfather clock. As expected, North hadn't fallen back asleep last night. He had waited by the window until the first rays of sunrise to change out of his nightclothes and went downstairs for breakfast.

If he was more sluggish than usual, Hamish didn't comment on it when he spotted him at the Great Hall. Instead, the man had just huffed saying something along the line 'saves me the trouble to fetch you' and went back to the table the rest of the clan was eating.

North paid him no mind, just went to his usual seat on the raised platform and sat down. He picked a piece of bread, his body going on automatic as he poured himself a glass of water. He wasn't really present this morning, to be honest.

His mind kept replaying the nightmare like a broken record, the gargled words of Dream Scotland ringing in his ears. He would have hoped the dream would fade as the hours went on, but alas, the disturbing images were seared to his mind.

Remember, it's time to heal your wounds.

North shivered at the words, not sure what they meant and afraid to find out. Most of his nightmares made no sense. But it was still disturbing.

Curse his wild imagination.

So deep in thought, he hadn't seen the Laird approach the table and sit on the chair beside him, almost causing North to launch the bread he was holding across the room. After an embarrassing moment of him trying to greet him and keep from ogling the man's chest for any sign of blood, the boy went back to his plate, face flushed to the tip of his ears.

He felt Scotland's gaze on him for a bit before the man turned to talk to Callum who just arrived at the table. North can't say he remembered most of his breakfast after that because he spent most of the time trying to keep from looking at his brother's face in case lifeless eyes would stare back.

So it was with great relief that North finished his food first and left the table with a polite nod before he all but skedaddled out of the room. He was practically sprinting by the time he reached the kitchen and may have greeted Mrs. Gibson with more hysteria he wanted to admit.

Luckily, Mrs. Gibson didn't notice his frazzled arrival and greeted him back with a warm smile. She was already alerted about his departure with the merchant, so as a gift, she had prepared him a basket filled with food.

Touched by the gesture and more than happy for a distraction, North thanked the kind woman and helped her prepare the farewell basket.

Hence, the extra pack of berry-filled pastries. He may not be an avid eater of pastries like Wales, but he had a soft spot for a few ones. Especially apple pies.

"Do you know when Mr. Milligan will get here?" The woman asked, organizing the bundles of food like a complex puzzle.

"Hamish mentioned he had already arrived. He's currently at the village doing restock." He said, watching both worriedly and in amusement as the matronly cook added another bundle of bread as if he was going on an expedition to Alaska.

He didn't know if a week-long trip required that much food, but he was glad he had variety in there. Though, a part of him felt bad that most of the food would probably go to waste. He won't be able to eat all of it, it was way too much for him.

"There, all done." She said with a satisfied nod, covering the full basket with a small cloth. She hefted it off the table and North could've sworn the basket creaked from the weight. "Here."

"Thank you very much, Mrs. Gibs." He smiled, mismatched eyes widening when he had to use more force than expected to lift it. One would think she put rocks in there.

"Not a problem, lad, I want to be sure yer going to be fine during the trip." She waved a hand before snapping her fingers. "Oh, I almost forgot! My granddaughter sent me this earlier this morning. It will go well with the bread."

The woman went to one of the tables and picked something up. She turned around and presented a small jar to him with a smile. "Wildberries jam. Her mother finished the new batch yesterday. She saved a bit for you."

"Oh…" North blinked, feeling his face warm up. He smiled shyly, accepting the jar. "Send her my thanks as well. I'm sure it's going to be good."

"She makes a lot of them, mostly for the Laird," the woman said and leaned closer as if sharing a secret, "he has a penchant for sugary treats, you see."

North fought back a snort, knowing beforehand his brother had a sweet tooth. He and Wales could easily clear out a bakery if they wanted to. It was no surprise then that this Scotland would hoard jam jars for himself.

"Now, ye should gather your coat and go to the front yard. Mr. Milligan should be there soon." She said, shooing him out of the kitchen.

With another thank you for the food basket, North left the kitchen and headed for the room he stayed in all week. Closing the door behind him, he set the basket on the dresser and sat on the armchair by the window. He leaned on the edge of the window and sighed, trying to ignore the nervous flutter in his chest.

Although he was glad he was leaving this place, he was starting to doubt it was a good idea. When he first got here, his first instinct was to leave, to stay away from Scotland to keep the timeline safe or whatever he was doing.

But now…

North rested his head on top of his arms, brows furrowing.

He didn't know what to do now. If he was to leave, what the hell was he going to do once he reached Edinburgh? As he thought before, he doubted there would be a train patiently waiting for him to take him back home.

But if he were to stay, then he would risk exposing himself to Scotland which would then lead to mess up the timeline that would later alter history itself in the future. He could leave and try to find England for help but not only he had no idea where he could be, but he would inevitably put the timeline in danger too by interacting with him.

It was already a huge risk of forcing himself to eat three meals a day and pretending to be a human. Thank God he didn't accidentally speak in Nation in front of Scotland. That would have opened a can of worms no one would be ready to deal with.

"How do you know Nation?" Scotland would ask with narrowed eyes and probably with a sword pointed at him. Again.

"Oh you know," North would say with a laugh, and clearly not pissing himself in this hypothetical scenario, "I picked it up by reading a book. They're easy to come by as a matter of fact!"

Aye, that would go soundly.

However, if he were to think logically. The better choice would be to leave all together and make no contact with people he knew from the present but that would be almost impossible to do because he had no idea how this world work. He can take care of himself just fine, but in a world where lightbulbs weren't even invented yet, that posed to be a problem. From the vague history lessons he remembered, the period he was stuck in wasn't all sunshine and rainbows.

In other words, he was screwed no matter what choice he picked.

To stay here with the semblance of having a brother and ultimately messing the timeline or face the unknown by leaving only to meet his demise at the hands of the harsh lifestyle of the 18th century?

The Northern Irish nation groaned, running his hands through his hair.

God, the impossible dilemma!

He leaned back to the chair, staring at the ceiling. He reached for the necklace under his shirt, his thumb gently running over the little grooves.

In the end, leaving was the best solution as much as he didn't like it. To keep everything and everyone safe. If he were to avoid breaking the rules of time travel, it was the right thing to do.

Besides, Scotland already prepared a ride for him. He doubted the man would suddenly decide to keep him here. From what he gathered, his brother was more than happy to kick him out.

The dream from last night flashed to his mind and North closed his eyes.

Aye, getting out of here was the priority. He was already a risk just been near his brother.

With a renewed resolve, he stood up and grabbed his coat by the bed. A dark brown woollen coat with two big pockets on the front. Mrs. Gibson gave it to him a few days ago, once again telling him it was her grandson's. He felt bad taking some kid's belongings, but she had insisted they don't fit him anymore.

North put it on, taking care of brushing off any lint and adjusted the sleeves. He was saddened he couldn't wear his original clothes but apparently, Mrs. Gibson hadn't had the time to clean them. He didn't have anything in his windbreaker's pockets that could tip him off he was from the future anyway.

Let's just hope the aesthetic and zipper of his windbreaker wouldn't break the time and space continuum. God forbid they managed to read the faded-out wee label of his shirt that revealed it was made in China.

The boy grabbed the basket off the dresser and looked back to his room for the last time. As much it was too fancy for him, it was nice and cozy.

With that thought, North left the room and headed downstairs, the fluttering in his stomach growing with each step. He reached the threshold and stepped outside of Kaerndal Castle. Squinting at the sunny day, he looked around the front entrance. If it wasn't for the damp ground, one wouldn't think there was a huge storm last night.

A few people were lingering by the stables, Hamish being one of them as he showed the newest member of the clan, Andrew, the ropes of tending a horse.

Hamish spotted him by the door, said something to Andrew before walking towards him. The bandage around his shoulder was long gone, but he still kept from making sudden movements with his arm.

"Ready to leave?" Hamish said with a grunt, nodding to the basket he was holding. North nodded, switching hands to keep them from cramping. Mrs. Gibson packed too much food for him.

The man crossed his arms over his chest, looking out at the archway for any sign for the merchant. "If the weather goes well, ye should arrive at the city in a week or so. Yer brother should be there by then."

For a second, North thought he was referring to his brother Scotland, but then he remembered his made-up brother and forced a smile to his face. Yup, can't wait to see Luke again.

Whoever that was.

A second thought came to him and this time, he got a little shy. He never expressed it out loud, but he was grateful for Hamish for rescuing him. Sure, he was grumpy and most of the time complained about fetching North for dinner, but he did save him from that creepy captain.

He should probably say something before he left, it was the least he could do. But how?

Without thinking, the boy thrust his hand out for a handshake but realize a second too late it was the one that was holding the basket.

The man glanced at him in confusion because for everyone, it looked like he was offering a food basket to the man.

So of course, North did the best next thing. He bobbed the basket up and down as if he was shaking its hand instead as he sputtered out, "Thank you for saving me the other day."

To say Hamish looked baffled was an understatement of the century but North went with it, even if his face burned like a furnace. After what seemed to be forever, Hamish snapped out of his shock and scoffed.

"Yer by far the strangest lad I've ever met."

A 'you're welcome' would be appreciated, North thought with a scowl but kept his mouth shut. He didn't trust it to say anything back.

Hamish eyed him up and down before looking away with a roll of eyes. He went back staring at the archway, saying nothing.

As for North, he tried to save the bit of dignity he had left by lowering the basket because he was still holding it out like an idiot. He glared at his boots, waiting for his face to cool down. This moment would forever haunt him, that's for sure.

The clip-clops of a horse caught the boy's attention as he looked up. A cart filled with crates passed through the archway, a man sitting on the front as he greeted one of the guards. He was old, maybe in his late sixties, with a dark grey coat and black trousers. A brown hat sat on long dark grey hair, a puff of beard covering his face.

The horse pulled the cart until it reached the stable and stopped. The man jumped off the cart and patted the horse's neck. He greeted the stablemen present with a wave before heading to the castle's entrance.

"Hamish, long time no see!" The man said with a grin, voice raspy yet warm. "How have ye been?"

"Same as always, Samuel, making everyone's life hell." Hamish said with a smirk, causing the older man to laugh out loud.

"Tha' me boy!" Samuel patted the clansman's shoulder, his browns eyes crinkling in mirth.

"Travels been good? How's business?"

"It's good. Made a good trade with the Mackenzie's. I also brought a fresh crate of parchment for the doctor." Samuel gestured the cart with his thumb. "Reckon he was asking around."

"Aye, he's on a trip at the moment, went to lend a hand to the neighbouring village," Hamish said with a shrug, "he should be back on the next few days."

"Send him my regards for me then, that ointment of his helped my back pains. These old bones need more oil to keep them going nowadays." The old man chuckled, making his point when he cracked his back.

The two men shared another laugh until Samuel caught sight of North. The boy felt himself straightening up, clutching the basket a little tighter. Hamish seemed to realize he was still there because he did a doubletake before rolling his eyes.

"Ach, that's the lad I talked to you about. The one going to the city." Hamish nudged North with his elbow. "This is Samuel Milligan, the main merchant of Inverness and its outskirts."

"Ah yes, Ian told me about him," the older man nodded and looked at North with a smile. "What's yer name, lad?"

This time, North presented the hand that wasn't holding the basket and nodded back, "Seán Killough, sir. It's nice meeting you."

The man cocked an eyebrow at the accent but shook his hand nonetheless. "Irish, aye? Ye wish to go to Edinburgh?"

"Yes, sir. My family lives there, just outside the city. I got separated from my brother after an encounter with bandits." North explained, internally cringing at the cliché story he made up. He gestured to Hamish, "he's the one who found me in the forest. Laird Campbell was generous enough to let me stay until now."

The merchant nodded, his brown eyes sympathetic at the story. "Aye, it can be quite dangerous to wander these parts. Especially now that those presumptuous bastards prance around like they own everything."

Hamish scoffed, crossing his arms as he said, "met a few of them when we found the boy. We took the longer route to get back here so they didn't follow us."

Oh, North realized with a blink, they were referring to the British soldiers he met when he woke up. Yeah, if his history lessons were correct, the relationship between Scottish and English people wasn't at its finest at the moment.

Well… more tense than usual anyway. He can't remember a time they were truly at peace. His brothers were always fighting or arguing over something like some old married couple.

"I'll be more than happy to take ye back to your family then," Samuel said with a kind smile, "I'm going to make a few stops along the way, but we should arrive at Edinburgh in about two weeks. Until then, ye could help me out with the merchandise, how that sounds?"

"I'm more than happy to help, Mr. Milligan. Thank you very much for letting me tag along." North forced a smile, not sure whether to scream at the sky for a two weeks long trip or accept his fate of leaving here for good.

"Ye got everything you need?"

The boy gestured the basket with a nod. "I'm ready whenever you are, sir."

Mr. Milligan patted his shoulder, "Good. I need to do a bit of business here and then we can leave. It's been a while since I've had a passenger with me during my travels. But first, I need to pick up the-"

A set of footsteps approached them as Mrs. Gibson came out from the side entrance of the castle, holding a basket in one hand and a bundle in the other. Her eyes crinkled at the sight of them.

"Mr. Milligan, I caught ye just in time!"

"Ah, Mrs. Gibson, just the woman I wanted to see." The merchant greeted as he took off his hat as nodded politely at her. "How have ye been?"

"All is well, young Jimmy is supposed to arrive with the newest batch of food next month." Mrs. Gibson said as she stopped beside them. She lifted the basket she was holding. "I brought you this too. For the road."

Mr. Milligan sighed almost dreamily, grinning at the cook. "A woman who knows how to win a man's heart, aye? Thank ye kindly."

Mrs. Gibson laughed, forcing a scowl to her face as she waved him off but the mirth in her eyes and the blush on her cheeks said it all. The merchant accepted the hefty basket, giving her his thanks once more. Mrs. Gibson then turned to North, presenting him the bundle.

"To keep you warm on the road, lad." She said with a soft smile. "It gets quite chilly during the night."

North blushed at the kind gesture, taking the thick blanket with him. "Thank you, Mrs. Gibs. Truly. This is more than I need."

A little more and she was going to turn into Ireland. His brother always got worried about the weather and would complain like the old man he was about the cold. The times North was forced to wear like a million layers just to go outside when it was only 10°C degrees was ridiculous.

The middle-aged woman reassured him it was a fine and wished him a safe trip. He all but stiffened when she gave him a bone-crushing hug before letting him go. Mr. Milligan gestured the cart with a hand. "You can put yer belonging at the front. I won't be long."

North nodded, still a little flustered about the hug and quickly headed for the cart. The two stablemen present paid him no mind as he went around the horse who was currently drinking from the trough.

As he set down the basket and blanket on the front seat, the reality of what he was about to do came crashing down onto him. He felt anxiety stir in his stomach as he looked up towards Kaerndal Castle.

This was it, then. He would leave this place and face the unknown for the sake of keeping the timeline safe. He didn't have a plan once he arrived in Edinburgh but he'll cross that bridge when he got there.

A pang of sadness filled his chest as another thought came in. He didn't get to say goodbye to Scotland. Sure, he wasn't the brother he knew but at least it was a familiar face. The least he could do was give his thanks to the Laird for helping him out.

No matter, North took a deep breath, it was better that way. Keep his distance. Less chance to say something he would regret.

"Boy."

North snapped out of his thought as he looked and immediately soured at the sight of Callum. What did he want? From the dark looks and glares he got all week, he was the least likely person he wanted to see. North didn't know what was the man's problem and his hostility towards him. From the first day, there was a constant scowl on the old man's face just like he was doing now.

Callum approached him, nodding in greeting at Mr. Milligan before stopping in front of North. With a terse voice, he said, "The Laird wants to speak with ye."

"Whatever for?" North frowned, though a part of him was happy he would get to see his brother from the past one last time.

"That's an order, no questions asked," Callum said before he turned his back and walked away.

Glaring at the man's back, North sighed and rubbed his face. That didn't sound ominous at all. He looked for the merchant and once he spotted him, quickly made his way towards him. "Um… Mr. Milligan, when are you going to leave? Laird Campbell wants to talk to me."

"That's alright, lad, take yer time," the man smiled, gesturing the cart over his shoulder, "I have a few things to move around. Go on, dinnae keep the Laird waiting."

Thanking the merchant, North begrudgingly followed Callum inside the castle. He grew nervous when the man led him to a staircase by the kitchen going down, wondering what Scotland wanted to say there instead of his office.

They went through a bunch of corridors and North could only describe the place as a basement or even a dungeon with the dark and damp atmosphere. A knot formed in his stomach. Don't tell him they were taking him in a cell filled with torture instruments.

They stopped in front of a dark metal door at the end of the hall. Inserting a key, the man pushed the door open, the groan of the old metal resonating all over.

North looked back at the man and warily stepped inside. He waited for his eyes to adjust with the poor lighten room and found he was in some sort of a kitchen. The place was large with small windows on top of the left side and shelves on the right with two large tables in the middle. A fireplace was at the far end with an armchair chair sitting in the corner. He spotted a cot tucked in the corner by the fireplace.

"This is the doctor's surgery as he calls it. He goes on many trips across the land," Callum said, "Laird Campbell offered this room as his permanent quarters as thanks for his service."

Curiosity piqued by the information, North wandered around the room, now noticing it wasn't, in fact, a kitchen but a laboratory of some sort. From beakers to test tube racks, the room had a pungent smell from the batch of herbs hanging from the ceiling.

A twinge of longing stirred inside him. This place looked like the medieval version of his lab back home. There was even a similar yet outdated distillation display on one of the tables.

"Dr. Graham is a busy man around here. Goes out for days visiting the neighbouring villages." Callum explained, watching the boy skimming through a book with watchful eyes. "Because of that, he rarely uses his workplace but does come here from time to time."

You could tell by the layer of dust gathered on the equipment, North thought with a frown. He always made sure to keep his equipment clean and seeing the poor state the place was ruffled his feather the wrong way. He couldn't even tell what was inside the jars stored on the shelf.

"That's interesting, thanks for showing me, I guess," North said, forcing himself to look away from the rows of flasks on a bookshelf. Any other moment, he would have found this place amazing to explore, curious about the kind of technology they use despite its untidiness but right now, he had other pressing matters. "I really must be going, Mr. Milligan is about to leave."

"He could use some help. You mentioned you have some knowledge for this."

North froze mid-step, a sinking feeling settling in his stomach at the implication. "But I'm leaving."

"No, you're staying," Callum said, and it was then the boy realized the man purposely put himself between him and the door.

"Why can't I leave, Scotland said I could go-" North stumbled back when the older man was suddenly in front of him, staring at him with cold blue eyes.

"You are forbidden to address the Laird in such manner, boy, you call him Sir or Laird Campbell, is that understood?" Callum sneered, eyes narrowing, "And my reason is simple, I dinnea believe a word ye say."

Snapping out of his shock, North glared back as he straightened his shoulders. "Why? Do you believe I'm a spy for the English? Is that why you kept glaring holes to my skull the second I got here?"

What kind of stupid conclusion was that? Of all the things the old man could think was-

"Yer staying, boy."

Like a bucket of ice poured on his back, North stiffened at the voice coming from the door. He looked over Callum's shoulder, finding Scotland's imposing form standing there. For a flash second, horror speared through North's heart because he was staring at lifeless grey eyes.

But then, Scotland stepped inside the room, the sunlight revealing a very much alive expression and no sign of blood on his person. His eyes were cold but alive.

The words finally seemed to register as North snapped out of his shock. "What?"

"Yer staying here."

Everything came crashing down on him when he realized what was going on and North felt his heart racing like crazy. No, this could not be happening. He needed to leave! He can't stay here and risk messing up the timeline. Why the hell would Scotland would-

The boy froze as his eyes widened, gaping at the man. "You think I'm a spy too."

"No, I believe you have secrets," Scotland said as he stopped in front of him, staring him down with dark eyes. "Secrets that could put this Land, this castle and these people in danger but until I know for sure, you will remain here… as my guest."

Without letting him say anything back, the nation turned around and headed for the door with Callum just a step behind.

Snapping out of his shock, the boy clenched his fists and gritted out, "By that you mean your prisoner."

Scotland stopped at the doorway, looking over his shoulder with a smirk on his face. "Only if you try to leave."

With that, the door clanged shut, the click of the lock leaving the message loud and clear. North rushed for the door, knowing it was futile to try the handle as he banged against the metal door.

"Let me go! You can't keep me here!"

Fading footsteps was his only answer and the Laird and his right-hand man left him alone in the basement. North let out a curse and kicked the door in frustration. He looked back at the room, heart pounding as the gravity of the situation finally dawned on him.

He won't be leaving for Edinburgh. He won't be leaving at all.

The boy slid down to the floor with his back against the cold metal door, heart pounding in his chest and hands shaking.

He can't go home anymore.

He was imprisoned by his own brother.

Cardiff, September 9, 1997

Wales was getting worried.

More worried than usual anyway. There was always something to be worried about with him.

Did he turn off the oven before he went to work? Did he bring a second umbrella with him in case the first one got blown away or stolen? Did he refill his toilet paper holder stand? Did he need to pass by Tesco to buy a carton of milk? Did he take out the garbage on the right day?

Such trivial things for others, but very disconcerting for him. His brothers teased him constantly about it, calling him ridiculous or as Scotland dubbed him 'an unhinged overthinker'. They were clearly wrong. He wasn't that. He just liked to be organized, made things easier for his routine.

However, this time he wasn't worried about keeping things in order and he had good reasons. Good logical reasons his brothers were too stubborn to consider.

He swore he was the sanest person in the family.

Wales turned off the tap and grabbed a tea towel to dry his hands, the sink clean of dirty dishes. He went to his fridge, looking at the dragon-themed calendar hanged by little fruit magnets. He read the dates with a frown, tracing a finger over the little notes scribbled down.

The winds were right. It was too long.

It had been three days since he got back from the two weeks-long meeting abroad with England. Surprisingly, it wasn't as catastrophic as he thought it would. He had heard stories from both Ireland and England about how World meetings proceeded, and he was horrified. It was basically World War three.

It was a good thing this meeting was with the Commonwealth members only; he wouldn't have survived the chaotic energy of the whole world.

Although there had been some shenanigans during the meeting such as Australia, despite being the host, decided to let a herd of emus in the conference room, almost recreating the Emu war. Or the heated argument between Seychelles and Barbados on who had the better beaches, almost catapulting chairs across the room if it wasn't for England intervening. Canada actually had to restrain a usually calm New Zealand back from tackling South Africa when he insulted The Hobbit.

Wales had felt offended too, almost gasping out loud when South Africa said it, but he restrained himself by clutching his chair. Because who would dare insult the greatest book ever written in human history.

But overall, it went well as far as a meeting between nations could get.

It was a nice change of scenery, an opportunity to take a breath of fresh air. The tensions were slowly growing between his brothers, so palpable he could cut it through with a butter knife. And he knew better than try to diffuse said tension.

Plus, it felt good meeting his brother's former colonies and catch up with them, not to mention the relief of being recognized and not being asked "Wales? Where is that? Are there whales or something?"

He admired Canada's tolerance at being easily forgotten.

It was on the first few days of the trip when Wales was resting in the hotel room he was sharing with England after an exhausting meeting that he got a call from Scotland. He immediately grew worried when Scotland told him their little brother crashed over his house and refused to get out of his room for two whole days.

Wales had asked questions about his wellbeing, wondering the reason for North's sudden appearance. He hadn't like it when Scotland half-reassured that it was under control and hung up before Wales could say anything else. England tried to call back, but his older brother apparently decided to throw his phone out of the window for he never answered. That worried Wales even more.

It wasn't that he didn't trust Scotland's word, it was just that his older brother lacked… tact shall we say when facing delicate situations. He wasn't the most graceful with words and had a habit of saying the opposite of comforting. And dealing with North was like walking on thin ice.

North had always been a curious child, asking questions whenever he could. He would wonder about an object and test it for himself to see how it worked, something that made his brothers' life impossible. They had to practically hide any screwdriver or tool to keep him from dismantling the radio when he was younger. It got worse when North found his passion for chemistry.

Wales always checked his shampoo bottle to make sure it was shampoo and not hair dye ever since England came out of the bathroom screeching like a banshee when he saw himself in the mirror with bright blue hair.

But nowadays, it was a gamble to guess the mood of his little brother. He was still bright and sharp-tongued, albeit shy when around strangers, but there were times where his temper got the better of him. Bout of anger and bitterness popping out of nowhere. The fact he shared the same stubbornness as the rest of the family didn't help his case.

Wales wished he could help his little brother, but with a delicate matter such as this, where common ground couldn't be found amidst the anger and pain, it was hard. So the best he could do was to offer comfort when needed.

He knew North could take care of himself, but as much as he was a Nation, he was still a child. A fourteen years old boy who seemed to attract trouble the second he stepped into a room.

Nonetheless, Scotland had said North will call him when the boy returned home — a habit they forced North to adopt ever since he forgot to tell them he went on a two days trip for a science conference on his own. He had them looking for him like madmen before he called them to ask how much it was to pay for a hotel room.

But the call never came.

For the rest of the trip in Australia, neither Wales nor England got a call from the lad, not even when they returned home three days ago. Wales had tried to call him several times, but the boy never answered.

It grew even more worrisome when he noticed the winds were acting up, trying to tell him something was off. And he knew better than shrug off a warning from them. As cryptic as they were, the winds knew more than anyone.

The Welsh nation grabbed the phone on the wall and dialled a number, putting the device against his ear as he scribbled down a note on the calendar to remind himself to buy a new lightbulb for his lamp in the living room. He accidentally short-circuited it the other day when he got startled by the mailman knocking at his door.

Wales waited patiently as the rings followed, knowing his brother always picked up in the last second just to spite the caller.

"Aye?"

"Yr Alban." Wales greeted coolly.

"What is it, now?" Scotland sighed in annoyance, picking up on his tone. "Did ye misplaced yer sheep plushie or something?"

He ignored the jab and went on, "Is North still over to your house?"

"That lil' shit..." Scotland muttered irritably over the crackle of the line before saying, "No, I sent him home a week ago. He dinnea called, did he?"

"No, I've been calling him over the last few days, and he… he hasn't answered. I'm getting worried." Wales frowned, pacing up and down the hallway. "Lloegr tried, but it went straight to voicemail. Are you sure he took the train?"

"Of course, he did!" Scotland said a bit too quickly.

"Did you see him board the train?"

There was a silence and Wales knew he hit the nail when the Scottish nation admitted meekly, "I may have dropped him off two hours before the departure."

"Scotland!"

"Wot? Don't blame me, I had a meeting with my leader in the morning. The lad can look after himself. It isn't his first time taking the train!" Scotland argued defensively. "He's just sulking like always. Ye know how he gets after a fight. He becomes a hermit even worse than ye."

The Welshman bit his lip. It was true that North tended to disappear for a few days after an argument or was just tired of their presence. With the situation going on, it was bound to happen more than once. He understood how exhausting and stubborn their brothers can be, Wales himself liked to keep a solitary life though he did try to reach out to them every once in a while.

But North would have eventually answered his call, brooding or not. He knew Wales only wanted to check upon him. And according to Scotland, the fight was a big one. Big enough for North to leave his own house to crash over at Scotland's.

He wondered what the fight was about. He had a few guesses, but a part of him knew it wasn't the usual argument. Something else happened between Northern Ireland and Ireland.

"I'll call Iwerddon, maybe he can have a look," Wales said after a pause. He would find his answers on his own.

A laugh came from the other side of the line. "Good luck with that, Dyl. The reason the twig got here in the first place was because of him."

"I'll manage," Wales muttered before bidding goodbye to his brother. He wished he could check on North himself, but the Commonwealth meeting had him accumulate a pile of paperwork that was due soon.

He looked down at his phone, pressing his lips tight. It would indeed be a hassle to talk Ireland through, especially for what he was about to ask.

Everyone thought England was the stubborn one of the family, but they were completely wrong. Ireland was the epitome of stubbornness. It took a lot to convince him, even more, to change his mind.

Wales dialled Ireland's number and waited for his brother to pick up, the side of his mouth curling up.

Good thing Wales was how his brothers fondly dubbed him: The 'Black Sheep Mailer'.

A few hours later, Belfast, September 9, 1997

"How Wales managed to get his hands on that tape, I will never know, but he bet I'll be whooping his arse soon enough," Ireland grumbled as he parked his car on the driveway. He got out and slammed the door closed with a bit too much force than necessary. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and glared at the two-story light blue house.

This was grand. Really.

Not only he got a fresh new pile of paperwork from his boss about an over-complicated agreement, but now, he was forced to do a three-hours-long drive all the way up to Belfast to check on his pain-in-the-arse little brother. He was already in a sour mood because he was in the middle of reading a 253 pages long bill that was due tomorrow.

Northern Ireland had to decide to be a moody hermit again.

He nodded to a passing family, plastering a smile when they waved at him in greeting. The smile fell right off when they turned around the corner, a scowl on his face at the thought of his morning.

"Why does it have to be me? I have better things to do," Ireland had said over the phone tersely, putting down the toast he was eating for breakfast. "I have a meeting in an hour!"

"You're the closest, Ciarán. You can go after." Wales reasoned over the phone, with a ridiculous amount of worry that made Ireland crinkle his nose in irritation. "It's just a quick look, that's all I ask."

"Oh aye, just a wee look. What if I say no, eh? Will you bore me with a poem or somethin'?" The Irishman rolled his eyes before scowling. "I don't keep track of his every move, Jaysus! In case you weren't aware yet, I'm no longer part of the UK. That's your job, not mine."

There was a silence on the other side of the line, and for a moment Ireland thought the other man hung up but then Wales took a long breath. "The day of Beltane 1983," he said lightly, "there once was a drunk man who danced under the stars and said to himself 'Could I ride the horse statue while wearing a pink stripped-"

"Where did you hear that?!" Ireland choked out in mortification as his face got bright red.

"That's for me to know and you to find out," was all Wales said, the sneaky little bastard. "If you want the tape, all you need to do-"

"You can barely make out the telly," the older brother sputtered in disbelief. "How the hell did you figured out videotapes?"

"- is to check on North. Do we have a deal?"

"You're by far the evilest of evil villains I've ever known. How are you even my brother?"

"I have my ways, Iwerddon," Ireland's eyebrow twitched at the obvious smirk in his brother's voice. "So, will you see-"

"Ceart go leor, ceart go leor, I'll go check on him after my meeting." Ireland sighed irritably, pinching the bridge of his nose and wondering since when Wales decided to act like the eldest brother.

That was his job.

"Pleasure to do business with you, Ireland," Wales said brightly before hanging up.

And that was the beginning of his shitty day. To think the world believed Wales was a gentle-hearted person. Humpf, more like the devil in disguise.

Ireland walked up the porch and rang the bell, tapping his foot impatiently. He swore if North came out of this door right this instant, he'll throttle him for making him waste three hours of his life. He didn't have time for childish tantrums.

The last thing he wanted was to step back inside to the place of their latest fight.

His mood turned even sourer at the thought of it and he huffed angrily as he rang again. He got no answer. Guess he'll go for option two: pound the door until North answered. No need to be polite when you were blackmailed to come here in the first place.

"Oi, Seán, open the feckin' door!" Ireland called out, using his human name in case someone nearby heard him. "Time to come out of your hermit cave. I don't have all day!"

Ireland looked to the sky with an exasperated sigh when he was met by silence and peeked in the front window where the living room was. Either the lad wasn't home, or he was sleeping like a log upstairs, though the latter was unlikely since North was a light sleeper. Unless he pretended to be asleep just to spite him.

"I'm warning you, lad, open up or I'll kick down the door," he warned, giving a few more knocks. "Don't think I'll hesitate!"

Nothing.

"God, you're insufferable," he huffed as he walked over to the window. He felt under the windowsill for the spare key, quickly finding the little magnet that kept the key from falling. He took the key and walked back to the door, grumbling to himself, "I would already be at home by now, having a pint with the lads but noooo, I'm up here forced by my evil wee brother to check on the squirt who won't answer the bloody door. No respect for the eldest, really."

He inserted the key and with a click, Ireland pushed the door open. He was met with the darkened hallway.

"North, are you here? Shout if you're alive!" Ireland called out, closing the door behind him. He looked at the shoe rack, noticing the pair of black converse North always wore were missing. He wasn't home, then. Maybe on errands or hanging at the park though he did spot the lad's bicycle by the porch.

The Irishman checked the living room first and then the kitchen, turning on the lights as he walked by. He stood in the middle of the kitchen, a frown on his face.

He hadn't stayed long after North dramatically stormed out of the house. He left on the same day actually, he too, angry and fuming after their fight. So, after grabbing his stuff and making sure to lock the house, he drove back to Dublin.

Now, he knew North tended to be a messy person, as every young teenager was bound to do, but the fact he still hadn't washed the pile of dirty dishes by the sink was crossing the line.

Didn't he know the number of flies and ants he would attract with that?

With a huff, Ireland opened the window by the sink to let fresh air in and washed the pile of dirty dishes. Once it was done, he left the kitchen to head upstairs. He walked down the hall and with no sense of decorum, he barged in North's bedroom, not caring to knock if the boy was there or not.

Only to find it empty as well.

He looked around the light turquoise walled room, wrinkling his nose at the poor state. North seemed to have a passion for making a conjunction of styles that didn't even match. On one side was the bed with several corny science puns posters taped on the wall. A periodic table was on the adjacent wall, hanged by stickers of molecule structure. Beside the bed was the desk which was piled with who knew what.

On the other side of the room was what he could call the 'rustic' section, with vintage objects such as old hourglasses and WW2 binoculars. There was a bookcase where North kept half his snow globe collection (the other half was on top of the fireplace in the living room) and other weird knick-knacks. There was another desk, a bigger one that was dubbed the 'Amazing Science Desk' according to the little post-it stuck on the desk lamp. A bunch of science equipment took over the surface of the desk, scribbled notes scattered around. From the weak grasp of North's writing, it was something to do with a storm glass.

Ireland felt a flash of irritation run through him. He couldn't believe his old house got turned into a science experiment playground.

He walked out of the room and glanced at the door across the hallway.

God forbid he stepped in where his office used to be which was now transformed into 'North's Evil Lair' as Scotland called it ever since he became the unfortunate victim of a smelly gooey shower. No one dared to comment about his half-shaved hairstyle later that day after a trip with the hairdresser.

For at least five minutes, until Ireland pointed out he looked like he stumbled over a treadmill made of scissors. The bruise on his shoulder for that comment was expected but it was worth it.

Ireland looked at the hooks screwed to the door, spotting a lab coat and a pair of protective goggles. Above the hooks was a note that said: 'Don't be an eejit, ya eejit!'

At least the boy had a minimum of self-preservation, he thought dryly.

He checked the guest room, finding the same way he left it before checking the bathroom. He was met with the same result.

Ireland went back to the living room, ignoring the unpleasant memory of the last time he was here. He spotted the blinking red light flashing of the landline phone on the lamp table and clicked his tongue in annoyance. Don't tell him North purposely ignored that blasted machine? He pressed play and listened to the monotone voice of the machine.

"Eleven new messages. First new message…Hey, Norn, how are you? Just calling in to check on you. You didn't call when you got back from Scotland's and-"

"Stop being a child, North. When one of you calls you, you must answer them. Why haven't you answered Wales or me? I doubt your so-called argument with-"

He skipped the next five, being from both Wales and England, and stopped when a new voice came through the machine.

"Good morning, this is Glasgow's Buchanan Bus Station, and we are calling to inform you we found a backpack under the name of Seán Aindréas Kirkland. If you know any information about the owner or wish to reclaim the belongings, please contact us by the following number 0141 333 3708. All lost items are contained for the next 14 days following this call. Have a good day."

The message ended with a beep as another one started, but Ireland wasn't paying attention anymore as he stood frozen. His mind went racing with questions, not liking where this was going.

He checked the date of the message and cursed out loud at finding it dated back to September 3rd. That was a week ago.

Pushing the knot of worry away, Ireland headed back to the kitchen. He opened the fridge and found there was little to no food left, other than the leftover pizza they had on that evening and two jars of unknown substances labelled 'Test one' and 'Test 24' which made the Celtic nation question the boy's concept of food poisoning.

He closed the fridge and looked around, now the unease feeling turning into alarm. Come to think of it, he noticed the kitchen showed no sign of recent activity, hell the whole house. There were no added dirty dishes to the pile when he washed them, they were the same as before.

He checked the pantries and even the trash bin for clues. Ireland knew for a fact that North always kept his pantry full, either with crisps or sugary cereal but there were always full. Being a growing boy, his stomach was practically a bottomless pit despite eating every few days. But alas, nothing had been moved.

An idea popped up as Ireland rushed to the front door, hoping he was wrong. He opened the door and checked the mailbox.

His heart spiked in anxiety at the sight of the pile of mail. He pulled them out, looking at each of them with more trepidation as realization dawned onto him.

The lad hadn't come back home. He never left the train station.

Ireland looked back at the cold, empty house, heart sinking with dread.

Northern Ireland hadn't stepped a foot in here in the past week.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5

Me and My Big Gob

Kaerndal Castle, September 12th, 1743

The door burst open with a bang, jerking Northern Ireland awake as Hamish strode into the room like a man on a mission.

"You're on kitchen duty today." The man said, pulling the curtains wide open without hesitation.

North hissed like a cat, eyes squinting at the morning light filling his vision. He pulled the blanket over his face, only to yelp when Hamish snatched the blanket off him, the cool air hitting his skin like a slap.

"Get a move on!" The man said impatiently, glaring at him like he was the biggest burden in the universe.

"I'm up, I'm up!" North grumbled, sitting up as he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. He peeked at the window and cursed. The sun was barely out.

"Ten minutes or you get another bucket of cold water." Hamish huffed before leaving the room just as quickly as he came.

North waited for the retreating footsteps to disappear before flopping back on the bed with a long-suffering groan, cursing his life for the umpteenth time.

Scotland was an arsehole. A huge arsehole.

If he had a football with him, he would kick it at his brother so hard, the man wouldn't be able to walk for days.

Though, a part of him shouldn't be surprised by this. The man found joy in the misery of others.

Someone tripping in the middle of the street? He'll laugh. Witnessing a breakup in a café? He'll be thanking them for the show. Finding the last Tunnock's teacakes in the house? He'll eat it in front of you with a shit-eating grin on his face. A kid dropping their ice cream and he'll be cackling like a lunatic. Schadenfreude was his best friend.

Yet, North was completely floored to discover his brother was an even bigger arsehole in this period.

It all started back when he was locked in the basement on the day he was supposed to leave for Edinburgh. Which by itself was as shocking as it was unexpected because, for godforsaken reasons, Scotland deemed him suspicious enough to keep him here when-

Well, okay, he had to admit, his brother was kind of right to be suspicious of him, but for the wrong reasons! A spy for the English?! Where did Callum get this idea from? Did he look like a double agent working for the MI6? He was just a kid! And what kind of shitty move was to tell someone they were free to go only to be thrown into a dusty basement on the day they were supposed to leave?!

Trust Scotland to be a complete tosser.

But back on track, North stayed in the basement for who knew how long until Hamish came to fetch him to drag him back to his room. Because apparently, going from a guest of Kaerndal Castle to not-so-much-of-a-guest of Kaerndal Castle meant you go under house arrest.

North could do nothing but be dragged to the second floor where his 'guest room' was, but he did voice his displeasure about the situation.

"Haud yer wheesht, boy," Hamish hissed as he swatted North on the back of his head, dragging him along the hallway.

"No, I won't stop until someone explains to me why I can't leave!" North fumed, stumbling after the man's rapid pace. "Do you honestly think I'm a spy?"

"I dunno, boy, I'm just following the Laird's order, now be quiet." The man said as he was brought to the room. The man pushed the door open and shoved North inside before promptly closing it, locking it and left.

North didn't sleep much that night, too angry and high-strung to rest. Sure, his situation could have been much worse like being thrown into a dungeon or something, but the principle of being locked in a room like a freaking prisoner made him angry.

He tried picking the lock but then realized he did not know how to do it nor had a picklock on him, prompting him to throw one of the bazillion pillows available at the wall in frustration. He was tempted to throw the chamber pot at the window for the hell of it but resisted since he didn't want to find out if said chamber pot was filled. In the end, he spent the night pacing around the room, fuming and cursing his brother.

The fear of unravelling time and space continuum was ever-present, but the anger smothered it all. That simmering anger never died down. Not even hours later or the day after. No, sir.

The next few days consisted of playing the role of Rapunzel stuck in her tower. Hamish would first fetch him in the morning – the first time with a bucket of icy water when North was too slow to wake up – bring him to the table with the clansmen, which was for the best because he would have glared at Scotland the whole damn time if he were to eat at the grand table. The man would then bring him back to his room for the night, locked the door and repeat it the next morning.

And if that wasn't bad enough, North was tasked to perform several chores throughout the day. Some of them were simple enough such as helping Mrs. Gibson bringing her baskets of fresh aliments, fetch water from the well or sweep the entrance's floor. Which to be fair, he didn't mind doing it before because he volunteered the first time, but now that he was forced to do it pissed him off.

Because being a 'guest' meant to work as a servant in a castle. And he wasn't even paid for his work!

Mrs. Gibson was confused when he saw him that next morning, but after Hamish explained the situation, at least a version of it because he doubted he'd straight out said North was unofficially under house-arrest for suspicion of being a spy, the middle-aged woman nodded and asked North if he wanted to help wipe tables. He earned a few more confused looks from the maids when they saw him scrub the end of a cauldron, but one look from Mrs. Gibson had them sent back to work.

But if he was honest to himself, despite the unfairness of it all and the rude awakenings from Hamish, he didn't mind the work much because it served as a distraction for him and his predicament. It gave him time to cement his cover story, expand his ridiculous background of his fictional farming family. He only hoped his story made sense in an 18th-century context.

Strangely enough, he hadn't seen Scotland ever since the revelation in the basement and for that, he was forever grateful. Seeing his face would have wanted him to punch that smug smirk off the man's face.

However, even though the Scottish nation wasn't present in the last few days, he did do something that made North's life more miserable than it already was.

Whenever he left the kitchen to fetch something for Mrs. Gibson, there was always someone following him in the distance, watching his every move. Sometimes it was one of the clansmen, but most of the time it was Hamish. His ever-annoying watchman.

And Northern Ireland was going to explode if it kept going.

He knew they were doing it before, but it got worse this past week. The worst part was they thought he hadn't noticed them lurking around him like some creepy stalkers. Even without his higher senses, he could spot them a mile away: in the corner of the kitchen table where the staff eat, near the front gate, around the corner of a hall, behind a cart as he fetched water in the well.

On the third day, the boy had enough of this ridiculous passive cat and mouse chase and confronted Hamish when he found him 'casually' hanging around the well.

"Are you seriously following my every move like a stalker?!" North demanded with a huff as he put down the bucket to cross his arms.

The man raised an eyebrow with a shrug. "No, I'm not. Just taking a wee stroll."

"Did Mr. Campbell send you to spy on me?" The boy gritted out. "Are you hoping to find my evil master plan so you can report it, huh? Prove Old Man Git I'm a bleedin' spy?"

"Ye should learn to respect yer elders, boy," Hamish warned with a scowl, "I'm just here to be his eyes and ears, so ye better watch out what ye say."

"Thank God, you're not his brain too. The world would fall into chaos." North muttered with a roll of eyes as he picked up the bucket. He headed back to the castle, calling over his shoulder. "You can say to the Laird my most sincere apologies for not being who he thinks I am."

It did little for North because Hamish was still the one who unlocked the door every morning and followed him like gum stuck under his shoe that couldn't scrape it off whatever he did.

And so, that was his life at the moment. Constantly being bossed around by Hamish because Scotland said so.

North forced himself to get out of bed, shuffling like a zombie to the dresser to change his clothes. After splashing his face with water from the basin, he sat on the armchair to tie his boots. As much as he wanted to do nothing but sleep for a decade, he didn't want to be drenched like a cat with icy water. One time was enough, thank you.

He grabbed the hand mirror, ignoring the bag under his eyes as he ran his hand through his hair in the hope of fixing the rat nest that was his bedhead. Once he looked somewhat presentable, he grabbed his blue vest and left the room.

"Scotland, you're the freaking worst." He muttered to himself as he headed downstairs, rubbing his eyes tiredly. "When I get back, there's gonna be a bucket of water with your name on it."

As usual, the kitchen was ridiculously busy, even at the break of dawn. North quickly learned in the past few days that Mrs. Gibson was a woman to be feared when she was in her element. All the kitchen staff worked like ants and if one of them made a mistake, they would be chewed out until they burst into tears. Yet, despite her demanding demeanour, she was a compassionate and good-hearted woman when she wanted to be (not without giving a small scolding like when North slipped and tore a bag of flour open, spilling a cloud of white all over him).

It was mind-boggling to watch them work, but since North was still in the process of waking up, he paid no mind to the chaos. He bypassed a scullery maid chopping vegetables and rounded a table, where a grumbling Mrs. Gibson was in the middle of whisking eggs, a plethora of bowls scattered around her.

"Morning, Mrs. Gibs," North said with a yawn, covering his mouth with his hand. Why did people willingly wake up at ungodly hours?

"Good morning, lad." The woman spared him a glance, eyes softening at the sight of him. Yeah, he probably looked like he hadn't slept in days. At least he was able to speak, unlike Wales who was silent until he got himself a cup of tea or coffee. Before then, you would never get a response from him or even dare to speak to him unless you want a withering glare first thing in the morning.

"There are fresh bannocks and jam over there." She gestured at the back of the kitchen where the staff usually eat. "When you're done, you will help Lily cleaning the silverware."

North nodded dutifully and went to the back room. True to her word, on the table was a plate of fresh bannocks, a flat quick bread made of oatmeal and a jar of jam. After spreading a generous amount of wild berry jam on the rather bland bread, North sat down and nibbled on his breakfast.

While he was slowly getting used to being Seán Killough, North still kept a careful eye for a way out. He hadn't given up on finding a way to get back to his time, but being constantly watched posed to be a problem.

Had he managed to leave for good last week; he would have had the liberty of looking for answers, even if it was the most dangerous of options. Though, the question of where to look was also a problem. He can't imagine explaining a poor fellow he was from the future and needed help getting home by a magic train or something.

In a way, he was safer staying here even if it sucked. He had shelter and food, with questionable hygiene hazards, but a place to stay, nonetheless. The only problem, at least the bigger and obvious one, was how to deal with Scotland.

Scotland didn't trust easily and was an arsehole by nature. He knew North was lying and hadn't confronted him about it yet which in a way made sense because Modern Scotland was the same. His brother always took the time to collect information before presenting his case with the evidence he found.

People make the mistake of thinking Scotland was an impulsive person because of his fiery temper, and his brother made sure to take advantage of that misconception. It was what made it insufferable to argue with him. The bane of England and the blessing of Scotland.

However, given the circumstances, North was at an advantage this time. He had something Scotland didn't and he planned on using it well.

Knowledge.

North knew Scotland or at least a version of one, but from what he gathered so far, both shared similarities. Both think and act the same… most of the time.

With that in mind, as much as he found the accusation ridiculous, he would play the game for the time being. He would leave hints by saying bits of his cover story, so his brother would come to the conclusion he really was a normal kid from a farming family and not a spy for the English. He rather let his brother believe that, instead of discovering he came from the future.

Though, a part of him felt guilty at manipulating his brother like that. Giving him what he wanted, knowing it was all a ruse. It didn't feel good to blatantly lying to him even if it was a necessity. Going undercover for the sake to hide his identity and blending with the environment.

North paused mid-chew on the piece of bannock, blinking at the realization.

Maybe he was a spy, just for entirely other reasons. He was gathering information not for the English, but for simply trying to get back home.

He shook himself and stood up, finishing the last bite of his breakfast, and headed back to the kitchen to look for Lily. He spotted the young maid at the corner of the room, rag in hand, as she put down a fork beside a large pile of silverware in a basin.

She looked up from her work, smiling at seeing him, and gestured to the chair across her. "Hello, Seán. How are you doing?"

"Good morning, Miss Lily." North sat down with a tired sigh. "Hamish threatened me with the bucket again."

Lily rolled her eyes. "I'm not surprised. Hamish isn't a cordial man, but he means well." She laughed at the utter skepticism from North. "I know, it's hard to believe, but Hamish can be nice… sometimes."

North doubted that; Hamish had been nothing but cranky and rude though it was kind of funny at seeing him being exasperated because of North. At least he was stuck with him and not Callum, that would be hell.

The boy gestured at the pile of silverware scattered on the table. "What are we doing today?"

"We're polishing the silverware." She handed him a spare cloth and a small sponge. "Mrs. Gibs wants them ready for tomorrow's dinner."

"Why? Is there an event going on?" He asked with a frown, looking at the line of shiny silverware before him.

"Only the monthly meeting the Laird hosts for the tenants," Lily said as she showed him the correct way to clean the cutlery. "It's important for the castle to be at its best during such nights."

A ball of dread settled in North's stomach at the news. "How big is it? Is it like a ball?"

If it was, North would feign to have a stomach ache so he can hide in his room. Social parties were bad enough in his time when England forced him to go, but one from the 18th century sounded even worse.

"Goodness me, if that was the case, we would be cleaning more than silverware!" Lily shook her head with a soft laugh. "No, every month, the Laird invites the tenants to discuss trade but also to settle disagreements between them."

"Like a court?"

"Something like that. It avoids disputes getting bigger and helps maintain order across the land. The meeting starts with a banquet," she gestured to the spoon she was drying, "which is why we need to clean them. It can be dull at times, but it's a busy day for us."

North nodded and set to work. For the next few hours, they scrubbed and polished the silverware until they were sparkly clean. The task was rather calming, and North let his mind wander a few times. Lily was focused as well and for that, he was grateful because he wasn't good at making small talks.

It was around lunchtime that North was interrupted by one of the maids, a serious-looking young woman named Blair. By then, they were mostly done and Lily reassured him she didn't mind finishing it up and thanked him for his help. With a nod, the boy left Lily and followed Blair to the main kitchen.

Blair led him to one of the isles where Mrs. Gibson was in the middle of ladling out steaming soup into a bowl.

"There you are, lad. How was the cleaning with Lily?"

"The spoon and fork are done. We were halfway through with the knife when I left."

Mrs. Gibson nodded, setting the ladle back in the cauldron. She brought the bowl to a tray on the table and let Blair arrange the rest of it as the young maid added a small plate with bread and fruit, along with a mug of ale.

"Dr. Graham forgot once again to eat his lunch today. I'm sure he missed breakfast as well." Mrs. Gibson huffed as she wiped the counter around the bubbling cauldron. "If you could bring the tray to him, please. He's downstairs in the basement. Probably tending a patient."

Perking up at the mention of the doctor, North grabbed the tray. "Of course, Mrs. Gibs."

"That's a good lad." She smiled before shooing him away. "I'll prepare you a bowl once you're back."

Making sure he had the tray securely in his hands, North left the kitchen and headed for the staircase downstairs. Pushing the initial dread of going where he was first locked in, the boy made his way towards the end of the hall. Luckily, the door was wide open where he could hear muffled voices. Curious and somewhat eager to finally meet the doctor, North approached the door, only to be met with a ghastly sight.

Dr. Graham was in the middle of sewing a cut from a man's shoulder, needle in one hand and a bloody rag in the other, telling the man to be still. Said man was clutching the seat of the chair, wincing every time the needle poked his skin with sweat pouring out his forehead.

Usually, blood didn't faze North, as morbid as it sounded. He had his fair share of wounds growing up, especially in recent decades. When tensions were high back home, he would sometimes get physical manifestations on his body, like any other Nation when facing struggles in their Land. From bruises to lacerations, he would push it through as much it was painful as it was bothersome.

However, seeing the doctor with his hands red from blood and brandishing the needle like it was some kind of deranged scientist ready to create Frankenstein freaked him the hell out. Mostly the needle because he hated needles with a passion.

The lack of surgery gloves put him off as well because it made him realize how outdated the medicine was in this period, and the total lack of sanitary measures was gobsmacking.

So there stood North, tray in hand, watching in morbid curiosity the doctor firmly but swiftly stitching the gash like it was a piece of cloth.

"Do try to be more careful when manoeuvring heavy lifting, Mr. Mitchell," the doctor said, blood-stained fingers carefully pinching the skin together. "You are lucky the pitchfork didn't touch any artery."

"Damn thing slipped from its perch." The injured man grumbled, hissing a curse when the doctor pushed the needle into his skin once more.

The doctor hummed, dabbing a cloth on the man's shoulder to clear away the blood, though most of it was just smeared across the skin. He glanced away to look at the pair of scissors on the table beside him, frowning when he realized both his hands were occupied. He looked at the man he was treating, on the way to ask his help until he spotted North.

"Oh, just who I needed. Could you pass me the scissors over there, lad?" The doctor asked with a smile, gesturing to the table with a nod.

North put down the tray and made his way towards the two men, grimacing at the bloody sight before him. Again, the wound wasn't that terrible. A wide gash of about five inches, half of it already stitched together. It was the little black thread crisscrossing the skin that made him squeamish. And the needle. Especially the needle.

So, the boy averted his eyes and handed the pair of scissors to the doctor, taking the opportunity to look at the other equipment laid on the table. He recognized a few of them, like the scalpel, the pincer and the tweezer, but some of them looked straight out of a horror movie. He eyed the saw resting innocently amongst the other tools, the candlelight reflecting off the rusty metal.

How the hell did humanity survive this long?

Avoiding the mini surgical procedure going on beside him, North took the time of examining the row of flasks and jars scattered around the table before him. They came in different sizes and shapes, labelled with little scribbles on the side. As expected, he couldn't recognize any of them at a first glance, most of them being herbs than chemicals compounds, but the sight was welcoming.

He spotted an open book across the table, making out the diagram of a human body which he assumed explained the anatomy in length. A smaller book was open as well, this one showing the details of a certain plant.

"Interested in botany?"

North whirled around, finding the doctor cleaning his hands with a cloth, no sign of the injured man. It appeared North was so caught up in inspecting the place he didn't notice Mr. Mitchell leaving.

"Uh…"

The doctor smiled, turning his back to put his tools into a case. "Laird Campbell has mentioned you have some knowledge in medicine, aye?"

"Not by much, enough to know what to do if I get hurt." North shrugged sheepishly, shuffling his feet.

"Who taught you?"

"Um, my brother is a doctor's assistant. He's his apprentice."

"Oh, do you know the name of the doctor by any chance?" the man asked, turning back to him with a curious tilt of the head.

North didn't bother to think of a name, so he shook his head. "I'm afraid not, sir, only that he works in Edinburgh."

"A shame, though it has been quite a while since I've been to the city," the doctor said before clearing his throat. "Where are my manners, I apologize. I'm doctor Fergus Graham. I heard you've been here since a few weeks ago?"

"Seán Killough, pleased to meet you, doctor." North smiled shyly, glad the man didn't make him shake his blood-stained hand. "And yes, um… I was found by the clansmen after an encounter with British soldiers. Mr. Campbell was… kind enough to let me stay while he sends word to my brother."

He held back a grimace at the last bit, though the doctor saw him right through it as he gave him a sympathetic look. North didn't know if the doctor knew the whole story of his stay, but he was glad he wasn't looking at him in suspicion. It was a nice change of pace.

"Well, circumstances aside, thank you for bringing me lunch and for sending Hamish my way. Knowing the man, he would have downplayed the gravity of the wound."

The doctor walked to a small basin to wash his hands, scrubbing thoroughly with a bar of soap. He then glanced at the boy, a curious glint in his spectacled eyes. "Are you literate by any chance?"

North couldn't stop the baffled expression on his face or the slight offence as he sputtered, "Of course I am, sir."

What sort of question was that? Of course, he could read and write! He was 76 years old for Christ's sake. But then he thought better of it. From what he could vaguely remember from the history lessons England force-fed him when he was younger, he did remember his brother mention education was harder to have access to back in the day.

The lifestyle was much harsher in this period. Children who didn't have the means were put to work far younger than it was acceptable in his time to help sustain their families. Teachers were sparse, more so in rural regions such as wherever the hell he was. The local church or other family members would try to teach the children, but it was harder when they didn't have the resources, to begin with. Education wasn't a priority when survival and difficult conditions came into play. Even in the early 1900s, it wasn't unusual to see child labour until stricter laws came into light and put a stop to it. At least in some parts of the world.

But now, taking into account the lack of services, knowledge and technology, it could be seen as a surprise to find a boy his age who knew how to read and write. Especially if he had claimed he came from a farming family and not from a noble family or some snobby background.

Before the doctor could comment on his reaction, North cleared his throat. "My brothers and aunt taught me how to read and write, sir. My brother James is a bookbinder, and he would sometimes bring us books."

He thought of the book Wales and England would read to him when he was younger, back when he pleaded to have a bedtime story. Wales was easier to convince in those times because he couldn't say no to North whenever he gave him the puppy eyes. England would try to complain but would give in eventually because his brother loved telling stories.

While Wales' stories were calming and soothing, England's caught your attention the moment he opened his mouth and gestured the actions of the hero. He would put so much passion, in the voices he did or the scenery he described, it was almost impossible for North to fall asleep, much to his brother's embarrassment.

The doctor smiled, tilting his head to the side. "Do you have an interest in particular?"

North opened his mouth only to close it with a frown. He didn't think it would be a good idea to tell he liked reading about stoichiometry equations or the chemical reactions between two compounds. Chemistry is a rather recent science, at least in the name. It was better known as alchemy for many millennia. In fact, North was currently in the period where chemistry was slowly being considered as a science rather than mysticism.

But he wasn't sure if it was safe to talk about it or even if people were aware of it in these parts which he doubted very much.

North took instead the safer route. "I like reading about the properties of plants and their applications. It's curious how we can find solutions by looking at nature."

He grew nervous when the doctor stayed silent for a bit, wondering if he said something weird again before the man nodded as if he confirmed something. The man gestured to his book and flasks scattered around.

"Are you familiar with this, then?"

"Um, not really…" North looked away sheepishly, realizing he was digging his own grave because he didn't know shit about plants. His eyes caught a familiar object and spoke without thinking, "I do recognize your distillation kit, though."

The boy winced as he mentally slapped himself. Way to attract more attention than you needed.

The doctor looked surprised at this and even more curious about why a farming boy would know such a thing. "Do you know how to blend or use a scale?"

North glanced at the stone mortar and pestle behind the man, then at the box of little weights for the scale on the other side of the table, keeping his mouth shut.

The man seemed to follow his gaze because he chuckled, his smile growing. "You're a peculiar one."

North flushed bright red as he looked at his boots, cursing himself for giving away too much. Damn his love for anything related to lab equipment.

"If you have the time outside your duties, you could come here to help me organize or peruse my books," Dr. Graham said in a non-committal way. "I find myself quite busy at times and it slips my mind to keep this place in order. A helping hand would be much appreciated."

The boy snapped his head up, mismatched eyes wide as his ongoing embarrassment was quickly replaced by excitement. "Really?"

If this was his chance to avoid doing boring chores and socialize with people, then this was the best day ever. He didn't care he needed to clean, at least he was surrounded by something familiar and Hamish won't probably be bothering him as much.

"Of course, I'll speak to the Laird once I get back. I'm leaving today to visit a neighbouring village," the doctor said, gesturing to a suitcase resting by the cot. "I'll be back in about a week. You can start by then."

"Thank you very much, doctor!"

"I look forward to having your help." The man smiled again, nodding towards the door. "Off you go, now. We don't have to have Mrs. Gibs barrelling down in here, do we?"

With another thank you, North grabbed the tray and left the basement with a smile on his face. Maybe things were looking up. Maybe being here wasn't as bad as he thought.

Sometimes he wished he was mute.

Okay, that wasn't true. He once lost his voice for a few days when he caught the flu, and it was a living hell. For nations, it was rare to get sick but for some reason, his body decided to betray him and make him suffer. It felt like he swallowed an ocean of sand just for the kicks and then shoved a barbed-wire ball down his throat.

Losing his voice was worse than dealing with the pain that followed because he couldn't retaliate whenever his brothers teased him. England kept asking him to speak louder, while Scotland decided to be his temporary voice of reason by saying nonsense at everything he was doing. Wales, as for him, gave him a notebook to write on. At least his brother had the decency to look sympathetic as North died away under a pile of blankets, moans and grunts his only way of communication besides flipping them off. When Ireland heard the news, he sent him a humongous frilly scarf with a note saying to stop being an eejit… in the middle of summer.

But even after experiencing that roller coaster of a torture from dealing with his brothers, he still wished he was mute sometimes.

Or more like, stop his mouth from saying something he'll come to regret later. He had a bad habit to run off his mouth before thinking it through, and it brought him to trouble a few times. Not at Scotland's level of tactlessness, but enough to be reminded by his brothers.

And this time, he was reminded that his stupid mouth didn't connect to his brain quickly enough and now he was paying for it.

In the most humiliating, painful, merciless way.

It was in the evening Miss Lily mentioned yesterday, the monthly meeting the Laird hosted in the Great Hall for the tenants, where the locals came to speak to the Laird about their problems. The meeting wasn't big, around twenty or thirty people, including the clansmen that supposedly made up a small council. He hadn't quite grasped the whole thing, since most of the time they spoke in Gàidhlig.

Honestly, it looked more like jury duty for North and it was quite boring. Very boring. Though, he did manage to learn a few things.

One: as Miss Lily explained, these gatherings acted like small trial sessions where a tenant brought a problem forward and the Laird acted as a judge in the hope to find a compromise between the two parties. Problems varied from a dispute between lands to who stole the chicken of the neighbour.

Two: the Laird was well respected amongst his people; his words were practically law. North quickly noticed that these people genuinely liked the Laird too, not because of his status but because of his person. Which kinda made sense, since Modern Scotland could be quite approachable once you look over his gruff personality. He was a charismatic prick when he wanted to.

Three: Laird Campbell was fair in his choices; took the time to hear his people's stories and acted accordingly. Sometimes he would let Callum take charge of his verdict or seek an opinion from his men.

Watching his brother in his element was mesmerizing. To watch him lead with an air of humble pride as he offered his wisdom to his people. The way he almost looked regal in the way he acted, not to mention the way he would crack a joke or two to break the tension when the situation grew a tad colder.

It was a vast contrast compared to watching Modern Scotland fight over the remote with England whenever it was movie night and ending up breaking the coffee table in the process.

But now, it made North realized that his brothers used to be more than just diplomats and representatives of their nation. His brothers were Lords, members of the court, advisors for kings, captains of an army and much more. They still held most of the titles back home, but in a time when most of the world was at peace, they didn't get to show it. He remembered how his brothers looked during the Second War, the way they held themselves tall and proud, sporting their respective uniforms. The younger version of North was in awe by his brothers at the time, to witness the true strength of a nation during a time of war.

However, North also realized that while Scotland could be fair and diligent when he gave his advice, he was still a tactless idiot at times like Modern Scotland.

And tonight proved him right.

North had been watching from afar, silently and quite boringly, the line of tenants waiting for their turn to speak to the Laird. He was leaning against the wall near the doorway leading to the kitchen as he half-listened to a man complaining about stolen chickens.

Because of course, someone had to complain about stolen chickens.

"Can be quite tedious sometimes," the voice of Mrs. Gibson said from his left in mild exasperation, "I dinnae envy the Laird at all. He's already aware it was Mr. Mitchell's dog that ate it."

North looked away from the farmer that was in the process of gesturing wildly to the air as if that would explain the disappearance of his missing chicken to glance at the stout woman. She was watching from the doorway, dusting off what seemed to be flour from her apron.

"How long does it last?"

"Until the last person passes. While it can extend to the wee hours of the night, it's a necessity for the Laird. If it's neglected, it can lead to bigger conflicts across the lands." Mrs. Gibson informed, and North was impressed Scotland hadn't blown a fuse by now.

His brother must have been bored if he was willing to hear everyday problems since he always claimed he hated drama with a passion. If he was in his shoes, North would have up and left the room without a glance because, again, who would have the sanity to hear a man complain about missing chickens.

After what felt like an eternity, the dispute between the two farmers was solved by having the one whose dog ate the chickens paid the other with one sack of wheat and provide the complainer with the material to build a better fence for his remaining chickens.

North assumed the session was coming to an end because he didn't see another person in the waiting line, and he noticed Callum starting to arrange the stack of paperwork on the table. Scotland was taking a sip of his glass of whiskey, chatting with one of the clansmen.

It was a relief because North was starting to get sleepy with all this boring stuff.

Sadly, it didn't come to an end because a moment later, a man came striding to the front, interrupting the chatter in the crowd as he dragged a girl behind him in a tight grip.

North jolted at recognizing them. It was the same man who intercepted the drunk man the other night and saved the girl only to slap her a moment later. He watched with brows furrowed as the man, Kendrick if he remembered right, stopped before the Laird and nodding in respect even while sporting that ugly scowl of his.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Kendrick?" The Laird asked with a sigh, a twitch in his eyebrow.

The man's scowl grew even bigger if it was possible as he not so gently pulled the girl forward. "If I may, sir, I query for yer advice on a discipline, for I have found this girl in the act of indecency the other night."

Beside him, Mrs. Gibson gasped in shock and she wasn't the only one, several voices started chatting in the crowd. He watched as the girl shrunk in herself, her long curly hair hiding her face.

As for North, he was completely gob-smacked at the accusation. He couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"I caught her near the castle last week with another man, throwing herself at him with no shame," the man sneered, glaring holes at the young girl in disgust. He looked back at the Laird. "I want to teach her a lesson for her loose behaviour."

The Laird raised an eyebrow, face impassive as he looked at the man, not even giving a glance to the girl. "Is that so? What kind of lesson do you wish for her to have?"

North snapped his head towards the dais, gaping at Scotland with wide eyes. Did his brother honestly believe that prick?! He didn't even ask her and she was right there! What the hell was wrong with him, why would let the man do as he pleased when he was clearly lying.

He looked back at the girl, noticing she grabbed the front of her dress in a tight grip to hide the trembling, the curtain of brown hair still hiding her face.

"Ten lashes should suffice," Kendrick said tersely, earning another gasp from Mrs. Gibson.

"That sounds fair," Laird Campbell hummed, scratching his chin in contemplation as he opened his mouth to say more but was suddenly interrupted.

"Catch yourself on! She did nothing wrong!"

It took North a solid second to realize he was the one who blurted that out, so caught off in the righteous anger he was feeling for the girl. He felt the blood drain off his face and his body locked up as every head in the room turned to look at him.

Including Kendrick, who narrowed his eyes dangerously once he recognized him.

Before North could say anything, Hamish appeared behind him and took him to the front. Cold sweat started to form on the boy's forehead as he stopped in front of the Laird, standing three feet from the girl.

Scotland stared him down with cool grey eyes, steepling his fingers to his face. "Did you want to say something, boy?"

But all words flew out of the window as North could only stand frozen like an idiot, mismatched eyes wide at the turn of events. His silence seemed to anger him as the man's eyebrow twitched and with a casual wave of his hand, Callum stepped forward.

The slap came out of nowhere as North stumbled back, ears ringing as he quickly covered his stinging cheek with his hand. Callum grabbed his shoulder in a tight grip as he sneered, "When the Laird asks a question, you answer."

Several emotions clashed within North as he looked from Callum and the Laird, breath catching in his throat. Movement from his left drew his attention and without even thinking, he caught the older man's wrist in the middle of another hit.

Silence washed over the room as dread filled North's stomach, watching the stunned look of Callum turning into fury. The boy let go of him as if burned and blurted out in panic, "I'll take the punishment in her place!"

He shut his eyes tight, shoulders hunched in preparation for another strike but it never came. With bated breath, he cracked one eye open to see Callum looking over at Scotland, saying something in Gaelic. From his right, he noticed the girl looking at North with wide brown eyes.

The Laird answered something back in his native language before switching to English, "Yer taking her punishment, runt?"

Biting back a retort at the name, North nodded. He winced when Callum dug his fingers into his shoulder as the man sneered, "Speak up when he addresses you, boy."

"Y-yes, sir," the young nation gritted out, looking at the over Scotland's shoulder to avoid his piercing stare. "I am."

The older nation hummed before speaking to Callum back in Gaelic. There was a bit of back and forth between the two until Scotland said, "What do you think, Mr. Kendrick?"

North could practically feel the dagger digging at the back of his head from the man's glare as Kendrick answered, "I find it acceptable."

"Good, the matter is settled. She may go," The Laird said with a nod. Kendrick let her go, and the girl quickly rushed to the side, where Mrs. Gibson was already waiting for her. She took the girl's hands and guided her out of the room towards the kitchen.

North was relieved to see her leave, but the relief was quickly replaced by dread when Kendrick faced him, scowl prominent and eyes dark. The dread turned into panic when Callum took hold of his arms.

"Lashes or fists?" Scotland drawled as if talking about the weather.

"What?" North sputtered out, blue and green eyes snapping from one person to the other.

"Since you so gallantly stepped in, you're given a choice for your punishment." The Laird said with a shrug, a sharp smirk curling on his lips. "I ask again: lashes or fists?"

It was at that moment the gravity of the situation he was in clicked in his dumb brain as North's breath got caught in his throat. And for the first time since he was brought here, since he woke in this strange world, North was afraid.

He was afraid before, scared shitless on his first day, but now he was afraid of something else. Of someone. Because he miscalculated. He didn't know Scotland after all. He thought he managed to figure out the man in some aspects. He thought he found enough similarities between Modern and Past, but he was wrong.

Modern Scotland was an arsehole as all big brothers were bound to be. He loved pushing other people's buttons for his enjoyment. He loved riling his brothers up because he could. But he wasn't cruel. He wasn't this.

This Scotland didn't know him. He really didn't know him. Of course, North knew this. He knew this from the very beginning, from the moment he was threatened by that bloody sword, that was the whole damn point of his cover story. But somehow he convinced himself he was safe in the presence of the man because his heart saw him first as his brother than just a complete stranger.

He stupidly thought for a moment the man knew him back.

A cold fear speared through North's chest at the sinking realization.

But he didn't. This Scotland didn't know him. For real.

The stare of the nation before him didn't falter as Laird Campbell, the man that wasn't his brother, waited for his answer with cold grey eyes.

Past Scotland didn't know him.

Something in his periphery caught North's eyes as Malcolm stepped forwards with a long strip of leather with splitting threads at the end. Terror wracked the boy's body as self-preservation finally kicked in.

"Fists." He stammered out, looking at the whip with wide mismatched eyes, heart pounding wildly in his chest.

Bruises were easier to hide than lashes made by a whip, his brain desperately tried to rationalize. Fists wouldn't break the skin, it wouldn't cause bleeding. To an extent. His cover would be safe. Possibly. They won't know he-

So caught up with his spiralling thoughts, North didn't see Kendrick sending a fist to his stomach. Pain exploded in his ribcage as the boy stumbled back, his breath leaving him in a rush, but was held upright by Callum as the other man threw another punch. The boy fought against using his full strength, even if his body tried to twist away, but the older man held tight.

"You need to learn yer place, runt." Scotland watched with indifference as Kendrick swung another meaty fist. "There is a time to speak and a time to keep yer mouth shut. Try to pick the right one next time."

At the tenth punch, Callum let go of him and North crumbled to the ground gasping, his vision blurred with tears. He curled into himself, wheezing and coughing as he tried to catch his breath. Pain radiated over his chest and stomach as he clutched the front of his shirt.

Unmoved by his state, the Laird called out to the crowd. "Mr. Duncan?"

A scruffy man with dark hair came out of the crowd and approached the center with his bonnet in his hands, "Sir?"

"Until further notice, have the runt work yer field. That would make him think twice before trying to play the hero."

"Of course, sir." Mr. Duncan nodded dutifully.

The Laird looked at his men to the side, gesturing to Hamish with a lazy wave. "Take him back to his room."

North whimpered when Hamish pulled him to his feet, gasping in pain when his arm brushed his side. Clutching his stomach, the boy looked at Scotland with watery eyes in hurtful disbelief.

Because Scotland was staring back with no emotion, leaning back on his chair with his head propped up with one hand. There was no hint of remorse or whatsoever. No sign of recognition.

Nothing.

The Laird turned to Callum and started talking about the upcoming meeting.

Scotland didn't know him.

It was like another punch to his gut at seeing the blatant dismiss of the man. Like North was never present. Like nothing ever happened. Like he didn't just witness his little brother get beat up.

A pain far superior to the physical seized the boy's heart as he was escorted out of the Great Hall, ears ringing from the blood rushing in his head and heart pounding in his chest. Hamish mentioned something about fetching him first thing in the morning tomorrow before locking the door behind him.

North didn't know how long he stood in the middle of the room, breathing shallow and hands shaking. All he could think was the same realization as before.

Scotland didn't know him. He… he knew that. He knew that.

The boy took a deep breath, wincing at the pain blossoming from his chest as he shut his eyes.

He didn't know him. He was from the future. This Scotland didn't know him. He knew that. Past Scotland only knew Seán Killough and not Seán Kirkland. He knew that.

North opened his eyes and leaned back against the door. He brought his trembling hands to his chest and gingerly patted himself. He hissed at the pulsing pain across his chest and sides. Pulling his shirt up, he grimaced at the discoloration patches on his skin.

With careful movements, he took off his shirt and grabbed the rag from the basin on the dresser. The water was by far from cold, but it was the best he could do as he gently dabbed the damp rag against his skin.

Once he was finished, he sat on the bed and stared at the wall for a minute, fingers absentmindedly reaching for his necklace. Despite the reality crashing down on him, an indescribable anger slowly started to rise, pushing away the fear and panic. Hand clenching around the smooth rock, the boy took a ragged breath.

He… he wasn't wrong. He may have badly handled the situation, but North wasn't in the wrong. He did the right thing. The girl didn't deserve such treatment, she shouldn't. Even if he had misinterpreted the situation and she was indeed guilty, it was wrong. It wasn't right.

If he were to stay here, he needed to be more careful. Much more careful. He needed to adapt. He now knew what kind of person Past Scotland was and he won't be fooled again. He would show him. He would show Scotland he won't go down easily. He knew he did the right thing. He wasn't in the wrong.

He would play his game until he found his way back home.

He was a Kirkland for Christ's sake, stubbornness was in his blood. He would show him. He would show what Seán Killough was capable of.

The boy laid on the bed, hissing at the pain on his chest and slowly pulled the cover over him.

He may not know this Scotland, but one thing he was sure of: Scotland was an arsehole.

With that, Northern Ireland fell into a dreamless sleep for he knew the next few days would be challenging, but he will be ready.

Chapter Text

Chapter 6

Great, I'm Basically Cinderella Now

September 17^th, outside Castle Kaerndal, 1743

The fecking Universe was against him, he was sure of it. If it wasn’t for one thing, it was for another. It was like the Gods decided to prank him by giving him all the misfortune they could muster.

Northern Ireland adjusted the grip of the axe in his hands, sweat pouring down his forehead and raised it over his head. With a hefty swipe, he brought the axe down, splinters of woods flying as the log split in half.

He dropped the axe, sore fingers picking the chopped parts before throwing them into the slow-growing pile of firewood. He cursed under his breath when a splinter pierced his skin for the umpteenth time. With a scowl, he kicked the chopped parts instead, wondering when his suffering would come to an end.

It felt like weeks since he started the damn wood chopping and North was at his wit's end.

His body felt like it was about to drop like a puppet with its strings cut.

His punishment started fine in the beginning. On the morning after the ‘Getting a baytin’ for speaking common sense’ as North decided to call it, he was brought to the farmer Scotland mentioned at the end of the whole fiasco.

Morgan Duncan was a man of few words. He lived with his wife in the outskirts of the village, near the local stream. His land was quite large, enough to produce his crops, a garden, and a farm.

Mr. Duncan was hard-working and efficient in tending his field all on his own, from the way he handled his sickle to the speed of roping the bales of hay. He took great pride in his work as well. At least, that was what North gathered from the few words he got from the man.

When Hamish first took him to Mr. Duncan’s farm, it was before the sun even came out which was just the worst. At least, with Mrs. Gibson and the staff, he had the morning rays of sunlight peeking through the windows, giving them enough light to work without lighting a bunch of candles.

This time, they had to bring a freaking torch to head over the farm and being half-asleep and sore as hell, North had all but stumbled his way after Hamish. It was a small blessing the man hadn’t used a bucket of water to wake him up. Although his heightened healing took care of most of the bruises throughout the night, there were still a few spots that were sensitive to the touch.

It was the main reason he chose the fists over the other much more barbaric option. The bruises would have been easier to hide unless Kendrick aimed for his face, but he got lucky. He didn’t even dare imagine what would have happened if he had the lashes. Would they have gone for his back or his arms? Just thinking it made him shudder.

How backwards this society was in this period.

Nonetheless, working for Mr. Duncan wasn’t so bad at the time if you ignore how Mother Nature decided to play ‘Spin the Wheel: Weather edition’. Either it was raining a downpour for an hour or the sun came bearing down on us poor mortals. He didn’t know it could get so hot so high up in the Highlands. Then again, the weather in the British Isles was erratic, so it shouldn’t be a surprise.

If he looked on the bright side of all of this, which was a desperate attempt, aside from the shitty weather, waking up before the sun even came out and basically doing child labour, North was left alone most of the time.

Mr. Duncan would list the work he had to do first thing in the morning, showing him if needed, but other than that, he was left to his thoughts, which were for the best because he didn’t want someone witnessing him making a fool of himself. He tried to cut the wheat the way Mr. Duncan showed him, but after almost slicing his hand off with the sickle, the man had all but banned him from touching the sickle again.

Overall, it was tiring as hell. From tying bales of hay, pulling weeds off in the garden (without gloves might he add), cleaning the pens, and feed the farm animals, North was sore beyond salvation. He discovered parts of his body he didn’t even know it was possible to get sore. He was forever grateful for his nation strength because the strain was starting to wear him down. He wasn’t the most physical person to begin with; stuck in the lanky body of a fourteen years old, so the struggle was obvious, even with his additional strength.

Thank God, he was allowed a few breaks and something to eat. Mr. Duncan’s wife prepared him food and North didn’t complain about the taste. For once, he wasn’t against eating three meals a day because his body demanded it. She also made sure his temporary bed was comfortable enough because yes, for the past five days he slept in the barn with its fellow cows, pigs and chickens.

In other words, his punishment was exhausting but manageable. He missed his bed and even working in the kitchen with the others, but if he wanted to show Scotland he could do it, then he would show him. He wanted to wipe that smug smirk off his face.

So Seán Killough persisted.

Until Hamish came and made everything worse.

It turned out, labour on the field wasn’t enough of punishment, according to Laird Campbell. His arsehole brother had to make his life even harder. And so, here came Hamish in the middle of the fifth day with a shit-eating grin on his face than his usual grumpiness.

It was an omen if he ever saw one, and he was right.

After speaking with Mr. Duncan and giving him a bottle of whisky as thanks for ‘enduring the boy’s presence’, Hamish took him back to the castle only to change course and lead him to the backyard. There, a little off the path leading to the forest, was a shed where they kept the firewood.

Without waiting, Hamish showed him the entirety of the shed; the shelves, the stumps, the canvas to protect the pile of logs and more. It was until the man thrust an axe into his hands, slapped him on the shoulder and wished him luck that North realized what was happening.

“I’ll fetch you when you’re done,” Hamish had said.

“W-What?” North blinked at the axe in his hands, muddled brain still trying to process what was going on. He looked up at the man. “Wait, how long do I need to do this?”

“Until you finish the carts.” The man jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

“Carts? What carts…” North shuffled around the corner and stopped dead in his tracks when he saw it. As if Hamish threw him another bucket of icy water, all tiredness from the manual labour was gone in an instant as he stared in mute horror.

Because there, standing like a reaper ready to take his soul, stood three carts. Not the kind you can push on your own or used by street vendors, but carts that were pulled by horses to transport people or goods.

They were huge.

And full of logs.

Layers upon layers of logs were laid into each cart, piled together to make a pyramid that should’ve broken all laws of physics with how tall it was. His mind didn’t even register the smaller piles scattered on the ground, dumped there because there was no space left in the carts. The mere amount of what he was supposed to do almost made him want to burst into tears because he knew it would take him forever.

Spluttering, he swirled around, gesturing the carts wildly. “Are you serious?! Haven’t I already done enough?! It would take days to do all of this!”

“Aye, the faster you start, the sooner ye can come back inside.”

“What?!” North looked at the monstrosity that was the carts and looked back at the man, dread sinking into his stomach like lead. “What do you mean if I can come back inside?”

Please don’t be what he thinks it is.

“You can only get inside until you finish cutting all the wood or,” Hamish paused with a smirk, “Until I fetch ye, but I doubt I’ll do that.”

“Y-You can’t do that!”

“Laird’s orders, boy, not mine,” The man said with a lazy shrug as he turned around to head back to the castle.

“But- but it’s about to rain!” North complained, voice laced with incredulity, as he pointed at said dark clouds that were starting to roll with thunder. Just before Hamish fetched him, he was helping Mr. Duncan rolling the bales of hay inside the barn to keep them dry.

“Then, ye better start chopping!” Was all that Hamish said, leaving behind North to his never-ending torture.

And torture did North suffer, log after log.

It was both maddening and exhausting.

Maddening because he couldn’t do anything but chop wood or even take a freaking break without Hamish popping out of nowhere to tell him to get back to work. And exhausting because he felt his body was about to crumble into dust. Somehow, this was worse than working in the fields. When it rained, he had the barn to protect him or give him shade when the sun was strong. But here, out in the open with a pile of logs around him, it was horrible. How in the world it could get this hot in Scotland in the middle of September? He was pretty sure his face looked like a lobster.

It didn’t get better as time passed.

Hamish was right when he said he couldn’t go back inside the castle. At the end of the day, when the sun had finally set and North was just so damn tired to continue, he got denied entry by one of the guards. And he would have fought them, he really would, to hell his punishment, but he was on the brink of exhaustion. It was a miracle he even managed to reach the front door.

He was forced instead to spend the night inside the shitty, old, moldy shed; drenched from the rain and sweaty from the sun. And since this was a shed to keep the wood dry and not to house a person, there was no sight of a bed or whatsoever. Sleeping among the farm animals was a luxury compared to this. At least Mrs. Duncan provided blankets and a cot. It was only luck and desperation that he managed to pull the old canvas used to cover the carts off as a blanket once the night came in and the temperature dropped. Then, tucked between two crates that held tools and material, he fell asleep.

Somehow.

If he thought the night was bad, the next morning was even worse. His body was practically screaming in pain with how sore he was. His arms were heavy like weights, his back ached like an old man, he couldn’t feel his feet anymore and his hands were full of blisters, it was a wonder he could still move them.

To make matter worse, as if he needed more bad luck, the axe he was given was shite. The handle was rough, making his blisters hurt even more and it wasn’t sharp at all. He was pretty sure it could serve as a butter knife with how blunt it was.

In other words, Northern Ireland was reaching his breaking point.

He wanted to punch Scotland in the face so hard, the pain would cross the time and space continuum so Modern Scotland could feel it too.

Because he may be tired as hell, caked in dirt and sweat, hungrier than a horse and sleep-deprived as an insomniac, but he was most of all pissed off. His anger never died down.

He was angry at Scotland, angry at the mistreatment he was forced to, angry at Kendrick for being a prick, angry at the clansmen’s indifference, but he was also angry at himself.

Because he opened his big gob and he didn’t even manage to say his piece, that was the worst part! He got tongue-tied because, of course, his social anxiety decided to kick in when they shoved him in the middle of the damn room. He cursed himself for having stage fright and how bad he was with social interaction.

North huffed angrily as he picked up another log, placing it on top of the stump that was used as a base.

What a fool of himself he made in front of the whole freaking castle. Stammering like an eejit and freezing on the spot. And the beating!

Deary fecking me, the beating was overkill.

North felt his face flush in anger and indignation at the memory.

A part of him was glad his heightened senses kicked in to block Old Man Git’s next hit, but the other part wished he hadn’t moved at all to avoid the whole fiasco altogether. But even then, that shouldn’t have led to be freaking beaten up in front of everyone.

What kind of society would let a kid get beat up for interrupting a meeting? They acted as if he committed murder in front of them. And Scotland-

The boy brought the axe down with a loud crack, heaving at the flare of anger and hurt in his chest.

He did absolutely nothing, the arsehole! He just sat there, without a bloody care as Kendrick used him as a punching bag. Worse, he had the audacity of patronizing him instead of stopping the man.

His Scotland wasn’t like that. Sure, he can be a dick, but not on that level. Hell, Modern Scotland would have beaten Kendrick up for messing with his little brother. Alistair was protective of his family despite loving annoying his brothers to no end, unlike Allen who gave no shit.

“Arg, feckin’ piece of shite!” North dropped the axe when he felt another blister pop open, hissing at the stinging pain. He kicked the chopped log to the pile, cursing his brother for the umpteenth time for his predicament.

Laird or not, Scotland would pay for this, mark his word.

But remember why you did it in the first place, his brain supplied.

North paused in his way of dabbing his sleeve against his blistered palm, shoulders slumping. He glanced at the stump where the axe laid, to the growing pile of chopped logs to his right and then at the carts.

He thought of the girl being manhandled by Kendrick, calling her name for something she didn’t do. Blaming her for letting herself be grabbed by the drunk man. The way she shrunk to herself as she was brought in front of the Laird as Kendrick demanded for her to be punished for the indecency that wasn’t there.

The boy sighed, feeling his anger die just a little.

Because he knew that deep down if things were different, he would have still spoken up about the situation. He would have still tried to stop it. He would have still helped her because it was the right thing to do.

“Even if it brought me to this hellhole,” he said to himself, huffing as he walked over the cart to fetch more logs. He finished the first cart last night, and he was halfway through the second today, but it still seemed as if he made no difference at all.

He dropped the pile he gathered to his right and placed one on top of the stump, unaware of a set of footsteps coming from behind. He rolled his shoulders, wincing at the protest of his muscles, and picked up the axe.

The footsteps stopped a few feet away from him as he lifted the axe. He glanced at the log, adjusting the grip of the axe, and took a deep breath.

“Why didn’t you speak up?”

“Jaysus feckin-” North dropped the axe with a yelp. He jumped back to keep from losing his toes and swirled around.

The anger from before came back roaring like a dragon.

Adorned with a grey vest layered by a dark green coat, Scotland stood against the shed with his hands in his brown trousers’ pockets. Though the coat was long, reaching just above his knees, the scabbard holding the sword was still visible from his belt.

Scotland raised an eyebrow at him, waiting for an answer, but North was trying to keep from bursting into a tirade of colourful words for his treatment. Instead, North channelled his inner Wales and forced a deep breath.

‘Cool, calm, collected’ as North had heard Wales whisper to himself whenever he was starting to lose his patience with his brothers.

A small twitch of an eyebrow was all Scotland did for getting an answer before he looked around the place in feigned boredom. North took the petty satisfaction to heart.

“Why didn’t ye speak up?” The man repeated, turning cool grey eyes on him as he watched him closely. “You wanted to say something about the matter. It was why you opened your trap. Why?”

“Because it was unfair to her.” North gritted his teeth to keep his temper in check, focusing on the question instead of the man’s smug face. “No one asked for her side of the story. You just took the man’s words over hers.”

If Scotland noticed the poorly kept anger in his voice, he didn’t say anything, instead, he cocked his head to the side. “The man is her uncle.”

“So what?! Who cares if he’s her uncle? Or father for all we know!” North snapped despite his control, clenching his fists tight. He felt a blister pop open, but he ignored it, too angry to feel the pain. “She deserves to have her voice heard no matter what. No one took into account she was at a disadvantage or that the other tosser was so plastered he couldn’t see straight.”

“You saw it happen, then?”

“Yes, I did. And no one considered he was the one who grabbed her. Not her. He’s twice her size for Christ’s sake. She couldn’t defend herself. It was a good thing her uncle found her before something truly bad happened.” He rolled his eyes, throwing his hands in the air. “But of course, instead of asking for her wellbeing, her uncle calls her names. She didn’t have time to explain herself before the night guards interrupted him.”

He knew he was getting worked up. He could feel it with the way his accent was getting heavier and his face getting hotter, but he was so done. Those kinds of injustices always ruffled his feathers, no matter how small they looked. He knew how it sucked to be overshadowed by people, not be heard by the ‘grown-ups.’

Northern Ireland was done with this.

He was tired, cold, hungry and cranky. There was no stopping now.

“So yes, I spoke up because of that. I couldn’t with good conscience let such injustice go by. Why should I let her take the punishment and have her shamed in front of people she knows if nothing was her fault?” North said hotly, taking a step forward as he glared up at the man. “Why should she be punished and not the drunk idiot? Is it because she’s a girl and thus her opinion is inferior to a man’s? That kind of thinking is just wrong and sexist in so many ways it’s outrageous just thinking about it. Or is it because she’s seen as a child compared to the rest of the adults here, so her words mean nothing to them?”

Scotland took his rant in stride and for some reason, the flippant attitude made North angrier.

“I won’t apologize for interrupting the meeting if that’s why you’re here, Mr. Campbell,” North hissed the name and this time, anger flashed in the man’s eyes. “I won’t stand there doing nothing when such things happen.”

With that, North turned around and walked to his station to pick up the axe. He was too riled up to care for turning his back to a figure of authority. Even if said figure of authority was his brother. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, sir, I have more logs to chop. I have this cart to do before the end of the day.”

He grabbed a log that fell when he dropped the axe and placed it back on the stump. He lifted the axe and, with a vigorous force, the log split in half like butter. The silence stretched on, only the chopping of wood filling the air.

North knew Scotland was still there, could feel the eyes glaring holes in his head, but he ignored it. He had chopping to do.

“Remember what I told ye about that fiery spirit of yours, boy. It will bring you trouble if you do not tame it anytime soon.”

North faltered for a second, axe lowering to rest against the log as his heart skipped a beat.

Scotland might have said it casually, as if talking about the weather, but he heard it loud and clear. Modern Scotland did it all the time.

You do something like that again and you’ll have worse than this.

Normally the threat would entail a pillow to his face or a noogie, but with this Scotland, who knew what it could be. The boy took a deep breath and forced his voice to be calm. “Of course, sir.”

He won’t give Scotland the satisfaction he was unsettled by the hidden warning now that he knew his true colours. North kept his focus on the log and readjusted his hold of the axe. He let out a breath of relief when he heard the retreating footsteps of Scotland.

“Oh, by the way,” the Laird called out, smugness laced in his voice, “there’s another cart coming up. Thought you might enjoy it.”

North swirled around as anger flared up again, eyes narrowed into slits. It took everything in him to keep from cursing the man out loud as Scotland sauntered away like the arsehole he was.

Instead, he flipped him the bird, knowing he couldn’t see him.

“Once I get back home, Scotland,” the boy muttered as he watched the man enter the castle, “I’ll burst another hole in your roof. Mark my words.”

North turned back to the log that rested on the stump and sighed, shoulders slumping as the exhaustion of everything washed over him. He looked at the axe in his hand, then at the carts to his left, lips pursed.

End his misery for the love of God.

He went back chopping for another hour until movement from his left caught his attention and he turned only to blink, freezing on the spot.

Just on the other side of the fence was her. The girl from that night.

Her curly brown hair was braided on one side, revealing brown eyes and freckled cheeks. She was around his age, with the soft edges of her face. The end of her green and grey dress was muddied from the last pouring a few hours ago. A brown shawl was draped around her shoulders, shielding her from the cool breeze of the day.

A basket was held by her hand, the other fiddling with a piece of thread from the handle. She shifted her grip on it and smiled shyly. “Hello.”

North could only stare, brain frizzled out because he wasn’t expecting to see her anytime soon. And honestly, he dreaded to cross paths with her for fear of making a fool of himself and because he sucked at interaction with people. Especially with people his age.

As sad as it sounded, he didn’t interact with kids his age growing up.

So, instead of greeting her like a normal human being, North said, “What’s the craic?”

The second the words came out, he wanted to slap himself and fall off a cliff. He turned bright red as confusion flashed on the girl’s face, and for good reasons. The slang could cause a few raised eyebrows if you didn’t know the meaning first. Hell, it took several explanations to America to make sure it wasn’t a drug reference.

Both teenagers stared for another awkward moment before North cleared his throat and tried again.

“Hi… um, can I help you with something?”

That was what you’re supposed to ask, right? God, he sucked at conversations.

The girl shifted under her feet, looking away for a moment before flashing him a bashful smile. “Um… actually, I wanted to see you. I never properly thanked you for what you did on that day.” She caught his eyes, but quickly looked at the ground. “I wanted to talk to you sooner, but uh… Callum made sure you weren’t to be interrupted and well…”

She trailed off, floundering for a bit before closing her mouth, face going red. North felt sympathetic for her because he could relate. Starting a conversation with a stranger was the hardest thing to do.

Though the comment about Callum soured his mood for a moment. Of course, Callum would have made sure no one would interfere. Scotland must have told him, the arsehole.

“I wanted to apologize as well for the trouble you went through because of me,” the girl said, catching North’s attention as she looked up, brown eyes filled with guilt. “You got punished for my mistake. You didn’t have to-”

“It wasn’t your fault. You did nothing wrong.” North cut her off with a shake of the head. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but it was obvious you didn’t want that drunk man anywhere near you. Even a blind person could see it. Despite how badly he treated you afterwards, it was a good thing your uncle intervened in time.”

The girl grimaced at the mention of that night, pulling her shawl closer to her. “My uncle is a complicated man. He takes care of my ma and I ever since my da passed away. But sometimes, he can be… um…”

“A real prick?” Again, the words came out before he could think, but to his surprise, the girl laughed.

“Aye, that is true,” she said with a grin, but it faltered a second later, expression sobering as she looked back at the ground. “I still want to apologize. It isn’t fair for you to take my punishment in my stead. You shouldn’t be doing any of this.”

North grew flustered, unsure how to react to the gratitude and apology she was giving. Curse his awkward self. He shuffled his feet, looking for something to talk about, as he tugged on his sleeves. He looked back when he heard a gasp.

“Your hands!” She was staring at them with wide eyes, worry and guilt growing by the second. North looked down with a grimace, trying to cover his hands, but it was useless. The blisters were obvious even if he tried to turn them over.

“May I wrap them for you?” She asked, looking remorseful at the sight of them. “I would hate to see them fester because of me.”

“It’s alright,” he reassured with a shrug, face flushing as he put his hands behind his back. “Nothing a warm soak can’t fix.”

Or his enhanced healing, he added to himself.

She didn’t look convinced as she worried her bottom lip, fidgeting with the basket. Then, as if mustering her courage, she set her shoulders straight and lifted the basket.

“At least, please accept this gift as my thanks for your aid.” She bobbed the basket at him, realizing a second later they were several feet apart and a fence stood between them. She grew embarrassed but kept going. “M-my grandmother told me you were fond of pastries, so my ma made apple tarts this morning.”

North couldn’t stop the snicker bubbling in him at the whole situation. Who knew someone was as awkward as him? Despite her face flushing, the girl narrowed her eyes in feigned annoyance but soon joined in the laughter.

Once they recovered, North scratched the back of his neck with a grin. “Gift accepted then. Thank you very much uh…”

Brown eyes widened as she realized she didn’t introduce herself. Lowering the basket, she did a little curtsy. “I’m Mairead Ishbel McRae, nice meeting you.”

Baffled at the sudden etiquette, North put a hand on his chest and bowed at the waist. “Seán Killough, nice meeting you as well.” When he leaned back, Mairead was looking at him with a bemused expression, face pinking even more for some reason.

Did he do something wrong?

Before he could ask, Mairead walked around the fence, hefting the basket on one of the carts. She pulled back the lid and took out a bundle of cloth. “I also brought cheese and bread. I figured you dinnae have lunch.”

The mention of food caused an audible grumbling from North’s stomach and he flushed. The only thing he ate today so far was the apple Hamish threw at him and a piece of bannock Miss Lily managed to sneak in. He would have dropped dead from exhaustion if it wasn’t for the staff’s clandestine provisions.

So the beauty before him that was the apple tarts was like a god-sent. He could die happy.

However, a prickling worry reminded him that he wasn’t supposed to be on break and Hamish could appear at any time to berate him. He was starting to believe the man had cameras pointed at him, historical inaccuracies be damned.

As if reading his mind, Mairead shook her head, mischief dancing in her eyes. “You don’t have to worry about Hamish. My granny made sure to keep him occupied for the next hour.”

Eyebrows shooting up in surprise, North blinked at her. “Your granny?”

“Aye, she’s the main cook at the castle.”

The dots finally connected. The jam jar. The worried gasp beside him during the session. “Mrs. Gibson is your grandmother?”

Mairead nodded with a smile. “From my Da’s side. I’m her only granddaughter amongst my cousins and my wee brother.”

She unwrapped a bundle to produce the gifts of the gods. Pulling a handkerchief, she handed him an apple tart. “Here you go.”

“Thanks.” Forcing to keep from shoving it to his mouth in one go, North took a decent bite and almost teared up at the explosion of flavour. This was the best thing he ever tasted in the entirety of his existence. He flashed her a grin, giving a thumb up. “It’s really good. Tell your mum they’re delicious!”

Mairead ducked her head, face pinking as she mumbled her thanks before taking an apple tart of her own. They each ate a pastry, a comfortable silence settling between them.

“Words have travelled in the village about your curious arrival,” She said after a few minutes, brushing crumbs off her dress.

North paused on the way to pick up a slice of cheese, tensing ever so slightly. “What is it they’re saying about me?”

“A bit of everything. Some say you’re an orphan looking for shelter, while others believe you were rescued from English soldiers. A few of them think you’re um…” She trailed off, not sure how to phrase it.

“I’m a spy for the English, ready to use my evil master plan to dethrone the Laird of Castle Kaerndal?” He deadpanned with a roll of eyes, making her snort before she covered her mouth. “Do you believe that?”

Mairead lowered her hand, looking pensive as she took her time to find her words. “No. I believe, from what my granny told me, that you’re just looking for a way home. You have a brother, aye?”

“Four actually, I’m the youngest.” North relaxed a bit, glad he wasn’t met with hostility as he started folding the handkerchief into a specific pattern. “Mr. Campbell asked me to stay while he sends word for my brother Luke. I was travelling with him before we got separated by bandits.”

He clearly was here of his own will.

“That’s unfortunate. Where do you think your brother is now?”

He was 250 or so years into the future as the rest of them. “I don’t know, hopefully, he managed to escape without trouble. We were heading for Edinburgh.”

“Quite a distance.” Mairead hummed, watching curiously what North was doing with the piece of cloth. “I’ve never been to the big city. How is it like?”

“Uh…” He blinked, not sure how to answer. He had no idea how Edinburgh looked like in the 18^th century. His only reference was from the movie Amadeus England forced him to watch with him back in the 80s about the life of Mozart. And that man was eccentric as hell. “Well, it’s way bigger than here and has lots of people. It makes it hard to weave through. There’s a lot of carts, makes you need to look both ways before crossing the street. But I’ve been there only a few times. I live in a farm village in the outskirts.”

A sudden thought made him pause. “Where are we by the way? I know we’re at Kearndal Castle, but I don’t know more than that.”

He had tried fishing information since he got here, but the moment never came up whenever he was with Mrs. Gibson or the staff. He refrained from asking the clansmen or Scotland, knowing they will find him even more suspicious.

Fortunately, Mairead didn’t seem put out by his question. “We’re in the region of Strathpeffer near Loch Ussie.”

That didn’t help him much. “How far from Inverness are we?”

The girl pondered a few seconds, tapping her finger to her chin. “I’ll say about half a week. I’ve been to Inverness once when I was wee.”

North hummed, calculating the time he and the clan travelled when they first found him. He would need a map to properly measure the distance from Inverness to wherever the hell he was.

He went back to working on the handkerchief, folding its last corners before showing it to her. In his palm was a rather lumpy origami of a crane. If he had paper, it would have looked cooler or he could have made a jumping frog.

“Oh, that’s a bonny thing.” Mairead grinned, leaning to take a closer look. “How did you make this?”

“I can show you if you want. It’s easier with paper; makes it sturdier. Here, you can have it.” He handed the crane to her, oblivious of the blush appearing on her cheeks as he stood up. He stretched his arms over his head, wincing at the crack on his back. “I should get back to work, I want to get over this as soon as I can.”

As if summoned, the clippity clops of a horse caught their attention as they turned to see Ian pulling on the reign to guide the cart to the shed. Like the three other carts, it was filled with logs stacked like a pyramid.

North sagged his shoulders with a sigh, already feeling the aches in his body intensify at the sight.

The giant man surveyed the place, noticing the basket between the two teens and smiled brightly. “Are they more?”

Compared to the other clansmen, Ian was by far the most agreeable one. Despite his intimidating stature, he was always smiling or laughing about something. While Hamish or Malcolm sneered at North whenever they cross paths, with Ian though, he took joy in teasing him just for the sake of teasing. He reminded him a bit of Modern Scotland, sans the constant smiling because Alistair didn’t smile, smirking was his go-to.

But that didn’t stop North from being nervous around Ian. He was huge. At least he was better company than Angus. The silent man would just stand there watching him work before leaving without a word.

Mairead peeked into the basket. “There’s one left.”

Like a child in a candy store, the man made his way towards them and picked the apple tart from the girl’s hand. “Thank ye kindly.” He gobbled the whole thing in one go and patted his stomach with a sigh. “Yer ma makes the best pastries. How is she fairing?”

“She’s doing well, she managed to do a whole batch yesterday. She already put your share aside.” Mairead smiled with a nod.

Ian clapped his hands together with a grin, tipping his bonnet at her. “Send her my many thanks. I’ll pick it up later today.”

He then turned to North, expression turning a bit serious even with a grin. “Ye should get back chopping before Hamish finds ye lazing about.”

North scowled, hunching his shoulders. “I wasn’t slacking off.”

“I ken, I heard ye mouthing off like a sailor when I passed by this morning.” Ian laughed, eyes dancing in amusement as he crossed his beefy arms over his chest. “Who knew a wee boy could have such a colourful language. And those twigs for arms. I’m surprised ye can even lift the axe.”

North flushed, gritting his teeth but held his tongue. He was stronger than he looked, thank you very much.

Ian was clearly enjoying himself as he barked a laugh before nodding to Mairead. “Ye should get going, Miss McRae. Dinnae think I didn’t see what yer gran did. Hamish is drinking half the cask as we speak. I’m missing out!”

Eyeing him warily, the boy narrowed his eyes. “And you won’t rat me out to Mr. Campbell.”

Because North was honestly put out with Ian’s behaviour. He wasn’t expecting the man to help him in any way. 

The clansman shrugged his broad shoulders. “I’m just delivering the cart, nothing more. That’s Hamish’s job to keep an eye on you.”

“My hero,” North grumbled with a huff, making the man laugh again. He turned to Mairead, smiling wanly. “It was nice meeting you, Mairead. Thank you again for the snacks, it was really good.”

Still holding the folded crane in her hand carefully, she smiled back before scooping the basket in her arm. “Thank you again for what you did, Seán. I’m forever grateful.”

North just waved her goodbye, not sure what to say.

“I’ll walk ye back home, lass.” Ian ushered Mairead towards him, leading her back to the path headed for the village. “I heard yer numpty uncle was away for a trip, aye?”

With that, the two of them left North alone with the new cart of logs. However, as they rounded the corner, Mairead looked over her shoulders and made a show of looking at the cart before waving goodbye.

Curious, North walked around the stump, peeking around the cart Mairead was leaning on. There on the edge of the cart, cushioned by a cloth, was an apple tart. She must have spared it when Ian asked for one.

The boy grinned, picking up the pastry and took a bite of it, savouring the sugary flakes. Brushing off the crumbs from his face, he turned back to the four carts with renewed determination.

Maybe he wasn’t so alone after all. It was nice to know he had people on his side watching over him.

He picked up the axe, wincing at the blisters, but held it steady. He grabbed a log and placed it on top of the stump. With a hefty swipe, the log split in half.

He would show Scotland what he was capable of. He would show him that four carts won’t deter him from finishing it. He will chop all these damn logs if it was the last thing he did.

Seán Killough didn’t give up that easily.

September 18^th, Edinburgh, 1997

England tapped his foot impatiently, looking at his watch for the umpteenth time, only to huff when it showed only two minutes had passed. “What’s taking him so long? We’ve been waiting for almost an hour now.”

“You know it always takes time with those kinds of things,” Wales said, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt with fluttering fingers. “I’m just relieved we get to meet the manager. We would have wasted another week.”

The blond hummed, scowling at the passerby bustling in the place. They were currently at the information booth of Edinburgh Waverley railway station, waiting for the employee to fetch the manager.

It had been over a week since Ireland sounded the alarm about North’s disappearance. Normally, as much it worried him, England wasn’t that put off about the lad’s behaviour since North tended to wander on his own for a few days without telling anyone. Even after constantly telling him to warn his brothers about his little adventures, North always managed to slip away unnoticed.

But this time was different.

England felt the crumpled piece of paper in his pocket, deep in thought.

Ireland didn’t normally call him or contact him in general, aside from the polite conversations during world meetings. If one considered trading veiled insults as ‘polite conversations’. Nevertheless, if one of them needed to pass a message then it will be passed along to either their government, Wales or Scotland. Though with the latter it was a gamble because Scotland had a knack for twisting the message beyond comprehension.

Communication with his older brother was strained in recent years, more so than usual anyway. Outside of meetings or business-related work, his relationship with Ireland was complicated at best. A bit better since his older brother left the union, but still tense and awkward most of the time. England always made an effort to act civilized with Ireland when North was around because he hated the dejected look the lad had. Not that it stopped either of them to glare daggers at each other when North had his back to them.

So for Ireland to disturb their little game of passive-aggressive back and forth and contact him directly meant it was for one reason only.

Northern Ireland.

England pulled out the piece of paper, smoothing out the crinkling corners. The paper was small, around the size of a train ticket with the edges burned off, courtesy of the spell. On it was the scribbled message England had memorized ever since it appeared in a poof of smoke in his pocket while he was in the Tube.

He almost had a heart attack when the singeing heat burned through his trousers. After slapping his leg like a lunatic in front of the passengers, he mumbled an excuse about an unlit cigarette and left the Tube on the next stop.

It was until he was outside, walking down an empty street, that he shoved a hand in his pocket and pulled out the object. He was surprised to see a folded paper, even more at recognizing the distinct smell of ash and cedarwood.

Ireland had fire-sent him a message.

The last time he received such a message was on that dreadful night of 1941, when reports announced Belfast was under attack.

A heavyweight settled in England’s stomach as he hastily unfurled the paper. The dread grew stronger when he read the content, eyes growing wide.

Family meeting at Alba’s. I can’t Sense North anymore.
- Éire

The shock of being included in a family meeting was nothing compared to the gravity of Ireland’s words once it sunk in. They rarely use magic nowadays, the technology of today rendering most spells useless and inconvenient. And in a society more diverse and complex, it was too risky to use magic out in the open.

A caution Ireland threw out of the window when he cast the spell. At least the man had half the brain to send it to one’s pocket and not at the roof of the mouth as the spell was originally intended for. A detail Ireland loved to exploit when they were younger.

England ducked under an alley to avoid unwanted eyes and tried to focus on Sensing his little brother. His breath left him when he was met with nothing but silence. A silence so loud, unlike the familiar tug he normally felt when reaching out for his brothers. His mind tried to reassure him as he rushed to the street to call a cab that there must have been a logical explanation for this. Perhaps another incident happened at North’s home. Maybe a situation going on in the government. A simple reason why he couldn’t Sense North.

His questions went unanswered, even after meeting everyone at Scotland’s. If it was a passing death, England would have felt it when it happened, but no one could understand what was going on. Despite having left the Union, Ireland could still Sense the lad up to a point for sharing the island. It was no comfort for Ireland to learn they couldn’t Sense North either.

Even when North went to his science fair escapade a few years back without telling them, they could all tell he was there. Somewhere, but present. It didn’t lessen the worry and anger he felt for North’s shenanigans, but at least there was this subconscious relief.

But now…

England put the paper back into his pocket and crossed his arms.

All four of them couldn’t tell where North was. They couldn’t Sense him in their respective lands. It was as strange as it was worrisome. There wasn’t any breaking news going on or an important event in the parliament. There was nothing that would have made their connection with North vanish without a trace.

Tactless as usual, Scotland said it was probably a Fade, barely dodging a punch from Ireland for suggesting such a disturbing idea if it wasn’t for Wales interfering in time. But the thought had crossed their mind, even if they wanted to deny it. It was a fear all Nations have. However, it didn’t add up. There was no reason for North to Fade when his land was stable… sort of. Without downsizing the conflict going on at the moment, it wasn’t a major change for a Nation to Fade. The foundation was shaking, yes, but it held strong. This wasn’t North’s time, and hopefully not anytime soon.

England remembered the feeling of a Fading, even as a young child, barely a toddler. He perfectly remembered when their Mother returned to the earth beneath them, leaving her four children behind. It may have been a slow-going process, a few months perhaps, but they all felt it when their mother drew her last breath. Even Ireland felt her Fading, despite her being his adoptive mother. The pain that came was poignant and sharp, stronger than a passing death that went deep into the soul. Like the snap of a rubber band; sudden and stinging. It resonated across the lands in waves, leaving only a void that could never be filled again.

He didn’t feel that void when he tried to Sense North and he prayed he never will. All he and his brothers felt was nothing but silence.

His little brother wasn’t dead nor did he Faded, he was simply not there.

Like the white noise of a telly; the connection was lost.

How?

Why?

After finding some semblance of calmness and with a bag of frozen peas held to his chin, Scotland recounted the day he dropped off North at the train station. With no surprise, the calm was broken when Ireland started scolding Scotland for leaving North alone and as expected, England was roped in and the three of them were in a screaming match until Wales stepped in once more and suggested contacting the train station for information.

Hence, the reason he was currently waiting with Wales for the manager, so they can access the CCTV cameras. Which was frustrating because it took almost a week to make the calls and fill the paperwork to have permission.

The joy of bureaucracy.

At last, the employee came back, followed by a portly man with slicked black hair swiped to one side.

“Afternoon, gentlemen. What can I do for you?” The manager asked, shaking hands with them.

England righted himself, nudging Wales for the files. “We talked over the phone the other day about gaining access to your CCTV cameras. We’re investigating the report of a missing person.”

The manager cocked an eyebrow, eying him up and down, looking for a badge. “Ye don’t look like cops.”

“We’re private investigators,” Wales said with the confidence of a twelve years old. England held back rolling his eyes. His brother was never good at playing roles. “We have the official papers from Scotland Yard if you wish to see.”

Said papers were, in fact, a report of a car accident from a few years back that Scotland somehow managed to modify to make it look like a police warrant.

Luckily, the manager didn’t ask to read the documents. Instead, he waved the employee off and gestured to follow him. After weaving between passerby and hallways, they reach a door that said ‘security lobby’.

Scanning a card near the door handle, a small chime was heard before the door clicked open. Inside was a small space, similar to a broadcast room, with a wall filled with screens. Two men at the desk looked over their shoulder, one of them mid-chew on a sandwich. They hastily right themselves, swiping crumbs of their lunch off the table.

“Sir! Is everything alright?” The youngest of the two men asked, trying to hide a bag of crisps from view. It was in vain because the bag crinkled audibly.

The manager looked unimpressed before sighing, gesturing at England and Wales. “These two gentlemen are here to view some footage for an investigation of a missing person. If you two could kindly show them what they want.”

“Of course, sir, right away.” The older employee nodded firmly, adjusting his uniform as he stood up, reaching a hand to shake. “Chief security Samuel Gallagher and my colleague Adam Miller.”

“Arthur Thompson, private investigator.” England shook hands with both of them and gestured to his brother. “My partner…”

“Rhys Caddell,” Wales said with an awkward smile as he greeted the two, catching England’s attention. It had been a while since his brother used that surname.

“I’ll leave you to your business, inspectors. Good day,” The manager said and left the room without another word.

England raised an eyebrow at the brusque exit, catching the pained expression of Samuel.

“Mr. Quinn is rarely present at Waverley. I’m surprised you managed to take a hold of him.” The chief security said with a shrug before clearing his throat. “You said you wish to view the footage for a missing person, aye?”

England felt a small weight leave his shoulders. Finally, they can get to work and hopefully find the answers they were looking for.

“Yes. How long do you keep the footage?”

“We store the footage up to 90 days as protocol until we need to free up space,” Adam said, quickly typing on the keyboard to show up the history. “How are far are you looking?”

“We would like to see the day of September 1^st. Around 11 in the morning.” England approached the desk, blinking at the plethora of monitors on the wall.

“Easy to do.” The two employees scroll through the footage until they found the correct day and hour. Adam looked up at the two brothers. “Who are you looking for?”

England shared a look with Wales. This was where the complication arose. They couldn’t exactly tell the identity of North without exposing them nor ask the police to launch an investigation without alerting the parliament something was wrong. They wanted to search on their own first before asking their boss because it would complicate the whole situation. They need to discern the level of threat.

“A young boy, about 14 years old with ginger hair. He ran away from home according to family members. He was last wearing a bright blue and purple windbreaker, light blue shirt, blue jeans and black Converses.” England listed, eyes never leaving the screen. “He also had with him at the time a green backpack and a Walkman.”

The backpack and Walkman were the only lead they had. They quickly drove to Glasgow’s Buchanan bus station to retrieve North’s belongings before they put them in the lost-and-found. If it was robbery, they did a poor job because the lad’s wallet was untouched despite being visible. Nothing was amiss inside the bag other than North’s pyjamas, his keys, a toothbrush, a spare shirt, a scientific magazine and his trusty music player.

As far they could tell, he wasn’t mugged, but that didn’t reassure them at all. It rose more questions instead.

Samuel nodded solemnly, flipping through the cameras with practiced fingers. “Nationality?”

“Bri-”

“Northern Irish.” Wales cut in.

England sent him a look but got back looking at the monitors. Sadly, the footage was in black and white, so half the description was for naught, but at least the quality was passable.

It took them several minutes of watching silently the speeding footage until Adam pointed at the upper monitor. “Is that him?”

Wales leaned in, squinting his eyes at the grainy picture before he exhaled sharply. “Ydw. It’s him.”

Hope fluttered in England’s chest at seeing the profile of their little brother as they watched him enter the station. In the corner of the screen, they could see a car speeding off. That confirmed Scotland really dropped him off at the main entrance.

Samuel switched the camera to show one of the hallways of Waverley station, spotting the image of North walking down the hall. He didn’t seem to have a specific goal, mostly wandering around the place, stopping a few times to peruse the storefronts.

Adam fast-forwarded the footage until it stopped to show North entering a grocery store. The angle of view was terrible, but they could make out the checkout section. Nothing seemed to happen apart from seeing North paying his purchase until England raised a hand to stop the footage.

“Could you rewind a few seconds? Yes, right there.”

“What is it?” Wales asked, brow furrowed.

“That’s twice he’s looking out,” England said, pointing at where North stood by the checkout. “What’s on the other side of there?”

“There’s an old electronic store. They do reparation and such,” Samuel said as he zoomed in. “Bought myself a new telly there with a good deal.”

“It doesn’t seem he’s being followed,” Adam muttered, eyes scanning the other monitors. There was nothing amiss other than the other passerby.

Wales looked at England with furrowed brows, mouthing ‘He sensed something?’

There was a possibility that North felt something. Nations were more aware of their surroundings than humans. However, he didn’t seem distressed, so perhaps it was nothing.

“Let’s see where he goes next.”

The two security guards switched cameras a few times until they spotted North entering a library. From the grainy footage, England could read the name of the place. Alba’s Wee Library. The footage only showed the entrance and part of the storefront.

“Do you have access to the camera inside the library?” Wales squinted, trying to catch a better view of the monitor.

“Aye, but we need to call the owner first for the code. Since the stores here are mostly independent, we don’t have direct access.” Samuel explained, reaching for the phone beside his desk. “Gimme a few minutes.”

While Samuel called the owner of the library, the three others kept watching the footage. Alarm bells rang in England’s mind when he saw North hastily leaving the library, clutching the backpack as he looked over his shoulder several times.

Wales spotted it too because he asked to rewind the footage. They leaned in and yes, they could see North wasn’t acting normally. His movements were stiff and England noticed his little brother fidgeting with the front of his shirt, knowing he was reaching for the necklace.

North was nervous. Why?

Samuel hung up and typed a few keys, pulling up a monitor. “Sorry about that, Mr. Howells had to go through his records for the access key.” He fiddled a few moments with the monitor before it flickered to life, this time in colours.

The library was rather quaint and homey, something both brothers would normally appreciate, but the worry held them tight. There were only two cameras in the small store: one pointing at the checkout and the other aiming at the four rows of books. It was a rather bad angle because they couldn’t see the back of the library.

Yet, they could easily see the owner welcoming North and gesturing at the rows of books. They watched as North browsed the books, nothing out of the ordinary until he got out of frame when he reached the back.

A book slid into the frame and North picked it up for a flash second and disappeared again. It was then they saw him came out of the back, now with a distressed expression, as he grabbed a magazine at random and headed for the checkout. He didn’t calm down when he paid and shoved the magazine inside his backpack, he looked ready to sprint out of the library.

“Can we see who else entered or left the store other than the owner?” England narrowed his eyes, a foreboding feeling growing in the pit of his stomach.

“Let me check… uh.” Adam hummed in confusion, typing something on the keyboard before cocking his head to the side. “Strange.”

“What is it?” Wales watched with open worry as the young employee rewound the footage.

“The timestamp changed in two instances. Look here.” Adam pointed at the corner of the screen where the time and date were displayed. He played the video in real-time and England leaned closer.

One could think it was a glitch at a first glance, but once Adam replayed the video two other times, there was no mistaking it. There was a time skip of about ten minutes before and after North's arrival at the library. The owner stayed at the cashier repairing a book during the whole time, but there was no sign of someone entering or leaving the place.

The footage had been tampered with.

A heavy frown sat on Samuel's face, rubbing his chin in thought. “This shouldn’t happen. No one has access to the footage other than Mr. Howells and us. I don’t know how it could have happened.”

“Was there a breaking in lately?” England asked, sharing a look with Wales. If it was someone responsible for North’s disappearance, then they should alert their government. It was too much of a coincidence for the timestamp to skip when North was present.

They were targeting him.

“Not that I know of other than petty thefts and the usual drunk eejits wandering in, but nothing like this.” The chief security guard looked at England. “Should we call the authorities for this?”

England shook his head, hand reaching to clutch the piece of paper inside his pocket. “I would ask for your discretion for the time being. We don’t want to alert whoever is behind this we’re onto them.”

“Could we have a copy of the footage?” Wales worried his lips, wringing his hands together.

Adam nodded, rolling his chair over the other side of the room. He rolled back to the desk with a brand new cassette tape. “I should have it ready in about ten minutes.”

They watched the rest of the footage, switching cameras to follow North. Nothing else happened for the rest of it. They saw him consult the information booth before waiting at the sitting area, eating his lunch and reading his magazine. Moments later, they saw him stop at a drugstore and head to the platform to get on the train. There seem to have been an argument between the boy and the ticket lady as North gestured wildly at the sign behind him before boarding the train. A few moments later, the train went out of frame as it left.

“Can we see inside the train?”

“I’m afraid you will have to contact the place where they keep the trains.” Samuel shook his head, looking at the two nations. “Where was he heading?”

“Glasgow’s Buchanan bus station,” Wales said absentmindedly, still staring at the monitors with a frown. “He was supposed to take the bus to Cairnryan for a ferry back to Belfast.”

“Quite a distance for a lad. A mate of mine works at Buchanan, I can give you his contact.” The older man scribbled a number down on a post-it and handed it to England. “Say Samuel sent him.”

“Thank you, Mr. Gallagher. We appreciate your cooperation.” England shook hands with him and Adam.

“I hope you find the lad, inspectors. This meddling has me worried.” Samuel frowned, looking back at the screen. “I’ve never seen something like this in all my 20 years working here.”

That didn’t reassure England at all and from the worrying lip of Wales, he wasn’t the only one.

They bid goodbye to the two security guards before leaving the room.

“I don’t like this, Arthur. Something is wrong,” Wales said quietly as they walked back through the bustling main area. “Someone was following North, but who?”

“I don’t want to jump to conclusions just yet.” England fished out his car keys, opening the entrance door to go head outside. The cloudy sky gave a gloomy atmosphere. “We’ll need a warrant to investigate Mr. Howells’s library and we need to find that train. Something spooked North.”

Wales was silent for a moment, clutching the cassette tape to his chest as he whispered in mute horror. “Do you think a pedophile kidnapped him?”

England tripped over nothing, snapping his head to his brother as he hissed. “Good God, Dylan, don’t say things like this!”

Horror gripped him at the simple thought, but he banished it away. There was no time to go spiralling down. They have information and probably a lead. They need to focus on that, not that.

Even if it was the case, as nauseous and outrageous as it was to consider it, that didn’t explain why they couldn’t Sense him.

No, something else happened to Northern Ireland and England planned to find out.

His fingers brushed against the piece of paper in his pocket, burning determination filling his chest.

They will find their little brother.

September 19^th, Laird Campbell’s office, 1743

Seán Killough was an intriguing child.

That was the first thing he thought when Scotland first saw him.

From the way he talked, his strange mismatched eyes to his even stranger clothes, Seán Killough was an enigma wrapped in a mystery. He wasn’t like the other boys. There was a guarded look that went beyond the wariness one should have when in the presence of strangers.

A little too guarded for his taste.

The way the boy would deflect a question with vague answers or how he spoke in circles, hoping for the other person to change the subject. Yet, between all those weaves and dodges, Scotland could detect a hint of truth in there. Somewhere in all the bullshit he was spewing.

The boy was hiding something, that was just a fact. The question was: what was true and what was false. How could he untangle the web the boy managed to spin when some of the thread rang true?

What was he hiding?

Many pieces of the puzzle were missing, but Scotland was determined to find them. After all, there was always a grain of doubt in every truth.

It was hard for a nation to have a read on a human that was from another land. Normally, with a native or someone who considered the land as their home, Scotland was able to know their name and a vague insight of their person. He couldn’t read minds, of course, that was just absurd and completely unwanted, but the connection he had with them let him know a few traits. Some humans were better at keeping their guard up, subconsciously or not, so the trick didn’t work every time. It was more like a gut feeling than anything.

With humans of another land, though, the ability was somewhat useless. They weren’t his, so he knew nothing about them unless their ancestors had a wee connection with him, but it was negligible. That didn’t stop Scotland from being confident to say he could still have a good read on someone who was from another Land.

And the read he got from Killough had him stumped.

The boy had a fiery spirit, despite his awkward demeanour. He had a quick tongue and a sharp mind, ready to voice his thoughts at any moment until he was thrust into a crowd, then he would turn completely mute.

Scotland found it quite amusing at the time, watching the boy squirm as he tried to blab out some excuse on why he interrupted the meeting. And although he hated to be interrupted during his work, Scotland had to admit he was intrigued by the whole thing.

He had seen that spark in the boy’s eyes when he snapped ‘I’m alive, aren’t I?’ when he was brought to their hideout. Or how defensive he got at Callum’s questioning of his knowledge in healing when helping treat Hamish’s wound.

That same spark appeared once more when Hamish dragged the boy to the front of the dais. A flare of defiance, despite the fear reflecting in his eyes. Scotland noticed the runt wanted to say something on the matter of Kendrick’s demand of his niece. He actually wanted him to hear what the boy wanted to say because he already drew his own verdict.

It wasn’t the first time Kendrick asked to punish his niece for whatever reason he could find, and probably won’t be the last. Whether it was in public or in private, it ended the same way. Scotland could tell by only a glance the man was spewing lies and the terror in the lass’ demeanour couldn’t be feigned. But as he did before, he let Kendrick speak first before coming to a decision.

He never got his chance, however, because the runt decided to butt in. Basically prostrating himself to him like an idiot. It was kind of a disappointment to see the boy fail to speak up after his dramatic intervention. He was ready to humour him, but lo and behold, the boy froze up like a deer caught in the barrel of a musket and declared to take the lass’ punishment without a second thought.

Was it selflessness or was it stupidity? He was leaning toward the latter.

What Scotland didn’t expect and got him even more curious was the look the boy sent him after the beating.

Amidst the fear, shock and confusion, there was a hidden anger, almost like a betrayal, that burned in the lad’s eyes. A wave of anger so bright, Scotland had to look away to hide his own shock. He wasn’t expecting such a reaction; like the boy couldn’t believe what he just did.

Even the slap Callum gave him hadn’t made him look like this.

The boy knew something he didn’t, and he hated it. He didn’t like being out of the loop. Scotland was supposed to be the one who held all the cards, but he had a feeling the boy managed to slip one inside his sleeve.

After the session, once everyone left, Scotland made sure to check on Miss McRae. He found her in the kitchen with Mrs. Gibson, the matronly cook fretting over her as she poured her a warm drink.

Laird Campbell stepped into the kitchen, finding the young girl sitting by the fireplace with a cup in her hand, shaken up but unharmed. Mrs. Gibson was muttering something to her, rubbing her granddaughter’s shoulder.

She looked up at the sound of footsteps. The cook quickly approached him, wide brown eyes pleading. “My laird, please, Mairead did nothing wrong. I dinnae ken where her uncle thought-”

Scotland raised a hand, shaking his head. “It’s alright, Mrs. Gibson. The lass is safe. No harm will come to her.”

Mrs. Gibson’s shoulders sagged in obvious relief, sending a prayer under her breath as she went back to her granddaughter’s side. Scotland pulled out a chair and sat opposite of them. He leaned in, trying to catch the girl’s eyes.

“How are ye doing, lass?” He lowered his voice.

Mairead still flinched, but slowly raised her head to glance at him. She looked nervous by his presence but with her grandmother's reassurance, she said in a meek voice. “I-I’m alright, sir.”

Scotland leaned back to give her space and crossed his arms, brows furrowed. “Could you tell me what really happened? I dinnae trust half the words yer uncle say.”

It took him a bit to coax the full story out of Miss McRae, but once she did, he had all the evidence he needed. He’ll send Angus to find the drunk man she described and he’ll have a word with his sentry men. They were doing a piss poor job of letting something like this happen on his property.

As he stood up to leave the family, Mrs. Gibson stepped away from Mairead and walked up to him. She fidgeted with the apron, eyes creased with worry. “Sir, if I may, what about the lad?”

Laird Campbell looked over his shoulder to glance at the girl hunched over the fireplace, then locked eyes with Mrs. Gibson.

“I had to set an example,” he muttered, “It was the only way.”

With that, he bid her goodnight and left the kitchen.

Now, some might say he went hard on the lad with his punishment, while others might say he went too easy on him. But he did what he needed to do.

He couldn’t show his people he was slipping.

Besides, he was doing the boy a favour by making him understand to not let his mouth run off as he pleased. Wherever he came from, the boy clearly needed a reminder to keep his head down. He was lucky the lad didn’t end up in a place much less merciful.

Not that it stopped Mrs. Gibson or the staff to show their opinion about his decision through actions. It appeared the boy had won the favour of the staff ever since he started working with them.

It wasn’t insubordination per se, they wouldn’t dare disrespect their Laird, but more like veiled judgment. Giving him the least presentable meal, forgetting to refill his cup, leaving the scratchiest cloth when taking a bath or simply making his tea a wee bit bitter.

It was subtle, easy to pass it off as human error, but Scotland knew better. He may have feigned ignorance, but he saw it as clear as day.

To be honest, it was funny and refreshing to see those small acts of defiance. It reassured him that humans hadn’t lost their touch and he was proud his people still had a fighting bone in them.

Even if the reason for said defiance came from defending a little Irish boy.

The next time Scotland saw Seán Killough, he was surprised, once again, to see that same anger. But this time, that anger sputtered into life in the most amusing way ever.

Scotland hadn’t seen the lad work at the field, mostly staying at the castle busy with paperwork, but he made sure Hamish tell him his progress. It was obvious the boy had no experience in fieldwork, despite claiming to come from a farming family, but somehow he pushed it through without a complaint.

So, obviously, Scotland told Hamish to change his work and suggested the logs carts to add a bit of a challenge.

And man did the lad delivered. Scotland just wanted to see how the runt was struggling with the axe he knew was poorly sharpened. He wanted to make sure he understood. And oh, what a delighting and intriguing greeting he got when the boy saw him.

While his passionate speech about equality and respect was entertaining and made him wonder where the boy learned such philosophy, the cold fury behind those blue and green eyes told another story.

The boy seemed to gain some courage when alone because he looked ready to throw hands, even with him, the Laird of Castle Kaerndal, the personification of Scotland.

It was hilarious to watch, and Scotland relished it, despite finding it infuriating.

Because if the kid can’t back down as told, then he would keep throwing shit at him until he relented.

It was safer for him.

Scotland leaned back into his chair, rubbing his temples as a headache was starting to form. He glanced at the pile of letters scattered around his desk, sighing deeply. Even having stepped away from the parliament for several years now, he wasn’t free from paperwork.

He picked up his quill, dipping it into his inkwell, and proceeded to answer letters. Out of the three clans, only one would be able to come for the Gathering, the others having plans elsewhere. Not that he minded, less chaos to manage. He would have to talk with Callum about the trading treaty renewal.

A knock pulled the Laird out of his thoughts as he read the confirmation of clan Mackintosh for the upcoming event. “Come in.”

The door creaked open as Hamish entered the room. He closed it behind him and walked forward to stop in front of him, dipping his head in greeting. “Sir.”

“What is it, Hamish?” Scotland asked, glancing up at him before going back to reading the letter. The visiting clan will be sending his assistant a few weeks earlier to help with the preparations. He jotted down a note to remind himself to check out the provisions they got so far.

“He finished,” Hamish said.

“Who finished?”

“The boy completed his task.”

“Really?” Scotland said absentmindedly, reaching for the stack of letters on the corner of his desk. He riffled through them until he found the trading entries. “Ian sent the fourth cart, didn’t he? Make him chop that one, that would keep him busy.”

“I mean, I could, but um…” The clansman hesitated before clearing up his throat. “He passed out, Sir.”

That caught Scotland’s attention as he fully looked at Hamish, quirking a bushy eyebrow. “Come again?”

Hamish stood in front of his desk, scratching the back of his head as he said, “Ian brought the fourth cart yesterday and the boy finished it just an hour ago.”

Both eyebrows were now raised as Scotland stared at Hamish, said man nodding in mutual disbelief. “I didn’t believe it at first, but then I went to check it out and he chopped all four carts in less than three days, even the pile behind the shed. The night patrol confirmed they saw him chop all night.”

Few things managed to catch Scotland off guard and learning the boy passed out from sheer exhaustion was not one of them. But then he remembered how odd the lad was, so really, he shouldn’t have been surprised at all.

And yet, the boy surpassed all expectations. Again.

The little shit.

“Where is he now?” He grunted as he went back to writing, refusing to acknowledge he got outmanoeuvred.

“Back to his room, Dr. Graham is staying with him to make sure it’s nothing serious,” Hamish said, scrunching his nose. “I wasn’t there when it happened, but Malcolm said the boy burst into the mess hall, dropped the axe to the floor and said ‘I can do this all day’ before falling face-first to the ground.”

Scotland felt his eyebrow twitch as he clenched his jaw. God, the runt was really testing him.

Though a part of him wanted to bark a laugh at the sheer audacity.

He looked back to his work, dipping his quill a bit more forceful than he should. “Send Callum here, there are a few reports I need to talk about,” he said, voice flat to hide in irritation.

“Right away.” Hamish nodded. He turned away to leave but paused, sounding unsure. “What about the boy, sir? What should I do?”

“Let him sleep it off,” Scotland grumbled, signing the bottom of the letter before going on the next one. “That way he won’t bother us for a time.”

“Of course, sir.” Tipping his head, Hamish closed the door behind him, leaving the Laird alone in his office.

Scotland waited for the footsteps to disappears before he sighed heavily, leaning against his chair. He pinched the bridge of his nose, the headache worsening by the second. He glanced at the setting sun from the window, the final ray of light entering the room.

Against his will, he huffed a laugh.

“Get your rest, boy, you earned it,” he muttered, picking back up his quill and went back to work.

Seán Killough was an intriguing child.

An enigma wrapped in a mystery.

Good thing Scotland loved a good puzzle.

Chapter Text

Chapter 7

The Woman of Balnain

September 21th, 1743

Northern Ireland poured the warm water into the tub, watching the steam swirling in the air with bleary eyes. He dipped his hand to check the temperature, nodding to himself at the feeling and set the bucket down.

With careful movements, he took off his necklace, disrobed and folded his clothes on the stool by the fireplace before stepping into the tub. A blissful groan left his lips as he sank into the water, the warmth seeping into his sore muscles.

This was the greatest feeling ever. He wished he could stay here forever. North closed his eyes and slumped back, letting his body just feel and relax.

Yesterday was a bit of a blur. Like you weren't sure if it was a dream or not. Like a fog blocking your view, but you knew something was there. Which made sense because he spent most of that time sleeping like a rock.

North shifted, grumbling at the small space of the tub as he pulled his legs to his chest. He looked at his hands, wincing as he flexed them. Most of the blisters had healed throughout the night and thanks to Dr. Graham's poultice, but they were still sore as hell.

It was a gamble to have let the doctor treat his hands. The risk of exposing his enhanced healing was real close. It would have been a pain to try to explain why a seemingly fourteen years old boy could unnaturally heal his hands.

Not that it mattered fretting over it because he was unconscious at the time.

He wasn't sure if he should feel smug or straight out embarrassed about the whole wood chopping fiasco. Sure, he wanted to show Scotland he wasn't backing away just to smack that smirk off his face, but he wasn't expecting to pass out entirely.

In front of everyone, might he add.

It was one thing to drop like a sack of potatoes out of exhaustion, but to do it in the middle of the mess hall, that was just the worst.

Though he was a wee bit proud he lasted that long. He had to thank his Nation side to keep up with the strains. It would have been worse if he was human. But that didn't douse out the humiliation he went through. He wasn't sure whether the slap-to-the-face for speaking up was better than the crashing-from-exhaustion.

North huffed, dipping his hands back into the water.

On second thought, no, nothing will beat that. Getting beaten up was still outrageous, no matter the reason. If his brothers heard a single whisper of this, he would never hear the end of it. God, just thinking about it made him flush and wish the floor to swallow him up.

He grabbed the bar of soap, dunking it into the tub and hissed at the stings in his hands.

To be perfectly honest, he couldn't remember walking up to the mess hall when he finished chopping all four carts. The last recollection of that day was that simmering anger in his chest, the black spots swimming in his vision and the searing sun looming over him.

After that, it was foggy. He remembered glimpses of waking up in his room with Dr. Graham wrappings his hands with bandages, telling him to drink water. Food was brought to his room and he believed he heard Mrs. Gibson's voice a few times. One of those times, she sounded angry for reasons he didn't know, livid even. Like she was getting ready for a battle.

To say it was the shock of the century to learn the reason for her anger when he went downstairs this morning. He was still feeling like shite and had a horrible headache, but at least he could move without creaking like a rusty door.

North had barely set a foot in the kitchen before he was pulled into a crushing hug as Mrs. Gibson all but shoved his face into her chest. He tried to squirm his way out, but that only encouraged her to hold him tighter, practically smothering him.

It was amidst that incredibly uncomfortable moment that North registered what she was saying.

" I knew he pushed ye too far. He didn't have to go all the way and I made sure he knew that."

North managed to dislodge himself from her, face beet red both from embarrassment and suffocation, as he stared at the woman in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"I gave him a piece of my mind, of course," Mrs. Gibson said with a huff. "I respect Mr. Campbell greatly, ye ken, but this time, he went too far. Honestly, sometimes I feel I'm scolding a bairn all over again."

Green and blue eyes widened as the words sunk in. "You-you lectured the Laird?" He gaped at her.

He couldn't picture the stout woman berating a six-foot-tall man like a mother to a child after being caught with a hand in the cookie jar. A cook chewing out the Laird of a castle, who happened to be a Nation. The personification of Scotland was scolded by a cook. But then he recalled the vaguest memory of Dr. Graham saying 'the laird was facing Death itself' while he dabbed a rag to his forehead.

"Aye, it isn't the first time he needed to be hauled over the coals." She scowled, a flash of righteous anger in her eyes. "I understand his reasons and the duties he has for the people, but I won't stand by his methods. What he did was beyond childish."

Warmth fluttered in North's chest, touched by her words. It was nice to know at least someone had his back. The feeling grew stronger, as well as the flush on his face when he noticed Lily and the other scullery maids nod their heads in agreement.

"I cannae thank you enough, Seán, for what you did for my granddaughter." Mrs. Gibson patted his hand. "I'm sorry you had to go through all this trouble for it."

"I would have done it anyway if it wasn't your granddaughter, Mrs. Gibs." North fought the instinct to pull his hand back, feeling self-conscious as he shuffled his feet."Mairead wasn't in the wrong in any of it. We may be young, but our voices have a right to be heard no matter what."

Mrs. Gibson stared at him for a moment, and North feared she was going to suffocate him again, but then her eyes crinkled, a soft smile curling up. "You have a good heart, lad. One day, you'll grow to be a great man."

The boy sputtered, not sure what to say as he ducked his head. The cook let out a laugh and ushered him to the Great Hall for breakfast.

Most people had already finished their breakfast when he sat down at one of the tables, including the clansmen who stayed to chat. And try as he might to stay unnoticed, he was quickly spotted by them.

So, naturally, they proceeded to mock him, especially Malcolm and Hamish, but somehow it was less heated than before. Then again, he was still dead tired, so he might have imagined it, but he still flipped them off when they looked away. Scotland was also present, sitting at the long table on the dais, discussing with Callum. The Laird paid him no mind, and North pushed the hurt at that as he sent his brother a glare before turning to his seat.

It wasn't that he doubted Mrs. Gibson's words about what she did, but it was hard to believe when his brother acted as nothing happened.

He quickly got his answer, however, when Lily brought him a bowl of steamy stew, accompanied by a warm pastry. North thanked her and quickly dug in. It was as Lily headed back to the kitchen that Scotland stopped her to ask if there were any pastries left.

Miss Lily was a hardworking, kind soft-spoken person, so it was quite a shock to hear her say in a clipped yet polite tone that they were no more until the next morning. With that, she curtsied in respect and left the room.

North was gobsmacked as he watched her leave and tensed up when Scotland turned his gaze on him. They stared at one another for what felt an eternity until a heavy frown sat on the man's face when he spotted the dessert resting neatly on North's plate.

So, North responded by taking a huge bite of the last pastry in the castle and grinned.

If looks could kill, North would have perished on the spot, but he was the youngest of the Kirkland. He got to be a little shit when wanted to be. Not that the older nation knew that.

The Laird narrowed his eyes, jaw clenching to keep from saying something before he scoffed and went back talking with Callum.

North had never felt so grand in his life.

For the rest of the day, he was left unbothered and it made him suspicious in the beginning. He was half expecting Hamish to jump on him to send him back to chop another cart of logs. So he went to the kitchen to help, but Mrs. Gibson had all but sent him to his room to rest. And he had to agree with her. Aside from being a giant walking bruise, North reeked of sweat and who knew what.

He tried to wash himself with a rag during his week of labour, but it did a shit job and he didn't have the energy at the end of the day. So after filling several buckets with water and dragging the wooden tub down to the basement for privacy, North drew a bath.

Which was where he was now.

The young nation scooped water in his palms and scrubbed his face, relishing the warm feeling running across his skin. With the bar of soap, he washed all the grime and sweat away, the smell of wildflowers filling the air. Not the aroma of his choice, but better than smelling like shit.

He still lamented for the lack of a shower or a decent bathtub. It took him almost an hour preparing the whole thing, from fetching the buckets to wait for the water to heat up by the fireplace. But it was worth it. His sore body needed it.

Besides, he wasn't in a rush. Doctor Graham was down at the village for the day, so the basement was the best place to take a bath. He wished he could lock the door to keep his privacy, but alas he didn't have the keys. Though Mrs. Gibson reassured him that no one will go to the basement, he still felt paranoid of having someone bursting into the room.

Because he quickly learned that some people in the 18th century didn't shy away from taking baths out in the open. His eyes almost bled out on his way back to the barn when he spotted Ian skinny-dipping into the river. The man didn't even look bothered by the chilly air.

North poured a cup of water on his head and proceeded to scrub his hair with the bar of soap. He doubted it will work as normal shampoo, but it will do. As he rinsed his air, he closed his eyes and thought of what he could do next.

Finding a way back home was still his priority, but it proved to be harder than he expected. Aside from being exploited for manual labour, he didn't have the chance of procuring a map or even explore the damn place. It was hard to be alone when Hamish followed you like a shadow.

Mairead said they were in the region of Strathpeffer, about half a week from Inverness. Sadly, he didn't know much about Scotland's geography, except for the main cities. But then again, he didn't know what he would do once he found a map. He didn't know where to go or who to ask for help. He could try to search for England but if Scotland was a total arsehole, who knew how this England was or how different Wales was?

Was England in his pirate phase at this time? Or was that earlier?

No, what he needed was information before making his plan of escape. He needed to know the ins and outs of this place, watch the pattern of patrols and gather resources. How? He didn't know, but he'll find a way.

North washed out the last bit of froth from his hair, running a hand through it with a sigh. Perhaps by helping Dr. Graham, he could learn a thing or two about the region. He leaned back on the tub, blinking his eyes open.

Only to stare at Scotland standing in the middle of the room.

"CHRIST ON A BIKE!" North flailed his arms in a panic, splashing water all around him as he gathered the suds in a poor attempt to cover himself. Face bright red, he sputtered, "Sco-! Mr. Cam- What are you- The hell are you - what are you doing here?!"

Please, Universe, let him die right here and there.

"Enjoying yer bath?" Scotland drawled with a cocked eyebrow, clearly amused by his mortification.

"I was until you showed up." North hissed, pulling his legs close to his chest as he glared at him.

The laird snorted, turning away to give him a semblance of privacy as he perused the bookshelf by the fireplace. "I wish to discuss something with you."

"Couldn't it wait after I'm done?" North grumbled, wrapping his arms around his knees. He wouldn't dare step out of the tub until the man left. Modern Scotland may like walking arse naked alone in his home like the shameless bastard he was, but North had standards, thank you very much.

"I'm a busy man. I've got other matters to attend to." Scotland shrugged, picking a book and leafing through it. "Dr. Graham told me he wished to take you as his apprentice, aye?"

"Yeah, he said I could start once he came back from his trip."

Which technically, he was supposed to start yesterday, but well… North was dead to the world. Though the doctor did talk a bit about his travels when he was bandaging his hands and North was lucid enough to follow the conversation.

"You know your way around the place?"

"More or less," North said, watching the man closely. "I don't know much about botany, but I know how to use the equipment."

Scotland hummed, not sure if he was paying attention or not. Knowing Modern Scotland, he probably wasn't. The man closed the book and turned to face him, again, not giving a damn North was in the middle of a freaking bath. "Gwyllyn the bard will be singing tonight. I'd like you to come along as my guest."

North could only blink at the laird, caught off guard by the randomness of it all. "Um… what?"

He had no idea how to respond to that. He knew Scotland could be blunt at times, but the sudden change of topic was a bit unusual of him. North was half-afraid the man was going to order him another week of labour just for the hell of it or throw him out in the streets for being a nuisance. But instead, he got invited for a performance? To listen to a bard sing?

What the bleeding hell did that mean?

North grew suspicious, not sure where the man was going with this. This was weird. Too weird for his taste. His brother was acting strange. Come to think of it, Scotland looked a bit tense. There was a tightness around his eyes despite acting casual as he plucked another book from the shelf, purposely not making eye contact and it wasn't for being polite. He was pretending to do something else, almost as if he was trying to-

Mismatched eyes widened as it clicked.

Oh.

A few years back, his brothers were trying to watch a movie. A huge emphasis on the word try. England and Scotland were on the couch, arguing between Ghostbuster and the Terminator. He, personally, wanted to see Aliens, but England declared he was too young to watch it, which was just stupid. Wales, sitting on the armchair, chimed a few times as the mediator but was more focused on the scarf he was knitting.

North wasn't interested in knitting, but he had to admit his brother's work was quite a sight. It was a tricolour woollen scarf with little intricate motifs of dragons because, of course, it would be dragons. He was halfway through it and in the process of adding little stars around one of the scaly mythical creatures.

It was at that moment that England and Scotland started wrestling for the remote, knocking over a cup of coffee that went soaring into the air. North had the time to grab a pillow for protection, but sadly for Wales, the coffee splashed all over him and his scarf.

His Welsh brother had looked at his work in horror as if someone had thrown a sheep off a cliff before turning his gaze to both England and Scotland. A gaze so cold, it could freeze Hell itself. As an unwritten rule, it was a bad idea to anger Wales because while he was the most level-headed one and had the best temper out of them all, it was a death wish to provoke him. Tease him? It was fine, healthy even. But anger him? You wished you had a running start.

So England and Scotland froze on the couch, mid-trying to grab each other's hair as they stared eyes-wide at Wales. North was waiting with bated breath as he pulled the pillow to his face. England sputtered an apology just as Scotland blamed England before their mouth clicked shut when brown eyes narrowed into slits. It was a whole full minute before Wales took a deep breath, making everyone flinch, and with a calm voice, said they were going to watch The Fox and the Hound.

Without another word, Wales went to the kitchen to grab napkins. England and Scotland took the moment to aggressively whisper to each other, trading insults and glaring daggers, but stopped when Wales came back. They then took one corner of the couch, fuming and sporting matching scowls. After putting the cassette tape, they proceeded to watch the movie in silence.

A week later, on an early morning, North was munching on cereal while Wales was nursing a cup of tea, reading the morning papers. Scotland then came strolling by with a bag in hand and without saying hello, dumped it on the table and said he found it in a thrift shop. Inside the bag were three brand-new balls of woollen yarn of the exact colour of the scarf.

Scotland didn't do apologies, the prideful idiot that he was, so the act itself was the closest thing they could get. North was about to make a snarky comment about seeing the price tag of the 'thrift shop', but the man practically sprinted out of the room. Wales had rolled his eyes, but the touched look on his face said it all. Later on Christmas day, during their gift exchange, a familiar tricolour dragon-themed scarf poured out from a box on Scotland's lap. He made a show complaining about such a lame gift, despite his face turning bright red, but begrudgingly accepted it in the end.

Like the rest of the family, they have an easier time expressing themselves with actions rather than words.

And this Scotland right here was doing just that.

It took everything in North to stop from bursting out laughing as he schooled his expression. "Thank you for the invitation, sir. I'll be there."

He must have done a terrible job because the laird's left eyebrow twitched ever so slightly and he could have sworn his brother's face was getting a wee bit red.

Aye, North knew exactly what Scotland was doing and Scotland knew that he knew.

Amazing.

Laird Campbell nodded stiffly and left the room without another word. North waited until the footsteps faded before he started snickering. He knew he shouldn't let his guard down, that he must be careful around this Scotland because he wasn't the same brother he knew.

But what just happened was so similar to Modern Scotland, he couldn't help it. Alistair was so shit at apologizing like a normal human being and this one was just as bad. Maybe even worse.

North looked back at where Allen stood, the festering hurt and anger he gathered throughout the week thawing ever so slightly.

Perhaps Past Scotland wasn't that different from the Modern one. Was he a bigger arsehole in this period? Yes, one hundred percent. But underneath all that indifferent persona, he could see a glimpse of the brother he knew.

And that was a reassurance.

With one last huffed laugh, North grabbed a towel and stepped out of the tub. He patted himself dry and put on his clothes. Swinging the necklace back around his neck, he stashed it under his shirt and grabbed his vest.

"254 years into the past and your apologies are shitty as ever. Why am I even surprised?" North said to himself with a snicker. "I applaud you for your efforts, Ali."

He picked up the buckets and went to drain the tub. Once he threw out the last bucket of water, he stretched his arms above his head, feeling much better than the last few days. The young nation left the basement and headed to his room, curious about the bard visiting the castle.

Later in the evening

"Seán, over here!"

North looked over the dozen people gathered in the Great Hall, sighing out in relief at spotting a familiar face as Mairead waved at him from one of the benches in the middle. Seeing the clustered people didn't bode him well. It reminded him too much of the last time there were that many people. Pushing that horrible day away, he weaved between people until he reached her.

Mairead smiled at him and patted the spot next to her. "I wasn't sure you'll be coming, but I saved you a spot just in case. The room will soon be packed for the performance."

"Thanks." North sat down, looking around at the people gathered nervously. "It's… uh, it's quite crowded."

"Aye, Mr. Gwyllyn is well-sought after for his songs. They're quite lovely," she said, pointing at the curly, dark-haired man on the front tuning a lap harp. "He's welcome in any laird's hearth. He just came from the Mackenzies, you ken."

"How long has he been at the castle?"

"Oh, as long as I can remember. My ma told me he was here even before I was born." Mairead shrugged before turning to face him, worried brown eyes looking at him. "How are you feeling? I heard Dr. Graham had to treat you."

North flushed as he scratched the back of his neck. "I'm alright, a bit tired, but nothing I can handle."

Mairead huffed in a way that eerily reminded him of Mrs. Gibson as she said, "I don't think passing out from exhaustion counts as 'handling it', Seán."

He sputtered for a bit, trying to defend himself, but caught the guilty look on her face. He sighed, pulling the end of his sleeves in a poor attempt to cover his hands. There were still a few scabs healing. "I don't blame you nor it was your fault in the first place. Sure, my back hurts like hell, but I'll be fine in a few days. As long as I don't get into trouble anyway."

With his luck, it would be a challenge.

Mairead didn't look reassured, glancing down at his hands with worried lips. She sighed and nodded before looking up with a wan smile. "I'm just glad you're doing better now. Besides," her smile turned mischievous, "I dinnae think the laird will bother you any time soon. My granny made sure of that."

North grinned back, shaking his head. "I still can't believe Mrs. Gibs did that. I mean, lecturing the laird of all people."

"Aye, Mr. Campbell is quite young for a laird, but he does a good job," she said, oblivious of the snort from North because Scotland was by far a 'young man'. Though not as old as Ireland. He was pretty sure his older brother had walked with dinosaurs. "That's why Mr. Dougall let him take the reign for the time being."

The boy frowned, not recognizing the name. "Who?"

"Callum Dougall. He's the War Chief of the laird, but he was originally the laird of Castle Kaerndal for the past twenty years until Mr. Campbell came along five years ago."

"Really?" Bushy eyebrows rose in surprise. He was horrible at politics and all the stuffy stuff, but he would have assumed a clan chief had an heir or a relative to pass down the Lairdship. But then again, it might be a front to avoid suspicion about Scotland's true nature. It would have been hard to explain why their Laird hadn't aged in the past twenty years.

"Aye, Mr. Dougall acts as his right-hand man and guides him through the duties of a laird, though it wasn't that necessary. The laird made quite an impression when he arrived and quickly earned the respect of the tenants despite being a Campbell."

"What's wrong with being a Campbell?" North cocked an eyebrow.

Mairead looked around to make sure the people weren't watching and leaned closer. "The Campbells aren't well-received here so far north, at least that's what I heard. I think the clan Campbell resides more in the western side of the country."

Again, North tended to shy away from politics because it only led to headaches. Scotland had talked a bit about the clan system during one of England's history lessons. Each of his brothers took their turn to teach him about their history, and honestly, it was boring. Not only they had so many wars, most of them for stupid reasons, but the never-ending list of kings and queens was just ridiculous. Hell, North didn't know which King George was in this time. They were four in a freaking century.

Though it made him wonder why his brother would choose a name that wasn't that welcome up here. In fact, he didn't know how long Scotland used the name Campbell; he never heard him using it. Who knows, perhaps his brothers change surnames every few centuries and North happened to come along when they started using the name Kirkland. He should add it to his list of things to research.

A hush settled in the room, and North looked over his shoulder in time to see Laird Campbell enter the Great Hall by the double door, followed by Callum. Dressed in neat adornments, the laird walked to the front and greeted the bard with a clasp of hands before facing the crowd. Cool grey eyes surveyed the room, pausing when they spotted North, before looking back at the people gathered.

Scotland gave a speech about welcoming everyone and wishing them to enjoy the performance. Once more, North was surprised by the eloquence in the way his brother spoke, the confidence in his words and how he captured everyone's attention. He could see how the man managed to gain the people's trust so quickly, aside from being their home nation.

Such a contrast from Modern Scotland, who chugged the flute of champagne on New Year's Eve before giving a half-arsed toast that almost made England burst into tears from embarrassment in front of the guests. What a night that was.

The people in the room applauded as the laird finished his speech. He down on the large mahogany chair, Callum sitting next to him in a smaller but not less well intricate chair.

Scotland nodded to the bard. "The stage is yours, Gwyllyn."

"Thank you, my Laird. I hope the songs will please you." The bard bowed, a Welsh lilt in his voice as he sat down on the stool. He strummed the lap harp to make sure it was well tuned and took a deep breath.

And played.

The man's voice carried across the room, soft and gentle notes floating in the air. One could hear and feel the emotion in the melody as the bard plucked the notes with ease. The entire room was enthralled. Some songs were in Welsh, while others were in Gàidhlig.

It wasn't North's type of music by any means, preferring his classic 70s and 80s mixtapes, but he could appreciate the beauty of it all. Mairead would sometimes tell him the translation or at least the gist of some of the songs, careful to not speak too loudly, and he was grateful because he couldn't understand a thing.

The language barrier didn't stop him from enjoying it. The music of Gwyllyn the bard was beautiful and all at once, North was hit by nostalgia.

Wales had a harp in his home, a bigger one, and when North was little he would ask his brother to play for him. It always brought him peace and calm whenever he heard his brother play, and sometimes Wales would sing too. His songs were sometimes haunting but they were beautiful as well, even if they were in Welsh. North would even try to sing along despite butchering the words. The best times were when it was raining, and Wales would bring his harp by the window and North would sit by his feet, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. The pitter-patter of the rain mixed with the soft plucks of strings was ethereal, and North would fall asleep against his brother's legs.

The silence that followed the years of his brother's hearing loss after WW2 was painful and horrible to watch. Wales was the musical one of the family, the Land of Song, and losing his hearing had crushed his soul. North remembered seeing his brother running shaking fingers across his harp a few months after the accident, only to collapse into sobs for not being able to hear the music. Even though he regained most of his hearing back a decade later, it took his brother almost another decade to even consider playing again. The irrational fear of not being able to hear the notes despite hearing everything else kept his brother from touching the harp.

When Wales started playing again, it was like seeing the sunrise for the first time after an eternity of darkness. The music brought him back to life and gave hope to the rest of the family. Ireland actually cried when he heard his brother playing when he was visiting, beyond happy Wales was coming back to them. From there, Wales kept playing and even if they didn't say it out loud, everyone was grateful to hear it.

North blinked back tears at the onslaught of emotions storming in his chest as a thought crossed his mind.

Will this be the closest thing to his brother's music he would be able to hear? Will he ever get the chance to watch England again lip-syncing the Beatles while doing chores and pretending the broom was a bass? What about hearing Ireland and Scotland singing like dying cats after too many drinks? Will he ever see his brothers ag-

"Oh, this one is my favourite! He always plays it for the end," Mairead said excitedly, jostling North out of his spiralling thoughts as he focused back on the performance.

"W-what is it about?" North said, hoping she wouldn't notice the waver in his voice.

"This one is about a man out late on a faerie hill on the eve of Samhain. He hears the sound of a woman singing sad and plaintive from the very rocks of the hill. I know it by heart!"

Gwyllyn shifted on the stool and arranged his lap harp before strumming the strings. This one started slower and somewhat eerie, but it carried across the room, nevertheless. Then, the bard started to sing, voice as haunting as the melody.

"I am the woman of Balnain.

The folk have stolen me over again,

The stones seemed to stay

I stood upon the hill, and wind did rise, and the sound of thunder rolled across the land."

Mairead said to him, following the rhythm of the melody, unaware of the way North froze up.

"I placed my hands upon the tallest stone

And travelled to a far, distant land

Where I lived for a time among strangers who became lovers and friends."

He looked from the bard to Mairead, wide mismatched eyes staring at her.

"But one day, I saw the moon came out

And the wind rose once more.

So I touched the stones

And travelled back to my own land

And took up again with the man I had left behind."

Heart racing, North couldn't hide the shock in his voice. "She came back through the stones?

"Aye, she did. They always do," Mairead said with a nod just as the song ended. The room erupted in applause and she stood up to join.

But North could just sit there, the applause muffled by the blood rushing to his ears as he processed what he just heard. It must be a coincidence… right? It can't be possible.

Mairead turned to look at him, grinning. "So, what do you think?"

"I-I uh…" North trailed off, mind running miles per second.

Could it be? Could this be his ticket home?

Folks songs were stories and legends told from person to person. It was madness to take it as fact. And yet, what the bard just sang was a beacon of hope. North didn't travel through stones on top of a hill nor did he hear thunder roll across the land, but he did travel to a far, distant land.

Folktales were just stories and legends, but they still held a grain of truth.

And this one just presented itself to him.

It was just a possibility, a far-fetched one but hey, if he managed to travel back in time, then surely this song had to mean something. It had to.

"Seán?"

North blinked twice, realizing he hadn't said anything, and smiled awkwardly. "Uh, yes, I liked it. A wee bit eerie but it was nice!"

He looked back at the front where Gwyllyn was bowing at the audience and for the first time since he got here, since he stumbled 250 years into the past, hope filled his chest.

He must find the stones. It may be a futile attempt, but he needed to try. He could no longer wait for permission or help to leave. He needed to make the first move. The chances were slim, but he will take the odds.

Northern Ireland narrowed his eyes, a burning determination running through his veins.

If he ever wanted to hear his brother's music again, he must leave this place. If he ever wanted to see his family again, he must escape Castle Kaerndal.

Or die trying.

Chapter Text

Chapter 8

Pay Your Dues

On the road, September 26^th, 1743

Northern Ireland pulled his coat closer, shoving his hands into his pockets. Sat on a rock, he looked over the lake, admiring the scenery of the Scottish Highlands. The sky was cloudy, the few morning rays of sunlight glimmering on the calm water. Fall was slowly starting to make its home as the trees around him sent colourful leaves dancing with the wind.

He took in the crisp air, enjoying the wind ruffling his hair. He wasn’t an outdoor type of person, but he had to admit the change of scenery felt good. He understood why Scotland loved taking hikes, the view was breathtaking. It brought him a calm he didn’t know he needed. A peace that would lull him into sleep, reminding him of the times he went camping with his brothers.

Well… normally camping trips ended up with at least one melted tent, but there were moments he wouldn’t trade for the world like sharing goofy stories under the stars or daring each other to shove as many marshmallows as possible in their mouth. Wales won that dare, for about one second, before he started choking and Scotland had to intervene, but not without laughing his arse off while doing it. That was when England decided to trip over one of the marshmallows sticks when he tried to give Wales a water bottle and crashed, luckily, beside the campfire that sent a burning log to one of the tents. Polyester fabric wasn’t exactly fireproof so North had stared in fascinated horror as it went up in flames in less than a minute before Ireland dumped the cup of chicken noodles soup he was eating to douse it.

Surprisingly, nobody got seriously hurt except for Wales’ pride, England’s scraped knees and Scotland’s stomach for laughing too hard. Ireland was grumpily mourning his cup of chicken noodles soup as he went to see the damage. In other words, instead of two 3-persons tents, they now had to find a way to fit five people into one. It was a living nightmare to arrange the sleeping bags and who slept beside who, but they managed. North barely slept on that night because someone either kept wiggling like a worm or snoring like a truck. Nevertheless, the entire trip was fun despite the ridiculousness that was his family.

If North closed his eyes for a moment, he could pretend he was currently on a camping trip. He could pretend the raucous laughs of the clan behind him were his brothers and not just a group of strangers.

A sharp bark of a laugh broke the boy’s peace as he glanced over his shoulder, wrinkling his nose at the rather salacious story Malcolm was telling, the others cheering him on. They were sitting around the last bit of the fire, eating their breakfast and drinking.

North huffed, pulling out a piece of bread from his coat pocket and nibbling on it, looking back at the lake.

When he said he would do anything to leave Castle Kaerndal, North wasn’t expecting on leaving the very next day. His mind was already coming up with ideas and ways to sneak out of the castle. He was thinking of gathering food, bundling it in a spare shirt and hiding it in the stables. He was planning on going to Dr. Graham’s workplace to find a map in a book.

North was ready to just book it. The possibility of dying in a ditch be damned.

But lo and behold, the Universe decided to mess with him and dumped him in this situation instead.

Another howl of laughter filled the air.

The official reason, according to Laird Campbell, was to ‘accompany’ the clan during the rent collecting and help them when needed. That was the reason he was stuck here.

A Laird wasn’t just the chief of a clan, but also the owner of a vast land where tenants lived. The tenants paid rent in exchange for protection and living under the clan’s name. It was a self-explanatory process, but North had a feeling there was something else going on. A foreboding one and he hated feeling that. It happened more times than he wanted to throughout his life. Unfortunately, he couldn’t figure what was wrong yet.

Scotland had brought up the subject on the next morning after the bard’s performance and casually threw in that North will be going with the clan. At the time, North couldn’t believe his luck and thought the man would let him go until that hope was crushed when he explained the rest. 

It was one thing to be travelling with a bunch of strange men, but the fact that his not-really-his-brother-but-actually-he-was brother wouldn’t be coming made him uneasy. Despite being a right bastard, Scotland was the single familiarity he had in this backward world.

But nope, the man booted him out of the castle with barely a wave of a hand. Modern Scotland was hard to read at times and this one was no different, but North knew there was another reason the man sent him away. He saw that glimmer of something in that indifferent face of his. Like the man was waiting for something to happen. North’s suspicion only grew when they hit the road.

The boy turned back to watch the group of men laughing and noticed they were now in the middle of what appeared to be a wrestling match. They made camp yesterday, a few distances from the road and were soon going to start packing to get going. But of course, the group of men always took their time with their leisure.

Ian was urging the youngest and newest member of the clan, Andrew, to give it a go, only to burst out laughing when the young man missed his shot.

Andrew Findlay was a bit older than North, physically speaking. He was 19 years old and the nephew of the clansman Angus. From what he gathered, the young man was a bit arrogant and serious to prove himself to the clan. Though, that didn’t stop the clan to poke fun at him. At least, they weren’t malicious in their teasing, unlike North, who was treated like a pest most of the time.

Not that North cared because he found that ignoring them worked better than snapping something back at them. But he did feel a weird kinship with Andrew, despite finding his arrogance a bit irking, because he knew how it felt to be the youngest of a group.

North finished his bread and pulled out a small cloth from his pocket. Unfolding it, he picked a few cubes of dry cheese and ate them. Not the best breakfast in the world, but it was better than joining the group and being their target again for their shenanigans.

“Killough, get yer arse over here!” Malcolm called out from the group, a sharp grin on his face that put North immediately on edge. He spoke too soon.

While Ian teased him just for the laughs, Malcolm was of all of them the most malicious one, or at least the one with a serious douchebag attitude. Hamish was grumpy and exasperated with North, but he wasn’t spiteful, and Angus just pretended he didn’t exist. Hell, even Callum was better than Malcolm and that was saying a lot because Callum hated his guts since he first set eyes on him.

Just the other day, while North was cleaning one of the tarps, Malcolm approached him and ‘accidentally’ stepped on the tarp with his muddy boots. He even had the gall to say he missed a spot by wiping his freaking boot like it was a doormat. Another was when North was struggling with a crate and instead of helping him like a decent person, Malcolm instead tripped him and proceeded to watch with a smirk as Callum yelled at North for dropping the cargo. Or the time the man threw a log in the campfire, ‘forgetting’ North was stocking the fire and almost burning his sleeve off. He was a total bastard!

The worst part was that he couldn’t retaliate. Believe him, North had tried to get him back with his own bag of tricks. After all, he was the best at prank wars with his brothers. But every time he thought the man would fall for it, something would happen that made the man turn the other way. It was like Fate itself intervened and gave North the middle finger. It was infuriating!

So for Malcolm to call him only meant trouble and misery.

And as much North wanted to ignore him and enjoy the scenery, he knew the consequences will be tenfold than what he was about to do. Accompanying the clan meant he was basically at their beck and call. He was starting to consider going back chopping carts of wood under the scorching sun.

With a long sigh, North stood up. He dusted off his trousers and adjusted the strap of his satchel, a gift from Mrs. Gibs along with the warm coat. She had all but prepared him for an expedition to Mount Everest with all the clothes she gave him.

“We dinnae want you to catch a cold, lad,” She has said, tugging the lapel of the coat snug to his chin as the clansmen prepared to leave.

“Thank you, Mrs. Gibs.” North squirmed under her attention, holding the bundle of blankets she had all but thrust in his arms.

The cook then spun around to nag a finger at Hamish, a scowl on her face that would shake even the strongest of warriors in their boots. “He better not come back with even a sniffle.”

Hamish had the good grace of keeping his mouth shut as he nodded, eyes slightly fearful at the thought of going against her words. Laird Campbell may be the one in charge of the castle, but no one dared to cross paths with Mrs. Gibs.

Who knew North’s survival and protection were at the ends of a cook instead of his brother, he thought with a huff. With the pace of a man walking for his death sentence, North approached the group. The clansmen were in a loose circle beside the campfire, with Ian and Andrew in the middle. Ian was showing the young man some moves with a small dagger.

“Aim straight up, and then, as hard as you can into the heart,” Ian explained, stabbing the air with an upwards motion. He then pulled up his shirt to tap his chest. “Avoid the breastbone, though. You’ll get yer knife stuck in that soft part on the top and you’ll be without a knife.”

Andrew nodded, watching with avid attention the way Ian moved the dagger. The giant man looked over his shoulder and spotted North approaching them.

“Boy, stand right here. I need a proper demonstration.” He grinned with a wave of a hand.

North froze, mismatched eyes widening at the implication. Did he seriously ask him to—

Malcolm clamped a hand on the shoulder and shoved him into the middle of the group with a harsh laugh. North stumbled in front of Ian, sending a glare to the man only to gulp when Ian showed the move again to Andrew as if he wasn’t waving a dangerous weapon right to North’s face.

“As I was saying, you aim just here.” Ian tapped the point of the dagger to North’s chest and for once second North was sure his soul left. “You try it.”

“Seems easy enough.” Andrew took the dagger and turned to face North. Noticing the obvious anxious look on the boy, he smirked. “Don’t worry, Seán, I’m not going to stab you.”

Says the man pointing a dagger at him, North wanted to shout but could only stare eyes wide at him. A part of North knew Andrew wouldn’t intentionally hurt him. As of yet, he was the most decent person in the group, but it was still a fecking dagger.

“So, right there?” Andrew aimed straight under North’s sternum, and it took everything in North to stay still as he felt the tip of the dagger pressing against his coat.

“Whoa, dinnae kill him yet, lad.” Ian laughed, the others joining in. “Wait until the lesson is over.”

A bunch of lunatics, the lot of them!

The young man practiced the action a few times and North forced himself to relax once he grew used to the movements. It also helped that Andrew kept his words and never got close enough to touch his chest like he did the first time. Like he said, he was a bit arrogant, but an overall okay guy.

“That's good, Andy. Now ye know how to kill face to face.” Ian nodded and North almost deflated in relief when Andrew stepped back. The young man saw this and punched his arm lightly. “Now, I’ll show ye how to kill from behind. Boy, turn around.”

North froze once more, now fear striking him because again, it was a fecking dagger, but this time he couldn’t see it.

“Go on, Killough. Grow some pairs, if you can anyway.” Malcolm snarked.

North scowled, feeling his face warm at the taunt and turned around. God, the man was insufferable. He wished he could kick him between the legs to shut him up.

The boy jolted when he felt a tap on his lower back as Ian started giving the new lesson.

“Now, this is the spot in the back. Either side will do,” Ian said, running a rough finger along the boy’s sides that made North squirm and curse his brother’s name for the umpteenth time. “You see where all the ribs and such?”

“Aye, I do.” Andrew leaned closer to where the older man was pointing.

“It’s very difficult to hit anything vital when you stab in the back. Ye need to slip the knife between the ribs. Like so…” He demonstrated by sliding the blade between two fingers. “That’s one thing. A lot harder to do than ye might think.”

“Here.” North gritted his teeth as Ian grabbed his shoulder and poked a specific point on his lower back. “Just under the last rib, you stab upward, and into the kidney. Straight up and they’ll drop like a stone.”

Ian poked that spot with his finger, not hard enough to hurt, but enough for North to jump a foot in the air in fright.

Jaysus fecking Christ!

“Yer turn now, Andy.” Ian passed the dagger to Andrew.  

“Alright.”

Taking deep breaths, North focused on the trees ahead of him, keeping his instincts in check. He didn’t want a repeat of stopping a hand striking him like he did with Callum. On the side, Malcolm was snickering, clearly enjoying himself at North’s discomfort as he nudged Hamish to point at him.

Angus was looking impassively, as he usually did, though he kept a careful eye on his nephew as he manipulated the dagger. As for Callum, the man was a few steps outside the circle, talking with one of the villagers that tagged along for the rent collecting, but North had a feeling he was watching. And no doubt he wouldn’t do anything to put a stop to this.

The Universe really took pleasure in his misery.

Another snicker came from Malcolm and North took it as a distraction to glare at him.

Sadly, it was also the distraction that momentarily made him forget he was the test dummy for a stabbing demonstration. That made him forget that Andrew was about to grab his shoulder to follow through with Ian’s instructions. That made him forget to keep his instincts in check.

A few years ago, England had made a vigorous effort to teach him self-defense after hearing the news of an escapee pedophile lurking in the streets of the neighbourhood. And although North was stronger than a normal human and could hold his own, his brother wasn’t convinced.

In the span of several weeks, England had taught him how to disarm while Wales taught him how to avoid and dodge attacks. Scotland showed him how to use his environment to his advantage and Ireland took the time to show him boxing moves to protect the vital parts of his body.

It took a lot of trials and errors to get it right, and lots of bruises, but in the end, North knew how to defend himself quite well if he said so himself.

So, add the heightened senses and it explained why it was hard to sneak up on a Nation. Even more, when said Nation’s instincts were dialled up to 11 from sheer nervousness.

The second Andrew grabbed his shoulder, North’s body moved on its own. He spun around and grabbed his arm, twisting it to make the young man jerk forward. Using the momentum, North caught the hand holding the dagger and squeezed until the hand loosen to make the weapon drop. Then, with a final pull, he swiped his foot between Andrew’s legs, causing the young clansman to crash to the ground with a yelp.

It all happened in less than three seconds as North stared at the threat with wide eyes, breathing heavily and adrenaline rushing through his veins. Then, as if snapped back to reality, he gasped and rushed to help Andrew up.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” He sputtered, hands hovering around the young man, afraid he hurt him or worse, got stabbed with the discarded dagger when he fell.

Andrew stared back with a dumbfounded look, green eyes wide as dinner plates. It was also at that moment that North noticed the silence. He looked up to find the rest of the clan staring at him as if he grew a second head.

North would have found it hilarious to see Malcolm’s jaw almost slack off its hinges if it wasn’t for the pure anxiety shooting through him.

“I-I’m so sorry. I wasn’t- I didn’t expect—”

Ian burst out laughing, startling everyone back into attention as he slapped North’s back. “Why I’ve never seen such a move in my entire life! Who knew the runt could fight!”

“I blinked and Andy was already on the ground,” Hamish said with a whistle, looking reluctantly impressed as Malcolm scoffed, rolling his eyes.

Turning bright red, North tried to explain, but the giant man ruffled his hair, rattling his body like a bubblehead. Angus stepped forward to help his nephew up, who was scowling and turning red from being floored by a kid. After checking his nephew wasn’t hurt, the older man turned around to face North.

North tensed under the piercing gaze of Angus, afraid of what he would do. The man rarely spoke and the scar on his right eye made him even more intimidating. But to North’s surprise, Angus huffed a laugh, dark eyes glinting with something akin to respect before turning away.

Finally free of Ian’s grasp, North quickly approached Andrew, twisting the ends of his sleeves. “I’m so sorry for that. I wasn’t expecting you to grab my shoulder. Are you alright?”

All chances of Andrew being the decent one flew out of the window. He needed to keep an eye out for him from now on.

The young man turned to him, glowering as he dusted off his coat. “I’m fine.”

Oh yeah, he was pissed off. North wasn’t going to survive this trip. Goodbye life.

Andrew stepped forward and North winced, preparing himself for whatever the hell would happen. To his shock, however, the clansman presented his hand.

North looked up, confused. It didn’t take a genius to know Andrew wasn’t that happy. North basically embarrassed him in front of the clan. And from the hours of training Andrew was undergoing; his bruised ego hurt more than getting slammed to the ground by a fourteen year old kid.

“I admit I should have warned you before starting, so I apologize for that,” Andrew said with a strained look on his face. North winced, guilt churning in his stomach. He didn’t even think of withholding his strength. It was pure luck he didn’t dislocate the poor guy’s arm.

He accepted the hand nonetheless, shaking it sheepishly. “I’m really sorry though.”

Andrew regarded him for a minute, brows furrowed and jaw clenched before huffing a laugh. Now North could see the resemblance with his uncle.

The annoyance was still there, but at least he didn’t look like he was going to beat him up. “It’s alright, it doesn’t hurt that much.”

He rotated his arm as if to prove it and North pretended not to notice the wince that flashed on Andrew’s face. “In a way, I deserved it for failing my duties.”

North frowned. “Your duties?”

“You defended Mairead. I heard what happened. I must commend you for what you did on that night.”

Shrugging, North scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “It was nothing, really. It was the right thing to do.”

Andrew stared at him again, green eyes scrutinizing him like he was put under the microscope. Whatever he found was apparently good enough for him because all trace of annoyance was gone in a flash.

“Mairead and I grew up together. She’s a dear friend to me, you know. And I made a promise to her da to look after her before he passed away,” Andrew said, the cocky mask cracking to show the more reserved person North saw when he first met him. “So, I appreciate it for stepping in when I couldn’t. Her uncle is a harsh man, but I didn’t believe he would go that far.”  

“He’s a prick,” North automatically said, mentally slapping himself for doing the same thing.

Andrew snorted, a lopsided grin curling on his face. “Aye, he is. He’s not well-liked in the village, but we can’t ignore his blacksmith skill. It’s one of the reasons Laird Campbell hasn’t kicked him out yet.”

Unfortunately, North thought with a scowl.

“Either way, I don’t hold it against you. I’m actually impressed,” the young clansman admitted begrudgingly, trying to hide another wince when he crossed his arms. “Where did you learn to fight like that?”

North looked at his boots, shuffling his feet. “It’s not fighting, more like self-defense than anything. My brothers showed me a thing or two.”

“Your brothers taught you well.” Andrew nodded before narrowing his eyes, face stern. “I warn you though, try that again and I’ll kick your arse.”

North gulped, not sure if he was serious or not. He had seen him train in the past few days and he wouldn’t dare be on his wrong side. With one head taller than him, he wasn’t as built as Scotland, but he still struck an imposing figure.

Andrew looked amused by his reaction and punched his arm good-naturedly. “Keep that in mind.”

With that, he walked away.

Okay, so maybe he’ll survive the trip. He hadn’t been beaten into a pulp yet. That seemed good enough for him.

So, of course the Universe decided to ruin his day by having Callum come looming over him. He stared North down with an indescribable expression, icy blue eyes glaring at him.

“Start packing. We’re leaving.” That was all Callum said before he headed for his horse.

“A please wouldn’t hurt.” The boy muttered.

With a sigh, the young nation walked towards the nearest cart, spotting one of the villagers that tagged along, already in the process of filling the wagon.

“Fetch me that crate over here, will ya, boy.” An older man with a scruffy beard pointed to the cluster of crates and bags near a tree.

Tugging the satchel to his back, North crouched and picked up a crate of carrots with a grunt. He helped the villager fill the cart, hefting crates and sacks until he was flushed in the face and panting. Who knew lifting vegetable crates could count as a workout.

He went to the next cart, tying the bundle of furs with rope. He placed them beside the rolled-up tents, tugging the tarp to protect it from the rain. After almost a week of doing the same thing, it became a sort of routine he had no chance of avoiding. 

Though they were on the road and on their way to the fourth village, North quickly realized he couldn’t find a way to sneak away. Aside from being ordered around left and right by the clan, he was never left alone. Even taking a piss in a bush proved to be near impossible without someone keeping a watch like a creep.

He was certain Scotland told Callum to keep him on a metaphorical leash.

Again, as if summoned, the right-hand of Laird Campbell walked up to him, eyeing the bundles of furs as if he was expecting them to have magically burned off. It took everything in North to not look offended as he looked at the older man with a blank face.

Aside from Malcolm being an arsehole, Callum had never stopped looking at him in suspicion. He knew the man disliked him from the very beginning, and the feeling was mutual, but at least North had the decency to do it when the man had his back turned. Though he had to give it to the man for his caution because North had to admit he was doing a piss poor job at keeping a low profile so far. Pulling a stupid stunt like that didn’t help his case at all.

But that still didn’t excuse the stink eye sent his way 24h/7. Like he was doing now.

“When we reach the next village, you’ll stay with Andrew,” the man said with a glare. “If I see you wandering off again, I’ll tie you to a horse. Understood?”

By again, he meant when North tried to take a piss in peace, but who cared what North thought, right? He was clearly here for fun and not at all against his will.

North nodded silently and held a shudder when the man’s glare grew darker. “Yes, sir.”

Callum never did something to him (so far) and that made him scarier. With Malcolm, North could predict his move up to a point, but with the older man, he had to tread carefully. 

The war chief turned back to bark orders to the men and headed for his horse. Once he was sure he couldn’t see him, North flipped him the bird and went back to pulling the tarp. But that didn’t stop him from showing defiance whenever it was safe to do. A few minutes later, Hamish walked by with his travel bag slung over his shoulder, his usual grumpy look on his face.

“Come along, boy. Ian’s driving now.” Hamish grumbled, swatting North’s head as a greeting. North rubbed the back of his head with a huff, adjusting his satchel before following him.

By the road, Ian was climbing on the seat of the first cart, tugging the reins. He was recounting the takedown with great enthusiasm, much to Malcolm’s annoyance, who was tying his travel bag on his horse. When the giant man spotted them, he waved him over.

“Get in here, Killough! I want you to tell me on the way how you did that move over there.”

Aye, keeping a low profile would be a piece of cake.

North sighed and hopped on the cart. He wobbled between crates and goods before he sat down on the little corner he made throughout the week. He arranged the pile of blankets, fluffing his makeshift pillow and pulled out his travel bag where he kept the rest of his snacks.

Mrs. Gibs overdid it, but he was grateful. If not for the abundance of snacks she left in the bag, he would have been subjected to eating suspicious-looking meats from the clan. Though, at the rate they were travelling, it was only a matter of time before he’ll eat their food.

Thank God for Nation endurance.

Once the temporary camp had all but disappeared, Callum took the reins at the front and called everyone to get going. As soon as they hit the main road, Ian started singing. It was quite a surprise the first time the giant man burst into songs out of nowhere when they left the castle. More so when Callum joined in. It was like a flip of a switch. One moment Callum could melt a glacier by one look and the next he was laughing and singing with the rest of the clan.

It also helped that, despite his towering figure, Ian was a go-lucky boisterous man who could catch everyone’s attention. Sure, he was as crude as the others, but he was always ready to have a good time.  

This time was no different.

“The maid gaed tae the mill ae nicht.” Ian sang with a booming voice.

“Hey, sae wanton she!” Everyone chorused to the air. “She swore by moon and stars sae bricht.”

“She would get her corn grun'.”

“She would get the corn grun'.”

Most of them sounded like dying cats, but the bubbly energy was contagious as North fought off a snicker. At least it wasn’t the one about a jealous woman cursing another on having her legs break because she caught her sweetheart’s eyes.

No one can beat Ireland’s weird folk songs.

North let the off-key song and chatter wash over him as he pulled out a book from his satchel and set it on his lap. He ran his fingers on the leather cover, tracing the small engraving of the title. Doctor Graham lent him a book on medicinal plants just before leaving, encouraging him to read it as a sneak peek of his future role of assistant. North had wished the kind man would have come with them to at least make the trip less miserable, but sadly he had to stay at the castle to restock his workstation.

As bummed out as he was, North was placated by the precious jewel he found inside the book. While he had trouble deciphering the flowery texts, the book was captivating and he learned quite a bit about the local flora. But what caught his attention was the map that was tucked between the pages. Whether it was coincidence or Dr. Graham knew more than he let on, North was beyond happy by the discovery.

The map was wrinkly and had small tears on the edge from the many times it was folded, but it was a map, nonetheless. It had the names of the main cities and regions with notes about plants scribbled down. North spent every free time he got pouring over it, trying to find exactly where he was, and he was confident to say he had the general location of Kaerndal Castle.

The castle was in fact near Loch Ussie just like Mairead mentioned the other day, but since he’d been on the road with the clan, he had no idea where they were at the moment without the help of a GPS or a compass. Or how he could find the ‘Stones’ he needed to go back home.

If they even existed, that is.

He glanced to where Andrew was riding beside his uncle, the only ones who weren’t singing along as they chatted. Maybe he could ask Andrew some questions about their location without raising suspicions.

Once he was sure it was safe to do so, of course. He still wasn’t sure if Andrew was serious or not about kicking his arse.

North flipped through the pages until he found the leaf he used as a bookmark and made himself comfortable. As much as he could in a moving cart through a bumpy road, anyway. He didn’t know how long they will travel, so he might as well get some reading done.

He scanned over the page, running a finger over the drawing of a heather plant.

Calluna vulgaris, commonly called Scotch heather, heather or fraoch in Gaelic, is a small, variably-sized, evergreen shrub belonging to Ericaceae (Heath family). It has numerous branching stems and can grow up to 2 feet in length. The heather has small needle-shaped leaves, and the flowers are usually purple but can also be white. The plant flowers from July through September and can be very…

Several hours later…

They reached the next village shortly after midday. The village was bigger than the first three, with several clusters of houses, enough for the villagers to host them in a tavern for the night instead of making camp on a clearing. The group stopped at the plaza and the clansmen swiftly set up the booth-like table for the rent collecting process.

A few tenants arrived with welcoming smiles and chatters, several of them holding sacks or crates. It was the same with the past stops. Some of them would pay the rent with coins, while others gave a part of their crops or farm animals.

In fact, North shared the cart with two chickens in a cage, which he named Doc and Marty because the former had spiky white feathers and the other’s wings were reddish, similar to Marty’s iconic jacket.

Sue him, but aside from reading and hearing off-key songs for days, he was bored. He would give anything to be able to hear real music from his Walkman.

Ian hopped off his seat and that was North’s cue to start working.

While Callum stood by the booth, greeting anyone and having a chat with them, Angus sat with the ledger book open. He scribbled down the amount as the tenants dropped a few coins in a pot that would later be stashed in a satchel and in return, he gave them a piece of paper to them with a nod.

The first time he witnessed the rent collecting, North was flabbergasted about why people only gave away a few shillings for their rent, but then he remembered the money’s worth was quite different here than the present time due to inflation. For all he knew, having a tenner made him a millionaire in these parts.

The rent collecting went for an hour. One by one, the tenants came to give their share of the rent, chatted with the clansmen and went on their way. During that time, North was in charge of receiving the crates and sacks of grains to put them in the cart. Hamish and Andrew were helping as well with the two other carts.

While North was pushing a barrel of potatoes to make space for the new crate, he heard Callum greeting the last few tenants left.

“Fergus, how are you doing, old friend?”

“Callum, ye grew more grey hair, I see.” An old man with a brown coat grinned, patting the war chief’s shoulder.

“Not much more than yourself.” Callum laughed, a completely different person when he was in a mood. It was disconcerting to watch. “Say, are you coming for the Gathering this November? It will be renewing the treating with the Mackintosh. We’ll be happy to have you.”

“Ach, wish I could, but my Leslie has taken ill and I’ve been taking care of her,” Fergus said somberly with a shake of the head. “I cannae leave her on her own, you ken.”

“I understand. Dinnae worry, she’s a strong woman, that wife of yours. She’ll be her feisty self soon enough.” Callum clapped a hand on the man’s shoulder.

“Aye, that she is.” Fergus laughed.

North tilted his head, curious about what they were talking about. A Gathering in November? A gathering of what? He tucked that information away and went back to work.

Hamish walked up to the cart, his grumpy expression greeting him as he tapped the wheel of the cart with his boot. “Finish that up and go with Andrew to the tavern. I’ll meet you two there later.”

“Where are you going?” North asked despite himself.

As expected, Hamish said nothing and left to join Angus and Callum by the booth. He did the same thing with the other villages. Hamish would go meet Callum and Angus after the collecting and do… something. North didn’t know what they were doing exactly, but it was all hush-hush for some reason.

Huffing, North arranged the last crate to its rightful place before grabbing his satchel. He jumped off the cart and headed for the next cart. He found Andrew brushing the horse’s fur with a comb.

“Um, hi.” North waved, adjusting the satchel awkwardly. “Hamish said to go to the tavern.”

Andrew frowned, looking a bit annoyed at the interruption. He ran the comb through the mammal’s fur a few more times before stashing it in the travel bag. “Aye, Ian and Malcolm are already there. Probably down in their cups.”

“He also said to go with you…”

“I wasn’t aware I was your babysitter.”

“And I’m unwillingly travelling with you lot, yet here we are.”

Andrew snorted a laugh. “Touché.”

He called out his uncle’s attention with a whistle and pointed down the street before waving at North to follow him. “Come on, then, I bet we can catch a real meal before the others come back.”

North sped up to catch him, fingers fidgeting with the end of his sleeves. “You can say that again. I ate rabbit before, but it never looked like that.”

As in, as if a taxidermy museum went up in flame and left a burnt petrified rabbit in its wake.

Andrew cracked a smile but said nothing.

As they walked down the street to where North assumed was the direction for the tavern, he took the opportunity to ask about what he heard Callum talk about earlier. “I’ve been wondering, I heard Callum mention a ‘Gathering’ in November. What is that?”

Andrew shot him a side-glance and shrugged. “Every five years, there’s a gathering of clans to renew their alliance treaty. The last time was over with the Mackintosh and this year, we’re hosting it at Kaerndal Castle.” He shoved hands in his pockets. “It’s a big event. On the first day, there’s the welcoming of the clans followed by a series of games for everyone.”

North cocked an eyebrow, having an idea of what it was. “You mean like the… Highland games?”

Andrew blinked at the name but nodded after a moment of thought. “I guess you can call it like that. Anyway, several games are held to unite the clans. The best one is the shinty. Have you played it before?”

“A few times with my brothers, but I prefer watching.” North shrugged, wondering why Andrew didn’t recognize the name. The Highlands Games might have been a thing of the future or went by another term.

“It can get quite violent. Ian is a sight to behold when he tramples over everyone.” Andrew shook his head, rubbing his shoulder as if reminded of a painful match. “The next day is the ball, accompanied by the feast.”

A stone-like feeling sank in North’s stomach at the thought of a ball. He hoped he would be long gone before subjecting himself to dancing. Or wear a frilly suit. Unless he spent it in the kitchen washing dishes, which he would accept full-heartedly.

“And finally, the most important part of the whole event is the oath-taking for the Pledge of Allegiance.” The young clansman continued as he puffed out his chest. “It’s a ceremony where a clansman pledges his allegiance to the Laird. To give his full loyalty to the clan. I’m to make my first pledge this year.”

“Really?” North looked up at the young man, noticing the nervousness coming off him despite the confident pose. It did sound quite an important moment.

“Aye, I’ll officially be part of the clan,” he said with pride, standing a bit taller. “Anyway, you’re in luck. The Gathering doesn’t happen that often.”

They reached the tavern, and the place was already half-full with patrons. Chatter filled the air as a barmaid weaved between the tables with a tray in her hand. Torches hung from the beam posts, giving a warm atmosphere.

Once more, North felt like entering a fantasy world, half expecting to meet a stranger in a cloak to send him on a quest for Excalibur.

“Andy, over here!” Ian’s booming voice caught everyone’s attention as the blond man waved them over across the room.

Andrew waved back and headed towards them, North just a step behind. Ian and Malcolm were halfway through their meal with a mug of mead.

“Have a seat, lads! They make great stews.” Ian grinned, shoving a spoonful of potato to his mouth. North went around, giving a wide berth to Malcolm, who glared at him and sat at the far end of the table. Andrew joined him by his side and leaned over to grab a slice of bread from the plate in the middle.

A barmaid brought two plates to their table and North thanked her with a nod before eating. The stew was indeed great and filled North’s belly with warmth. As much as he savoured Mrs. Gibs’ bag of foods she left him, he was getting a bit tired of eating bannock and cheese.    

The pastries she gave him barely lasted two days. He had no shame admitting it.

A few minutes later, Hamish and Angus joined the table, sitting in front of North and Andrew respectfully. North kept his focus on his meal as the clansmen ate and chatted around him, glad they were ignoring him. Normally, he tried to eat on his own or at least tried to find an excuse to work so he could avoid their pestering.

Sadly, his peace didn’t last long because soon later he noticed Malcolm sniggering in his direction, saying something in Gàidhlig to Ian and pointing a fork at him. Hamish heard him and started laughing, adding his own two cents in their native tongue. Here we go again.

It wasn’t that the men were telling lewd jokes that would even make Scotland blush or that he was forced to sleep in poorly made tents with barely a blanket to keep him warm. What frustrated him the most was the fact they would sometimes speak strictly in Gàidhlig to exclude him. To make him the odd one out. And they did it constantly. Especially Malcolm.

And from the way the trio was snickering and Andrew sending him looks, he knew they were talking about him.

Well, two can play at this game. If he can’t prank the arsehole, he might as well tear him a new one. He was done being their target for insults.

Taking a sip of his cup, North said not so subtly in Irish. “Do you realize people just tolerate you?”

His Irish teacher would have been so proud of his pronunciation.

Ian and Malcolm paused mid-laugh and slowly turned on their seat while Hamish blinked. Though Scottish and Irish Gaelic came from the same family and shared some vocabulary, it was still hard to understand one another.

Malcolm narrowed his eyes. “What did ye just say, boy?”

North was the perfect picture of innocence as he lowered his cup and smiled. “I didn’t say anything.”

If looks could kill, North would have melted by now, but the glare he got was worth it. He was the youngest in his family, he knew how to be a little shit when he wanted to.

The clansman stared at him for a moment before smirking and saying something in Gaelic that made Hamish choke on his drink and Ian start laughing again.

North responded without missing a beat. “Somewhere out there, a tree is tirelessly producing oxygen for you. I think you owe it an apology.” He broke character with a snicker because he couldn’t stop the image of a grown man asking for forgiveness to a tree.

That wiped Malcolm’s smirk off his face as he sent daggers at him, Ian doubling over the table in laughter even though he couldn’t understand a thing and Hamish was scowling, grumbling under his breath. Andrew watched back and forth with growing interest while Angus tried to ignore everyone but even he was fighting off a smile. Ha, he knew he could break Angus’ stoic expression eventually. It was one of North’s challenges he set during the trip to occupy himself.

Malcolm pointed a knife at North threateningly, hissing something that was probably as bad if North went by the way Andrew’s eyes grew wide in shock.

But since North was relatively safe by being at the far end of the table, he didn’t hesitate to snark back. “I wonder if you'd be able to speak more clearly if your parents were second cousins instead of first.”

“And I wonder when you’ll learn to keep your mouth shut,” Callum said from behind.

In perfect Irish.

North jolted on his seat, snapping his head up to stare at the man. The right hand of the Laird had his arms crossed over his chest, his icy blue eyes glaring down at him. The boy gulped, all confidence gone in a flash. He didn’t even realize the man was standing there. 

“I want not a sound out of you for the rest of the evening,” Callum said firmly in English. “If I found you causing more trouble, ye’ll be walking the whole way back on foot.” He leaned closer, cold eyes narrowing into slits as he switched back to Irish. “I don’t trust you, boy. You best keep yourself in order before I take action. Am I understood?”

North fought back a shudder at the words, swallowing the cotton-like feeling in his throat as he nodded. “Understood, sir,” he said quietly.

Callum sent him one last dark look before turning to his men. “We’re about to start, get ready.” He then walked towards one of the tables at the front to talk to a group of villagers.

Silence reigned over the table for a minute before Ian snorted, sending a grin to North. “Caught you red-handed, lad! I dinnae know what you said, but he looked ready to throttle you, like when he caught Malcolm with his—”

“Shut yer hole!” Malcolm hissed, punching the blond’s arm with a scowl.

“His ma was Irish, learned it when he was wee,” Hamish said as pointed his fork at North with a smirk. “Know yer place, boy.”

“Yeah, yeah.” North hid his burning face behind his cup, ignoring the snickering from the clan. He probably deserved that.

A nudge of his boot caught his attention as he looked under the table. Andrew was in the middle of taking a sip of his drink but by his lap, he gave North a quick thumb up. The boy glanced up, catching the smirk behind the cup. Fighting off a smirk of his own, North turned back to his meal.

After they finished their lunch, a lull took over the tavern as several men pushed the middle tables to make place while others pulled their chairs to form a loose semi-circle. A strange silence filled the air as North noticed the windows were shut close, plunging the room into a dim orange from the torches. Someone shut the door with a click, leaning against it as if standing guard.

The clansmen, except for Andrew, stood up and spread out in the room. Angus sat near the front, pulling out a small pouch and setting it in the middle of the table.

What was going on?

Callum walked to the middle of the room, watching every single person present as he put his hands behind his back. “Thank you, everyone, for being here. I trust you all had a good year in the crops and I understand some of you are going through hardships.” He nodded to the old man he talked to earlier and turned back to the crowd. “I gather you all to express our deepest thanks for helping us, for letting us help you in return in these trying times. And of course, to also share a drink.”

Laughs rang through the room as Callum lift his glass, the others following suit with enthusiasm. Leaning his head back, the war chief chugged the whole thing before slamming the glass on the table. 

“Alas, as much as I want to spend merry time with you all, I also bring dreary news,” Callum added, his firm voice carrying throughout the tavern.

North was getting more curious and a bit worried as the man went on because it held a gravity in his voice he didn’t like. Sadly, and not surprisingly, Callum then switched to Scottish Gaelic.

The boy slumped into his chair with a sigh, knowing it would be a waste of time trying to decipher what he was saying. He knew a few words in Scottish Gaelic but it sounded different from the ones Modern Scotland used. And most of what he knew were swear words anyway.

Nevertheless, although he couldn’t understand shit what the man was saying, he couldn’t stop himself from being captivated by the power Callum was projecting in his voice. The way he stood firmly in place as he gestured and spoke with a crisp and commanding voice. And North wasn’t the only one, the whole tavern was listening with unwavering attention.

As much of a douchebag he was, North had to admit Callum was an impressive man. No wonder he was the previous Laird of Kaerndal Castle before Scotland took over. He made a perfect spokesman.

The man talked for a while, but never once did the passion waver. In fact, North noticed the people were getting as passionate as he was, agreeing with him with ‘Aye!’ and claps. North was really wishing he could understand what Callum was saying, but for reasons he couldn’t explain, he was also getting nervous.

Something was happening in the room and it was building up fast. The strange feeling he got when they first left the castle was coming back, tickling the back of his mind.

His first clue was the way Andrew shifted under his seat, the way he made an obvious effort of not looking at him. Then, it was the whispers and looks the people kept throwing in his direction.

Tension grew on North’s shoulders as the looks turned to pity and sympathy, making his skin crawl and wishing he could fade into the wall.

It was one thing to be excluded to have a private conversation, but it was another thing to be excluded when they were speaking about him.

His guess was proven right when Callum said his full name during his speech and the murmurs got louder. Anger soared in him as North opened his mouth, ready to throw caution out the window to demand what the hell was going on.

But a hand clamped on his arm, making him jolt. Andrew shook his head mutely, his green eyes narrowed as if to say ‘don’t speak’. North gritted his teeth, clenching his hands into fists.

He wanted to shout, he wanted to scream. Every frustration from the past week was reaching his boiling point. He was bloody tired of everything. He was tired of being ordered around. He was tired of being treated like a nuisance. He wanted to leave this place and go home.

He wanted to see his family again.

All resolve died with a sputter as icy blue eyes locked with mismatched ones. Callum was staring at him, not pausing once as he continued his speech, but North saw right through him.

Ever since he got stuck with the clan, North was always on guard. Despite having the fragile protection net of Mrs. Gibs, he never felt completely at ease around the men. Even less without his brother around. However, although he was constantly mocked and teased, North had never felt himself to be in danger. Unsafe? Sure, several times whenever Malcolm was being an arse. But in danger? Not once.

Call it a sixth sense or whatever, but the tingling at the back of his mind grew stronger when he locked eyes with Callum. For the first time, North feared for his life because the last time he had that feeling was when that creepy English captain jumped on him.

So North clamped his mouth shut and swallowed his words, ducking his head as he glared holes into his empty plate. He ignored the rest of the speech and the looks he sensed on him as he forced himself to sit still.

It was another while before the war chief stopped speaking, and by then, North was taut as a bowstring.

He was starting to paint a picture of what was going on and he didn’t like it. He didn’t like it one bit, and he hoped with everything he wasn’t jumping to conclusions.

The knot in his stomach twisted at the sound of the jostling of coins. He looked up as people threw coins into the pouch Angus set on the table. Callum was thanking each one of them, patting their arms and shaking their arms in thanks.

North watched later on, when the people filtered out of the tavern, Angus passing the small pouch to Callum. The young nation wanted to walk up to the older man and demand answers. He wanted to know what was going on.

Andrew tugged the sleeve of North’s coat, saying something about going to their rented room upstairs for the night, but all North could do was stare as Callum peeked into the pouch, giving a satisfied nod before tucking the pouch inside his coat.

The hell was going on? What were they doing? What was he doing? Why did he say his name? For what purpose? Why was he collecting money aside from the rent? Something didn’t look right.

A shove from Andrew snapped North out of his thoughts as he was led to a staircase heading for the rooms. He faltered on his next step on the stairs as another thought pierced his mind.

Was the Laird behind this? Did Laird Campbell send him away for whatever this reason was?

North’s blood ran cold.

Did Scotland even know about this?

He looked back at Callum, the right-hand man and war chief of Laird Campbell, mind racing with questions and worry sinking in his chest like claws.

Was his brother aware of what Callum was doing?

West Belfast, September 28^th, 1997

A man entered the pub, his coat dripping from the heavy rain outside. A few patrons sent him a glance, while others paid him no mind.

“Fierce weather we’re having, eh?” The owner, a man in his sixties with short grey hair, called out from behind the counter, polishing a glass with a tea towel.

The stranger pulled back his hood, revealing a man in his early thirties with curly brown hair and blue eyes as he grinned. “Aye, almost drowned in a puddle on my way here.”

The barman laughed and put down the glass he was cleaning. “What can I get you, Micheál? It has been a while since I’ve seen you in these parts.”

Micheál pulled off his coat, draping it over his arm. “Just the usual, a nice pint would make this  dreary day a bit brighter.” He glanced back at the other patrons before leaning closer to the barman. “I’m on a wee business.”

The cheery mood of the barman dimmed ever so slightly before going back to smiling. “Say no more, lad. Take a seat and I’ll bring your drink.”

Micheál smiled back and walked to the far end of the pub. He draped his coat over the chair and sat down, back to the wall so he could see everyone in the room. He leaned back to his chair, shoulders slumping at the wave of exhaustion washing over him.

Maybe he should have ordered coffee instead.

A clink on the table caught his attention and he opened his eyes, not realizing he closed them in the first place, and looked up at the owner setting down a bowl of chips beside the pint of beer.

“Long day?” The older man asked with a raised eyebrow.

Micheál righted himself, running his thumb over the ring wrapped in his left middle finger. He breathed out a sigh of relief at the touch of it and smiled up at the man. “You could say that.”

He didn’t want to worry the man if he saw how tired he really was.

The barman looked at him for a moment and nodded as if convinced. “If you need anything else, don’t hesitate to call. I’ll keep the ears turned.”

Micheál grinned wanly. “Always ready for action, are you?” At the mild glare sent his way, he laughed before turning solemn. “Thank you, Eoin, truly. For everything.”

Eoin patted his arm, his eyes crinkling in a smile. “Don’t mention it. You saved my family, son, it’s the least I can do.”

Before Micheál could refute the claim, the owner went back behind the bar to tend the other patrons, leaving him to his drink. He sighed and took a sip of his Guinness. He nibbled on a chip, dunking it in the little cup of sauce.

He wasn’t that hungry, but he had nothing better to do than just sit and wait for his contact to arrive. He took another sip of the pint, the metal band on his finger clinking against the glass. 

The ring was simple in design with its metallic charcoal colour, but if one were to look closely or if the light hit at a specific angle, it would reveal the little runes engraved in the metal. Not that it mattered because few people even notice the ring.

It was one of its main purposes, after all.

Micheál leaned into his chair, enjoying the lull of the music playing as he watched the other patrons. It was a risk coming here, he didn’t want to put the kind owner in the spotlight after all he went through, but the risk of being seen was even greater.

He was getting anywhere before. This was the best course. He needed that information.

The others may not like it, not that they knew what he was doing in the first place, but at least he was trying.

There was always a solution if you try hard enough. Even if said solution was like playing with fire.

The chiming of a bell caught the man’s attention as a figure with a flat cap stepped into the pub. The figure walked up to the barman, ordered his drink and headed to the end of the pub. They spotted Micheál on his own and joined his table.

Good thing he was familiar with playing with fire.

The man before him was older, about in his forties, with dirty blond hair, brown eyes and a patchy beard. He pulled off his flat cap, slapped it on the table with a wet splat and sat down. “Bout ye?”

“Simon,” Micheál said in greeting, wrinkling his nose at the water splattering on him and crossing his arms over his chest. “Do you have it?”

The man named Simon rolled his eyes. “Always straight to business, aren’t you, Mikey?”

“Do you have it or not?” Micheál leaned forward, eyes narrowing.

Simon scoffed and pulled out an envelope from his coat and showed it to him. “Calm yer tits, will ya? Aye, it’s in here, nice and cozy like you asked.”

He reached for it, but Simon pulled the envelope back with a slimy smirk. “Ah, ah, ah. I have my part of the deal, where’s yours?”

Micheál huffed and pulled out a manila folder from his coat and slid it across the table. Simon grabbed it with apparent glee, dismissively throwing the envelope to him. The younger man sent him a glare and quickly grabbed the envelope.

Simon opened the folder and riffled through the documents before looking up with a cocked eyebrow. “So this is the place?”

“The best I could find on short notice,” Micheál said as he pocketed the envelope in his coat pocket. “There’s another one I could direct you on the outskirts. It’s quiet, not much disturbance. It should fit your requirements.”

Simon seemed to ponder on the information, a slow grin curling on his lips. “You’re really good at this. You sure you don’t want to-”

“I’m not helping you,” Micheál said firmly, eyes narrowing. “I’m helping them because they have nothing to do with your mess. They’re innocents.”

“Come on, O’Shea. You have the resources and the information.” Simon leaned on his elbows, his eyes glinting with something that made Micheál want to punch his face. “A few errands here and there and you’ll be at the top. Yer da helped us a lot, y’know. He would help in—”

“No, what my father did is the same thing I’m doing now.” Micheál gritted his teeth. “I want no part of this. I’m just here to provide safe houses, nothing more.”

He wished he could do more in helping families move to safer places, but that would attract unwanted eyes. He was already risking a lot just talking to Simon.

“Think of the lad,” Simon said, smirking knowingly at the way the other man tensed. “He’s your boy, isn’t he? You’re looking for him. You wouldn’t have contacted me so soon if it wasn’t important. Don’t you want him to live in a better place once you find him? You can help us put an end to this!”

Micheál eyed the man coolly, tapping his middle finger on his glass with a soft clink. “Is that a threat?” He said calmly, despite feeling his chest constricting.

“Just an observation.” Simon shrugged, leaning back as he slung an arm to the back of his chair. “This isn’t the normal kind of job you normally ask me to. Looks more personal.”

“Did you find something?” Micheál asked, not bothering to answer the man’s question. He needed the information, he couldn’t let himself be baited.

Rolling his eyes at the deflection, the older man grabbed a chip from the bowl and popped it into his mouth. “Eh, not much, I’m afraid. I asked here and there, but I got nothing so far.” He sent him a dry look. “Not that I could do much with the crumbs you gave me.”

“It was enough,” Micheál said in a clipped tone, hand tightening ever so slightly around his glass. “Did you show the picture to anyone?”

Simon looked almost offended at the question. “I’m better at this, Mikey. I followed your annoying instructions to the letter. No one saw it but me.”

Micheál stared at him for a long minute, before he leaned back. Simon may be a slimy bastard, but he was true to his words. Most of the time, anyway.

“Besides, we don’t deal with people much,” Simon added as he munched on another chip, making Micheál scoff at the blatant lie. “Now, I may not trust those blue bastards with a goldfish, but wouldn’t be better to reach out to them?”

“It must stay quiet for the time being,” the younger man said after a pause, “I want to cross off all the possibilities before reaching out.”

Simon cocked his head to the side, eyeing him with a curious look on his face. “If it’s not your boy, then who is he? You didn’t even give me a name.” A hungry glint flashed in his eyes as he leaned over with a smirk. “He’s the son of someone in the government? A deputy? You know, we could use someone like him as—”

The smirk slid off Simon’s face as he was grabbed by the front of his shirt, the table rattling from the sudden move and the chair screeching as the younger man stood up. From the bar, Eoin turned up the music just a bit louder.

“Choose your words very carefully, Simon Quinn,” Micheál hissed with a fiery glare. “If I so much hear of a rumour concerning that boy, you’ll rot in a jail cell. I’ll make sure of that.”

“Is that a threat?” Simon spat, hiding the fear behind a snarl.

“Just an observation,” Micheál shot back with a sharp grin, repeating his words from earlier. He shoved the man to his seat and put on his coat, ready to leave. “Like you said, I have the resources and information on my side. You’ll do well in keeping that in mind.”

Simon scrambled to his feet, a scowl on his face as he said, “Don’t you want to win this?! Don’t you believe in uniting our people? You’re just going to stand here and—”

His mouth clamped shut with a click when two blue eyes locked gaze with him. Fear shot through the older man because, for one second, the light made it look as if the eyes were glowing like embers.

“I believe in unity, but not in the way you think,” Micheál said over his shoulder before walking towards the exit.

He sent a quiet thanks to the owner and stepped outside. Rain was still pouring as he walked down the street with his hood pulled up. After taking several turns to make sure he wasn’t followed, the man ducked under an alleyway.

Leaning against the wall, he twisted the ring three times, the runes flaring once before the spell dropped. The curly brown hair faded to ginger as his eyes turned back to clover green. It also revealed the heavy bags under his eyes and the pale complexion of his face.

Ireland let out a heavy sigh, the stress of everything weighing down on him as he ran a hand through his hair. Even though illusion magic was one of his specialties, a part of him was still worried to be caught.

The nation reached into his coat pocket and fished out the envelope. With cold fingers, he opened it and pulled out a picture, revealing the sight of a young boy smiling at the camera with mismatched blue and green eyes and short ginger hair.

It was a calculated risk doing this, but he wanted to be sure. They needed to find a lead. Almost a month had passed and there was no sign of Northern Ireland.

If anyone were to find out what he was doing, he would be royally screwed. Just the political backlash was enough to give him and everyone an aneurysm, not to mention the walloping he’ll get if his brothers caught wind of this. But he had to do it. He had to be sure the lad wasn’t tangled in this fecking mess. 

Glancing one last time at the picture, Ireland carefully put it back in the envelope and tucked it inside his coat pocket where another manila folder was hidden. He twisted the ring three times, his appearance changing back to Micheál O’Shea.

What he was doing was risky, but it was worth it. For him, it was always worth it.

He stepped out of the alleyway, walking towards the rendezvous point for his next contact on the other side of the city.

He will find Seán.

No matter the cost.

Chapter Text

Chapter 9

The Liar's Spring

On the road, October 1^st, 1743

They were using him.

Northern Ireland was furious.

They were using him and they didn’t bother to tell him why or for what cause.

He was beyond furious and yet, he was helpless. He couldn’t do anything. How can he when they kept their mouth shut on the matter?

They had been travelling for almost two weeks now, and all North could do was sit by and watch whatever was happening before him.

It became a cycle. Another routine he was forced to live through.

They would arrive at a village and proceed to collect the rent and supplies as intended. They would then catch up with the news and in the evening, when they gathered at the tavern, Callum would tell his speech. The same speech where he would mention North’s name, making people give money that wasn’t part of the rent. Money that was hidden in a small pouch, secretly tucked away in Callum’s pocket.

But why?

North tried to get some answers. Believe him, he really did. Those meetings screamed ‘Look at me, I’m suspicious’ all over them. That knot he felt in his stomach hadn’t loosened ever since. Something was going on.

He had first asked Andrew about it the second they entered their rented room upstairs on that night. North had all but jumped on the youngest member of the clan for answers. However, Andrew firmly stated he won’t say anything, that it was clan business.

Which North called bullshit because he heard his freaking name, therefore it was his business.

But Andrew was fiercely loyal and North doubted he would dare go against Callum’s authority.

So, North turned to Hamish and Ian to pester them day and night with questions. He even tried to approach Malcolm, for heaven’s sake. But the arseholes kept their mouth shut, or as Malcolm kindly told him—to get lost and threatening to cut his tongue off.

But North persisted. He was stubborn, damn it. It ran in the family. If he could win an argument with his brothers, he could easily argue his way to obtain answers. And obtain answers he did.

If he couldn’t ask questions directly, then he would need to be sneaky about it and channel his inner Wales.

Did he feel bad for the methods he used to get the answers he wanted?

No. Well… kinda. Yeah, a little bit.

But was it worth it?

Abso-fecking-lutely.

You see, whenever you wrong Wales, he wouldn’t outright scream at you. He would listen to your reasoning first, then would accept your apology before saying it was all water under the bridge.

But not without holding the biggest and longest-lasting grudge. That man could stay bitter for decades— hell, even centuries if he wanted to— and for the littlest of things. You forgot to water his plant and it died? Hard feelings. You ate the last of the cookies he saved for later? Resentment. You accidentally broke his favourite mug? Unfathomable enmity.  

His brother may not be one to retaliate with violence, but he sure made you feel like shit for a mistake you made with one single look. He could be petty and everyone knew it. That was what made him terrifying during prank wars. His pranks could happen months after they ended and no one would expect it.

North was pretty sure Wales passed on his passive-aggressive nature to Canada and New Zealand when they were children because those three were experts at throwing veiled insults and poking the spots that hurt the most. He heard rumours his cousins were one of the few able to make America and Australia cry.

Just with the small demeaning comments matched with annoyed eye rolls, you could sense the spite rolling off them. It was hilarious to watch, as long as you weren’t their target. So that was what North did. He took a page out of his brother’s book.  

And it worked.

Andrew cracked on the fifth day. 

Now, North wasn’t cruel to Andrew. Of course not. The guy didn’t deserve that, he was only doing what he was told, even if it sucked. But that didn’t stop North from making discreet, small jabs or throwing pebbles at the young man whenever the others weren’t looking. Or how he would salt his drink and watch him splutter all over Hamish.

It was more annoying than harmful. And Andrew’s patience was wearing thin quickly. It had sort of become a silent war of glares and it being any other situation, North would have found it amusing—but he was a man on a mission.

And it paid off.

On the evening of the fifth day of the interminable torment, while collecting firewood for the camp, Andrew finally snapped. 

“For God’s sake, Seán, can you just let it go?” He scowled at the boy as he picked up another branch.

North shrugged, his own stack of firewood tucked under his arm, as he said, “I will if you tell me what’s going on. I want to know why Callum is using my name in his speeches.”

Andrew pinched the bridge of his nose, exasperated of hearing the same question repeatedly for the past week.

One thing North quickly found out was that most of Andrew’s threats were mostly empty. The glares were scary, yes, and the punches on the arm did hurt, but at least he wasn’t getting a walloping. 

And now, he could tell he was still in the safe zone.

“Come on, Andrew. I’ll keep it secret, promise. I just want to know what’s happening.” The boy groaned, approaching the young man with a matching scowl as he poked his arm with a twig. “I’m sick of getting weird looks from the villagers. It’s creepy! I want to know why.”

Andrew swatted the twig away, green eyes narrowing into a glare when he noticed North pulling out a pebble from his pocket. He scoffed. “Are you seriously stashing pebbles in your trousers? I swear I found a bunch of them in my sleeping mat and we don’t even share a tent!”

“Are you still avoiding the question?” North shot back, rolling the pebble between his fingers in warning.

Andrew sighed heavily, rubbing his face as he cursed under his breath. He glanced over his shoulder to where the camp was before looking back at North, his face serious. “If I tell you, you swear you’ll stop asking.”

North shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled it inside out, dozens of pebbles spilling around his feet.

Andrew rolled his eyes, fighting off a laugh at the sight as he glared at him, though it held no bite. “You’re maddening, Killough. You really are.”

“It’s a gift.” The boy shrugged with a grin.

The young clansman looked back at the camp, hearing the faint chatter in the distance, and sighed again. He rolled his shoulders and adjusted the pile of firewood in his arms. He looked back at North and pursed his lips. “Callum has been using your arrival as an example for his speech.”

Of all the things North imagined, he didn’t expect that, nor did he understand it in the first place. “What?”

Andrew shrugged, looking around in search of more firewood. “You said you were assaulted by an English captain when they rescued you, aye? Well, that was what he talked about.”

North stared in confusion because it didn’t clarify shit. “Why would he tell people that? For what purpose?”

“I answered your question and you swore you’ll stop,” the young man said. “I did my part. You do yours.”

“Technically, I didn’t give you my word,” North grumbled, groaning at the pointed look of Andrew. “Oh come on, that doesn’t explain why he would be using me as an example. And worse, I didn’t give my consent for him to share my experience!”

What the hell was the point to tell people about Creepy Captain Crunch anyway? To insert fear? To gather sympathy?

Scrunching his nose in disgust at the idea, North pressed on. “If he’s doing that, then why is there money going under the table, huh? Why would he keep a pouch of money separated from the rent money?”

“Observant, are you?”

“I wasn’t born yesterday! I may not understand Scottish Gaelic but I have eyes.” North scoffed as he kicked a rock. “Why are you hoarding money in secret? Why are you using me to win people over? Are you guys stealing from them? Manipulating them for your gain?”

“Don’t judge what you don’t understand.” Andrew snapped, anger flashing in his eyes.

North backpedalled, sensing he was crossing the line. He put the stack of sticks between them as a way to placate him. And protecting him in case Andrew decided to throw his stack at him. “I’m just curious!”

Andrew clenched his jaw for a moment before exhaling. He ran a hand through his hair. “Look, I wish I could tell you, but I can’t. Just stay out of it until we get back to Castle Kaerndal. Got it?”

North pursed his lips, pushing his anger down as he stared at the ground. Andrew may have not given him the best answer but he did give him a better picture of what was happening.

Perhaps he didn’t jump to conclusions after all. What North witnessed the first time was really what he thought.

The clan was gathering money in secret by using him to gain the people’s sympathy for unclear reasons.

His stomach churned at the thought.

The question was whether Scotland was aware of this or not? And why were they collecting money in the first place?

“Alright.” North acquiesced, catching the young man by surprise. It made sense, Andrew expected him to annoy him longer on the matter, but North knew when to back down. He picked up on some clues and that counted as progress.

It was time to go back to ‘shut up and listen’ mode. 

“But I still don’t like it,” North couldn’t help but add. 

“I don’t doubt it.” Andrew rolled his eyes with a huff. He then gestured to the pile of firewood in his arms. “Let’s finish this before Hamish comes hammering on us.”

Together, they walked around the clusters of trees for more firewood until their arms were full. The sea of stars above gave them enough light to weave between the trees safely, a sight North was always mesmerized. The light pollution in modern cities made it hard to enjoy a starry sky unless you go to the countryside.

Since they had been travelling, North made sure to arrange the tarp on the cart so he could have a peek at the sky. He would stare at it for what felt like hours, eyes jumping from blinking stars to the next.

Whenever he had trouble sleeping or the clan was being loud, he would think of the times he went stargazing with Ireland when he was younger, back when life was simpler. He didn’t remember much of the stories his brother told him about the constellations, but he did find comfort in trying to spot them now.

It reminded him that he wasn’t as alone because those were the same stars he shared with his family.

A nudge on his shoulder brought him back from his rather sappy sentiment as he looked at Andrew, fighting back a flush of embarrassment. “Yes?”

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” the young man said as he nodded at the satchel North was carrying. “That book you always have with you, what is it about?”

“Oh,” North looked at his satchel, where the book was carefully stashed inside. “Dr. Graham lent it to me before leaving. It’s a book on medicinal plants and flowers.”

Andrew hummed as if reminded of something. “I heard Mrs. Gibs mention it when the bard came to visit. You’re in training to become a healer?”

“Not really. I’ll help in blending and preparing the ingredients.” The young nation shrugged, catching a twig that almost fell off his grasp. “He wants me to familiarize myself with the local flora.”

“I went to Dr. Graham’s workstation once, when I cut myself with a knife after a bad slip and I have to say–” Andrew shook his head in disbelief, “I have no idea how he can tell one flask to another. He has so many of them! And he plucks the correct one without even looking.”

“Well, you get used to it.” North snorted. “Mine are colour-coded. Makes everything easier.”

“What do you mean?” Andrew cocked an eyebrow. “You have your own collection of medicinal ingredients?”

North faltered in his step, mentally cursing himself for the slip up. He completely forgot who he was talking to. “Um… remember my brother William? The one who assists the surgeon?”

Aka, his sort of made-up brother.

“Aye, you told me a wee bit about him.” Andrew nodded with a frown. Travelling for hours doing nothing gave them very little to pass the time. Swapping stories was inevitable.

“Well, he once brought me to his workplace and showed me all the equipment,” North explained, mind trying to come up with a reasonable story. “He told me he had trouble differentiating the bottles, so I suggested using a colour system. I guess the habit stuck because I use that method back home when I’m helping cooking with my aunt.”

He clearly didn’t refer to the time, in one of his science experiments, he mistook Sodium chloride with Sodium hypochlorite because a dirt smudge hid the O in NaClO. Fortunately, his fire extinguisher was within arm’s reach, so the damage wasn’t so bad, but he did lose an eyebrow in the process. Good times.

“I can see the appeal in using colours. Sounds easier to navigate than reading strange names.”

“Ha, yeah, tell me about it.” He learned from his mistake, thank you very much.

They reached the camp and found the clan sitting around the fire. The tents were already up and ready for the night. Angus was stocking the fire with one hand holding a stick, the other stirring something in a pot. He looked up at the sight of them and nodded his usual silent greeting.

North schooled his expression and nodded back. He may have backed away from questioning Andrew, but North was still keeping an eye out for anything suspicious.

He dropped the firewood beside where Andrew deposited his and went to sit on his usual spot: in the farthest log available, far away from everyone. Andrew had tried to make him sit closer with them a few times, but North didn’t budge. Just because he’d been travelling with them for over a week didn’t mean he was comfortable enough to spend time together. 

However, before he could sit, Angus held up his stick and pointed at the seat beside Andrew with a stern look. North fought off a scowl but did as asked as he plopped down on the rock with a sigh. He was at their mercy, after all.

The man surprised him further by scooping a ladle of whatever he was cooking into a bowl and handing it to him. “Eat,” he said gruffly.

North blinked at the order and accepted the bowl. He glanced at Andrew, but the young man only shrugged in response. Angus never interacted with him until now. The last time he even acknowledged his existence was when he pulled that stunt on Andrew or the time he caught him smirking at his stand-off with Malcolm.

Glancing at the silent man for a second, North looked down at the bowl he was handed. It was a sort of broth with boiled carrots and potatoes diced into bits. Seeing there was no spoon, he brought the bowl to his lips and took a sip.

The broth lacked a bit of taste, but it was still good for a meal made with the bare essentials. It also warmed his cool hands, sending a wave of warmth when he took another sip. More bowls were distributed between the group as they all sat around the campfire and enjoyed the meal after a long day of travelling.

Callum arrived a bit later with the other travelling men. He glanced at North for a moment, a heavy frown on his face before looking at Angus to say something in Gaelic. With a huff, North turned back to his meal, forcing the spark of anger down.

It was the first time North was sitting with them instead of sitting far away from them. Of course, Callum would say something on the matter. 

One day, North would uncover what the man was hiding. If he so much found Callum was putting his brother in danger with his dealings, there would be hell to pay. Past Scotland may be an arsehole, but he was still his brother.

Andrew interrupted his brooding by handing him a piece of bread. “Before they go stale.”

“Thanks,” North said with a strained smile. As he expected, the food Mrs. Gibs gave him didn’t last for long so he was now bound to accept their food to avoid suspicion about his hunger frequency. Surprisingly, the meals he had weren’t as bad as he imagined nor as big.

Except for that one cooked rabbit. That thing will haunt his dreams.

The clansmen soon started to chat, passing around a bottle of whisky and easily falling into their usual banter. North kept his head down as he nibbled on the bread. He had to keep his face from scrunching in disgust when Malcolm started telling another raunchy story.

If Wales was here, he would probably gasp and try to cover North’s ears to preserve his innocence. He could easily imagine England looking at Malcolm scandalized before attempting to shut him up. He doubted Scotland would be phased by it, hell he might add his own two cents. As for Ireland, the catholic in him would make him all flustered as he tried to drag North away. For someone as old as dirt, Ireland sure got awkward with anything indecent.  

The group of men burst out laughing, saying something about an ‘old Granny Mary’ asking her husband a question and North tuned it out. He didn’t find the humour behind those kinds of jokes and really, by how many he was forced to listen to them, they grew tiresome fast.

He spent the rest of dinner unbothered, other than when Andrew asked if he wanted a second serving of broth. Then, a lull filled the camp as one by one, the clansmen went to their respective tent for the night. Malcolm and Ian stayed by the fire to keep the first watch and North took that as a cue to get ready to go to bed.

The young nation walked towards the cart where he kept his belongings and grabbed his satchel and blankets. He made the mistake to leave his stuff on the cart the first time it rained during the night. It was pure luck the book wasn’t damaged, but he did spend the next night with somewhat damp blankets.

He headed for the second tent and peeked inside. Hamish was already bundled up on his side of the tiny tent and didn’t bother to leave him a space to leave his stuff. With a sigh, stepped around the man and kneeled on his spot. He rolled up a blanket and put it between them as a makeshift barrier and took off his coat to fold it into a pillow. After a bit of wiggling and making sure his satchel was safe from any rain, North laid down with a sigh.

He stared at the grey tarp above him, listening to the hushed chatter outside, the crackling of the fire, the wind rustling the trees and the beginning of a snore from Hamish.

North closed his eyes, once again pretending he was with his brothers before sleep slowly took him away.

He was dreaming again.

Northern Ireland looked at the sunny sky as he walked through the colourful autumn forest. He jumped over a fallen log, arms out to keep balance before jumping off. He landed with a crunching thud from the dying leaves.

He was dreaming because he found a fireplace in the distance and it was burning, despite not seeing any smoke coming out of the chimney. It was a dream because the fireplace was also fused into a tree.

North walked past a line of tents covered in Christmas light, weaving through the trees before he reached the fireplace. Two armchairs were facing it with a coffee table between them and in one of the armchairs was Wales.

His brother was reading a book, legs folded under him as he turned a page. He was dressed in his usual baggy sweater and soft sweatpants, hair tied behind in a messy bun.

He was the picture of comfort.

“Hey Dylan,” North waved, going around the empty armchair and sitting down. “What are you reading?”

Wales looked up with a blink and smiled with that lopsided smile of his. “Hey, Norn. Would you believe it if I tell you I’m reading about the lifestyle of seahorses? It says they mate for life. Isn’t that beautiful?”

“Sure…” the boy said with a strange look but shrugged it off. It was a dream, nothing made sense. Besides, his brother was a reader of many genres. Books on small aquatic creatures would be right on his alley.

They fell into a companionable silence, each enjoying the peace. North leaned into the armchair, looking around for anything unusual. On top of the mantel of the fireplace was a mini rollercoaster made of popsicle sticks he did a few years ago. He also spotted a disco ball hanging on a branch, glittering from the sunlight.

Yeah, that tracked.

“What are you doing, Seán?”

North turned to face his brother, finding Wales with the book on his lap and watching him with concerned hazel eyes.

“I-I don’t know.” A swirl of emotions hit his chest for no reason as the boy looked away. “I’m trying to… I’m trying to leave.”

“Should you?”

“What do you mean?”

The sky slowly started to darken, the distant sound of thunder rolling over the forest as the trees shuddered from the wind.

Wales looked at the darkening sky with a frown. “You can’t stay here, North. You need to go.”

The boy followed his gaze, seeing the flash of lightning and the rain in the distance. He looked back to Wales, who was now standing in front of the fireplace, the flickering flames turning his eyes amber.

“It’s time to tend your wounds.”

North froze at the words, a chill running down his spine as his heart sped up. He heard those same words before, but he couldn’t recall where.

A crack of thunder made him jolt, his vision going white for a second before his eyes focused on his brother only to jump to his feet in shock. Wales was doubling over in pain, clutching his side as he gasped for breath, face pale and eyes wide in fear and confusion.

“Dylan!” North reached out for him, but another flash of lightning blinded him once more. The whip of thunder made his ears ring and chest vibrate. He blinked again, crying out in worry when he found his brother gone. “Wales? Where are you?!”

“You need to go.”

North swirled around, gasping in horror at the sudden appearance of Modern Scotland. His brother was dressed as his past self, but his clothes were dishevelled and dirty. Blood was soaking the front of his torn shirt as he stared at him.

“Hurry up, Seán,” Scotland rasped, his hands drenched with blood, “before it’s too late.”

Rain poured down as cold-biting wind whipped his skin, lightning flashing on Scotland’s ashen face before everything turned black.

North jolted awake with a choked gasp, heart thundering in his chest as he sat up. Cold sweat clung on his back as he looked around with wide eyes. His hand reached up for his necklace, clutching it like a lifeline as he took wavering breaths.

His eyes set on a snoring man-size lump beside him. He blinked once and twice.

The rent collecting.

He was travelling with the clan.

He was sharing a tent with Hamish for the trip.

It wasn’t real.

The boy let out a heavy sigh, running a shaking hand through his tangled hair.

He was prone to nightmares, he knew that, but they never focused on watching his brother bleeding out before him. And those words.

It’s time to tend your wounds.

Hurry up, Seán, before it’s too late.

North shuddered at the words, focusing on running his thumb over the small carving of his necklace. He could have sworn he heard those words somewhere, but he couldn’t remember where or when. 

Just that it freaked him the hell out.

No, he shook his head. It was a dream. It wasn’t real. It was just his brain making things up. They meant nothing. His brothers were safe. They had to.

He looked around the small tent, wondering what time it was. Dim light peeked between the tarp, indicating it was probably the wee hours of the morning. He heard the faint crackle of the fire, but other than that it was quiet in the camp.

Yeah, way early in the morning.

A full-body shudder made him wrap his arms around himself, reminding him of his damp shirt. Quietly, he rummaged through his satchel and pulled out a clean shirt. Making sure Hamish was still asleep, he quickly changed and wrapped a blanket around him to keep warm.

Taking a deep breath, he let go of the necklace and grabbed his satchel and coat. He might as well get up now and find some work. He had a feeling today was going to be shitty.

He stepped out of the tent, squinting a bit from the light and looked around the camp. There was no one present except Angus, who was in the middle of his watch as he sat by the dying fire, whittling a piece of wood with a knife. The man looked up at hearing the flap of the tent and raised an eyebrow at the sight of him. North tugged his coat close to fend off the crisp air and approached the man.

He sat on one of the logs and mumbled a greeting, shoving his hands into his pockets. Angus looked at him for a minute, silent as ever, before he focused back on the piece of wood he was carving.

North paid him no mind, taking comfort in the quiet moment as he shuffled closer to the small fire. He should have taken the blanket with him. The burrito technique would have been the perfect way to stay warm.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

The boy jumped at the voice, looking up at the man chipping bits of the wood with his knife. The man wasn’t looking at him, eyes focused on his work. North swallowed, internally grimacing at the sour taste in his mouth. How he wished he had toothpaste or even a proper toothbrush.

Turning his attention back to the fire, North shrugged. “Hamish kicks in his sleep.”

The man hummed, whether he believed him or not he wasn’t sure, and that was it. That was the whole conversation with the man. For having heard him just say single words in his vicinity, it was quite the achievement to hear him say two words.

Not that North minded the dismissal, he wasn’t much in the mood to talk. 

It took two other logs thrown into the fire before the rest of the clan woke up and by then, North shook off most of his nightmare. He still felt like shit, but at least he was awake enough to get the day started.

He didn’t stay for the others to sit down to eat breakfast. Instead, he went back to the tent he shared with Hamish and started rolling up the furs to be brought back to the cart.

He was in the middle of tying the leather cloth that served as mats when he heard footsteps approaching the tent. Andrew peeked inside, cocking an eyebrow in askance. “So that’s where you’ve been hiding. I didn’t see you eat.”

North looked over his shoulder before going back to tying the mat. “Not hungry.”

If his voice sounded a bit flat, the young man didn’t mention it.

“Okay, well, Callum said we’ll be leaving in an hour, but I see you already started packing,” Andrew said, holding the flap open for North to step out. He frowned at the sight of him. “Doing alright? You look a bit pale.”

“I’m ginger, I’m always pale.” Tan was nonexistent for gingers, it was a known fact.

Andrew rolled his eyes with a huffed laugh and handed him a small cloth. “Here, I’ve saved you some before the others ate it all. Should hold you up till we stop at the next village.”

“So I can be ready to watch you lot steal from people again,” North said bitingly, only to wince at the warning look on the young clansman’s face. He sighed, rubbing his eyes with his free hand. “Yeah, yeah, not my business. Don’t mind me. I didn’t sleep well. Hamish snores like a monster truck.”

He grabbed whatever Andrew was giving him and forced a smile. “Thanks for the food.”

He walked past Andrew and headed for the cart, oblivious of the confusion on Andrew’s face. Or the way Andrew muttered ‘what’s a monster truck?’ to himself.

By the time the clan was ready to hit the road, North was fighting off the beginning of a headache. His sleep schedule was already a mess even before he stumbled into the past, so the nightmare didn’t help at all. If the comment Andrew said earlier was anything to go by, he probably didn’t look his normal self either.

“Let’s go,” Callum called out as the clan finished mounting their horses. He passed by the cart where North was sitting and sent him an indescribable expression before going to the front.

Huffing, the young nation pulled out his book and dived into reading, more than ready to ignore his surroundings. Or more importantly, avoid thinking about his dream.

Alas, as much as he stared at the flowery pages, he couldn’t register the words. He tried reading the small notes scattered around the drawings of plants or even adding his own notes on a loose paper he found, but his mind kept coming back to his dream.

He was well aware that dreams were a product of your brain rummaging through your subconscious and smashing pieces together to sculpt weird things. He once read in a magazine that dreams could reflect the hardships and anxiety we live in life, and yeah, it made sense. That was basically the definition of a Nation. But most of his dreams didn’t make a lick of a sense to begin with.

Sometimes, when his insomnia decided to have a party instead of sleeping, he had a habit of reading the dream journal he kept beside his bed. It held a collection of every strange dream he had: from good to bad. One of the best was the one he could parkour on top of roofs made of clouds.

Wales had suggested writing his dreams down when he was younger, back when North used to have nightmares every few nights instead of every few months. He remembered waking up screaming almost every night during the Second War. His brothers may have tried to keep him as far from the war as possible, but that didn’t stop the Land from sending him flashes of the destruction his people were going through.

As far as he knew, this ability was normal in Nations since they were part of the Land, therefore could see what would happen if their home was in danger. But it still sucked for seven years old him to be plagued by constant nightmares. Even in the present, because of the conflict going on, he had gotten a few flashes when tensions were high or when there was an attack. Adding his wild imagination and you end up having even more horrible nightmares.

Hence, the dream journal.

And it did help. Writing down what he remembered from his dreams was like letting out the steam of a boiling pot. Wales had also recommended talking about it to someone, but North hesitated in speaking about it because most of his dreams were weird as hell.

And speaking about his nightmares sounded so lame and stupid, he didn’t want to be teased about it. So he turned in writing them down. He finished five notebooks since he started all those decades ago.

Maybe writing everything down would put his mind at ease. The worse that could happen would be for someone to find and read it.

North blinked at the blank paper before him, the burnt twig that served as a makeshift pen pausing a millimetre away from the paper.

Yeah, no, that would be a terrible idea. Half the castle didn’t trust him already, he wouldn’t dare write the apparent demise of their Laird. Hell, Calum would probably stab him on the spot.

The boy sighed, closing the book. He didn’t remember most of his dream anyway, other than the chilling dread.

He pulled out the small cloth Andrew gave him earlier and peeked inside. It was strips of dry meats. He munched on one half-heartedly. It was like chewing rubber, but it tasted good enough.

Hours later, Malcolm kicked the side of the cart, jostling North awake from his doze. “Wake up, boy, we’re almost there.”

North blinked his eyes open, sending him a glare as he righted himself. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but he was glad most of his headache was gone. He stood up carefully, sidestepping the cage of Doc and Marty the chickens. He grabbed the edge of the cart to keep from toppling over and weaved between the crates and barrels. He peeked over Hamish’s shoulder.

Soon enough, in the distance, he could see the village just down the hill.

He glanced over the clan, spotting Ian and Malcolm trading jokes, while Angus and Andrew rode just in front of the cart. The travelling villagers took the rear with the two other carts. A scowl formed on the boy’s face as he set eyes on the man leading the group. Callum was speaking with one of the tagging villagers, an older man with a grey beard named Tobias Hewson.

Here we go again.

The cart lurched to the side, causing a few crates to slide against North and the chickens to freak out a bit. He grumbled as he pushed the crate away, looking back at the village.

Columns of smoke could be seen from the houses, the faint smell of burnt wood filling the air. The village was smaller than the others they have visited. It barely counted as one, with only a few scattered houses and from the look of it, it was poorly kept too.

A mix of sadness and anger filled his chest.

North was aware the people in the 18^th century lived harsher lives in difficult conditions, even more so in remote regions like here. He knew some people weren’t as fortunate as others; poverty was sadly still present in some places back home. The acknowledgement made him even angrier because these people were going to be taken advantage of. The scrap of money they struggled to gather will all go in Callum’s pocket. 

The clan was going in there with the intention of playing with the people’s heartstrings for profit.

How desperate are you to go that low for money, he thought darkly. 

As they approached the cluster of houses, the familiar knot of dread twisted in North’s stomach. Though a strange chill ran down his back. He squinted at the closest house, trying to see if something was off, but nothing was amiss except the strangely empty streets. It wasn’t that late; just the middle of the day, so it shouldn’t be void of people.

Callum seemed to realize that too because he raised a hand. The group stopped and North climbed over a crate once he made sure the cart wasn’t moving. He peeked over Hamish’s shoulder once more. “What’s going on?”

The man hushed him by batting a hand and listened to Callum as the war chief talked with Angus over something. Callum looked back at the group and called over Malcolm to follow him. The three men headed towards the houses, leaving the rest on the outskirts.

They waited for several minutes before Malcolm came back to fetch them, and the dread turned tenfold when North saw his grim face. He didn’t need to ask what happened because the moment they entered the settlement, the answer was clear as day. There were broken windows and doors kicked down, wrecked crates and overturned carts all over the place.

The columns of smoke weren’t coming from chimneys; they were coming from burnt houses.

“What caused this?” North asked in horror.

“It’s the Watch,” Hamish said as he guided the cart carefully through the debris. “Men you pay to protect your cattle.”

They passed by what was left of a well; the stone wall crumbled to pebbles, with the wooden structure black with soot. The heavy smoke rose from the remaining walls of the houses, patches of burning coal visible through the debris.

“Why burn the houses down?” North shifted under the crate he was kneeling on, wringing his sleeves together as he stared eyes wide at the devastation. “Why would someone do that?”

“It’s a warning.” Ian stopped by them, tugging his horse close. “I heard talks in the last village. One of them is a sympathizer working for the Redcoats.”

North’s head snapped to gape at the blond man. “But that’s just a rumour! That’s no excuse for criminal behaviour. These people don’t deserve this!”

“The Watch may be criminal, but they’re Scots first,” Ian said somberly. “They can’t abide traitors who do the bidding of the British army.”

Voices ahead of him forced North to tear his eyes off the wreckage as he spotted a man talking with Callum and Angus.

“―came by surprise three days ago during the night, the whole group.” North heard the man say. “Asked us to pay the double we owe if we told them who was giving information. We dinnae have much and they didn’t believe us.”

“Can’t we do something to help them?” North worried his bottom lip, frowning at the destruction around them. 

“Best not to dwell in someone’s else business.”

The boy sputtered in disbelief at Hamish’s words, righteous anger sparking in his chest. They have three carts loaded with goods, they could at least spare a bit for people who really needed it. Where the hell was the compassion?!

North then spotted a woman with two children by her side peeking over a broken window from the remnant of the house the man came out. Her brown hair was dishevelled and covered in soot. Despite her attempts to calm her children, the apprehension in her eyes was palpable.

Something tight constricted in North’s chest as his breath hitched, the scarred skin under his shirt itching. He needed to get away from here, he can’t stay here any longer. The fire, the burnt houses, the fear in their eyes… it looked too much like- 

The cart lurched forward, and North almost tipped over but caught the railing just in time. He swallowed the knot forming in his throat as he passed Callum and the villager, his heart pounding when he locked gaze with one of the children.

Young. Maybe three or four years old. A mop of black hair and dirty clothes. And his eyes… even though he couldn’t fully understand what was going on, North knew a part of that boy’s innocence burned to ash that day.

The young nation looked away, clenching his hands from shaking too much. He can’t stand like this and do nothing. There must be something they could do!

“Bloody bastards!” Malcolm cursed out loud, followed by Hamish.

“They’ve been out here at least a week, judging by the smell,” Ian said angrily.

Ignoring the churning of his stomach, North leaned over the side to see what was happening ahead.

He choked back a gasp in horror; wishing with all his might it wasn’t real.

Just on the outskirts of the group of houses, by the road leading to a small hill, stood two wooden posts. The posts were planted into the ground, rocks pilled around in a poor attempt to keep them steady. The fire had long died out, but the smell of smoke was still strong. 

As well as the putrid smell of burnt flesh because attached to these posts were two men.

The clothes mostly burned off, the legs and arms were spread out like a sickening version of a crucifixion. But they weren’t nailed, no, their wrists and ankles were roped tight, flesh burnt to blisters. What little skin we could see from their hands and faces were complete black beyond recognition. One couldn’t even guess the age of these men other than barely making out the last expression they had before their gruesome demise.

And by their feet was a plank nailed to one of the beams with the word ‘traitor’ written in what appeared to be blood.

Northern Ireland couldn’t take his eyes off the sight as his breath quickened.

He needed to leave. He needed to get out of here before his mind spiralled down. It looked like… it looked exactly like-

A sudden blast of black smoke from a burning cart nearby was all it took as he started coughing, tears watering his eyes. The rush of blood roared in his ears as his chest constricted, his heart pounding against his ribcage. Panic began running through him as voices rang around him and he suddenly found himself in the middle of a deserted street.

It was dead silent for two beats.

Then, a high pitch sound came from the dark crimson sky. A whistle-like noise came from afar and slowly got closer. Before he had time to look up, the earth shook underneath him as explosions and screams filled the hot air. North blinked, choking at the sight of dismembered bodies scattered on the street and buildings crumbling apart as families ran for cover.

Airstrikes.

Fire roared like a hurricane, the snapping flames trapping the unfortunate people inside the buildings as suffocating black smoke took over the street like a sentient being. He coughed harshly, gasping for air as he tried to get up, but another explosion sent him to the ground. He clutched his chest, clawing at the burning scars as he tried to stand up again.

He needed to get them out. They were in danger. They were dying. His Land. His Heart. His people.

North clamped his hands to his ears as another high pitch sound came raining down, drowning the sirens blaring across the city and the roaring of engines in the skies. He felt hands grabbing his shoulders, pulling him away from a burning building, and he struggled to get free.

“No! Let me go!” He cried out as he reached a hand out, watching in horror as a building collapsed on a family trying to escape their home. A car suddenly exploded, engulfing the people running for safety. Shots came raining down on the people, the air horn ringing across the burning city. “They’re dying! They need help! Let me go!”

He couldn’t abandon them. Not now. They needed him! They were dying.

Hands grabbed his shoulders again as they hauled him up, tightening in a painful grip until he heard a distant voice calling him. It was barely recognizable, the voice muffled by the horrors and chaos around him making it impossible to locate.

Someone was suddenly in front of him and the boy blinked, making out the blurry face of a man. He was talking rapidly; fear and worry clear as day in familiar green eyes.

A sharp pain stung his right cheek and he stumbled back.

He blinked again.

The green eyes turned icy blue as the face of Callum took the other man’s place, the sounds of screaming and the smell of burning flesh dimming into an echo. The roar of engines in the sky and the cries of terrified people vanishing to faint whispers.

“Get a hold of yourself already!”

North heaved as he finally focused on the man, body trembling and blinking rapidly.

“W-what…” he went into another coughing fit, his throat dry as sandpaper and hands clenching the dirt underneath him. It took several tries but with great effort, the boy managed to get his breathing under control.

Blinking back the black spots in his vision, North looked around, realizing he wasn’t near the settlement anymore or even on the cart, but instead on the ground near a stream. He looked back at Callum in confusion, noticing the man was standing beside him with his arms crossed, staring at him with an unreadable expression.

North frowned before his mismatched eyes widened in mortification as the dots finally connected. God, did he just experience a full panic attack in front of the whole clan? Did he do something? Did he say something? Oh my God- 

He ducked his head, averting his eyes and face burning red in embarrassment and shame. Great, he just made a fool of himself in front of his brother’s right-hand man just because he smelled freaking smoke… and… and he saw the two- 

“⎼stand up?”

“Uh?” North looked up.

“Can you stand up?” Callum repeated in a strange, tight voice.

Licking his dry lips, the boy nodded and with shaking limbs, he stood up. He blinked when the man handed him a wooden ladle and gestured at the stream.

“Drink this. It’s a natural source.”

The boy didn’t hear the last part as he scooped water like a dying man. He probably was, his throat felt as if he swallowed a bucket of sand.

After takings several much-needed gulps, North leaned back and blinked rapidly, feeling light-headed all of a sudden. He took a ragged breath as a warmth spread from his chest, making his fingers tingle and ears buzz.

“Feeling better?” Callum asked from behind, but his voice sounded muffled and distorted as if North was underwater.

North frowned and shook the feeling off, growing confused as the dizziness as well as the warmth disappeared completely as if it never happened. Though, the headache from this morning was coming back with a vengeance.

He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt. “Yeah, sorry, the smoke caught me off guard.”

Understatement of the fecking century.

“That was one of the punishments for disobeying the British army,” the man said instead of questioning his poor attempt of an excuse as he leaned against a rock wall. “They show no mercy when facing deviancy.”

“Soldiers did that?!” North rasped out in shock. He thought it was done by the hands of the Watch. Why the hell would soldiers do such a thing? 

“Aye, they love to make a show about it. Always proud to show their exploits.”

A shiver ran down the boy’s back, forcing the image of the two dead men away as he stood up. He knew life here was harsher than the present, but he never realized how brutal and intense it was. You could easily end up dead just by some rumours for Christ’s sake.

“C-couldn’t they have a trial or go to prison instead of… that? Why kill them in such a way?” They couldn’t be that ruthless, could they? Then again, it wasn’t so different back home. People in authority could easily abuse their power. He saw plenty of it in his lifetime.

Different time, same beliefs.

Callum chuckled humourlessly, a smirk forming on his face, but the anger was bright in his eyes. “Where’s the justice when one claims they’re always right, no matter what the other says? What can these people do when the army that is supposed to protect them leave them to rot? The world is not as black and white, boy. Those two men you saw were playing with fate itself by dealing with both sides.”

Something made North stiffen at the words. It was meant to be said in sympathy, but North detected the double meaning all too well. Clenching his fists with barely contained anger, he snapped. “Is that why I’m here, then? To see the real world so I can speak? For me to be so afraid and traumatized I’ll blurt out all the secrets you desperately want to hear?”

The man said nothing, though North caught the barest hint of surprise before it was hidden behind a blank face. So Callum wasn’t expecting a child to figure out his ulterior motives.

Hmpf, typical.

“How do you think Laird Campbell will feel about you stealing money from him to line your own pockets and using me to do it?” North hissed coldly.

“Aren't you the canny lad?” Callum cocked an eyebrow, face impassive.

“Just wondering how it works.” The boy huffed as he crossed his arms. “A penny for the laird, a pound for your own pocket. Are there two sets of books as well, one for each?”

“Seems that you've got it all sorted out.”

“Doesn't take a genius to figure it out.” North gritted out with a glare. “What I want to know is why you’re telling everyone about my encounter with the English captain. Mr. Campbell said I was his guest, not a twisted sympathy gainer working for you.”

At least, he hoped so, if his brother didn’t know anything about this.

“And he said you have secrets.” Callum sneered, eyes narrowing. “You haven't been forthright since you got here, boy.”

Said the man who steals people’s money with his tales!

“Haven’t I proved myself already by playing Cinderella these past two weeks?! Why don’t you trust me? Why did I do?!” North pressed on with clenched fists. “Why are you so adamant about me being a spy for the English?”

He had enough of the accusations and dirty looks whenever he walked out of his room. Enough of Hamish following him like a shadow to watch his every move. Enough of Malcolm treating him like dirt. Enough of constantly looking over his shoulder. He was so done.

“Yer Irish.”

“Excuse me?!” North sputtered incredulously, not sure whether to be outraged at his hypocrisy or just straight on kick the man between the legs. “What kind of shitty excuse is that?”

“My point still stands, boy, you have secrets.” Callum crossed his arms, a dark glint in his pale blue eyes as he scowled. “It’s not every day we find an Irish boy lost in the Highlands all by himself.”

“Then what do you want me to do to prove it? Go to the bloody Que-King himself and ask-” North did an exaggerated bow, tipping an invisible hat in the air.  With an almost perfect posh accent, he said, “Do you know me, my good sire? No? Oh, excuse my ignorance, for I wasn’t even aware I was working for you myself! So sorry for the visit, cheerio!”

Though his face didn’t show a twitch of a reaction, the old man did cocked an eyebrow at the vivid demonstration. “Are you or are you not a spy?”

North wanted to scream to the sky and pull his hair out of his scalp. God, he was so infuriating! How many times was he asked the same bloody question?!

Mustering his biggest glare, he gritted out, “No, I am not a spy.”

“Is your name truly Seán Killough?”

The boy faltered, caught off guard by the question as his heart skipped a bit. He recovered quickly though as he spitted out, “Yes, my name is Seán Killough and I do come from a small village in County Down, but now, I live with my aunt and brothers near Edinburgh. Is that clear enough, sir?”

To hell with respect for authority, he had enough. He had a splitting headache because of earlier and now this. He didn’t have the energy for-

North stumbled backwards with a yelp when Callum suddenly pressed a dagger to his chest. The boy held his breath, his heart pounding wildly as the man glared down at him coldly. His back hit a rock wall, flinching at the clenching of the man’s jaw, but he stood his ground as he glared back.

He hoped he looked as threatening as the man right now because he was on the edge of passing out.

After what felt like an eternity, Callum leaned back.

“This place is called the St Ninian’s Spring.”

North blinked, his body caught in between tensing for danger or slumping back in relief at the sudden change of topics. He was honestly expecting to be shanked, but in no way was he expecting that.

“The locals call it the Liar's spring because it smells like the fumes of hell itself.” Callum turned around, looking at the moss-covered walls as if he didn’t just threaten the life of a kid a second ago.

Legs shaking from the adrenaline rush, North clutched the wall to keep from crumbling to the ground. He took a wavering breath, heart pounding.

Jaysus, that man could be downright terrifying.

“Legend has it the water of this spring possesses magical properties.”

Mismatched eyes widened in panic. Oh shite.

“Really?” North asked lightly, glad the man had his back turned because he lost all composure for a moment as he scrambled to his feet when his hands slipped from the wall. He swallowed the knot in his throat, forcing his voice to remain calm. “W-what kind of properties does the water has?”

“They say that if you lie, the water drunk will turn into a blazing fire, burning your insides out and melt your throat before you could scream for forgiveness, hence the name.” The man said, tilting the dagger to catch the light in a bored manner as though talking about the weather.

North’s stomach coiled as he stared at the water in horror, realization dawning onto him like a bucket of icy water dumped onto him. Did the man just use magic on him? 

He forced out a laugh, though it sounded a tad hysterical in his ears and maybe an octave higher than normal. “That… that sounds mental! Do you believe that? Is that why you made me drink it?”

The man shrugged as he walked towards the entrance of a crevasse, sheathing the dagger back to its scabbard.

North eyed the weapon warily, keeping a wide berth from him. “Were you planning on using that on me as well?”

“I wouldn’t have liked it if you have proven false,” Callum said, not sounding apologetic at all. He stopped at the threshold of the crevasse and turned to face him. “But I ken you’re telling the truth now.”

“Because of a magic spring?” The boy stammered out.

“Surely you believe in the powers of magic?” Callum arched an eyebrow, eyes calculating. “You’re aware of the nature of the Laird. In fact, you were quite acquainted with him when Hamish brought you in despite Allen having no knowledge of you.”

North tensed, a different spark of anxiety running through him. In retrospect, it was a huge mistake of blurting out his brother’s Nation name in front of humans, but he was scared shitless and threatened by a fecking sword. He wasn’t thinking straight. Besides, it was a good thing he called him ‘Scotland’ instead of Alistair because he had no idea his brother was going by a different name.

“I’m well versed in myths and legends. The existence of personifications is one of my favourites,” he said, hoping he sounded convincing. “My brothers told me many of them throughout my childhood.”

Not so much of a lie. He may not have magic like his brothers, but they did share their knowledge on faes and what to do in case he stumbled upon one by accident.

Callum stared at him for a moment before turning back to climb the incline in the crevasse. “Get yer arse moving, we’re leaving. The others are waiting for us.”

The boy dusted off his trousers and looked at the stream one last time before following the man. As North reached the narrow path, the old man paused to look over his shoulder with a dark look.

“You may have told the truth of who you are, but don’t believe for once second I trust you.  Show that kind of disrespect again, I’ll make sure you don’t get back with us. Is that clear?”

North froze for a moment before nodding mutely.

Pale blue eyes narrowed into slits, a dangerous tone in his voice. “Do I make myself clear, boy?”

“Yes, sir.” The boy muttered, forcing the spark of fear down.

As they climbed the incline in silence, North wondered how in the hell Callum managed to drag him all the way down there. Speaking of it, his mind went back racing with questions.

He didn’t know if Callum was bluffing about the spring being magical, but the mere thought gave him goosebumps. The idea of almost having his insides burned into crisp was horrifying enough, but it was nothing compared to realizing the man knew what he was doing when he offered him to drink said water.

Was Callum really willing to let a kid die a horrifying death via a supposedly magic spring for answers?

Apparently, yes, the bastard!

His brothers were adamant in telling him that consent was crucial when using magic on or around others. One of the reasons was to avoid magical backlashes that could hurt both parties, but it was also just a matter of respect.

He was sure Callum was just following a superstition and wasn’t, as far as he knew, a magic user, but seeing someone casually breaking one of the main rules of magic was just alarming.

Another chilling thought pierced his mind a second later.

Would… would Scotland have let him drink the water if he was here instead of Callum?

Would his brother have been willing to use magic on his little brother like that?

Once again, North was painfully reminded that this Scotland wasn’t the same as the one in his time. He wasn’t the same brother he could banter harmlessly with. The one who gave him noogies with that stupid grin of his whenever he wanted to. The one he watched horror movies with. This Scotland was different… a potentially dangerous different.

He glanced at the spring down below.

No, if Scotland was here, he wouldn’t have done that. He was sure of it. None of his brothers would. His brothers may use hexes on each other as petty vengeance every now and then, but they followed rules religiously. They always voiced their intention first because intention was also one of the main rules of magic.  

Past Scotland may be different, but North remembered his poor attempt of an apology when he invited him for the bard performance. Scotland liked putting a front of being indifferent and uncaring for others, but he knew his brother had a heart of gold behind that smirk. Was he an arsehole? Absolutely. Was he cruel? No, at least without reason, even less to a kid.

If Scotland wasn’t behind all of this, he can bet his snow globes collection he would tell him what Callum was doing. North may have pissed himself in fear when the man pointed a dagger at him, but that sure as hell won’t stop him from warning his brother.

Which meant…

North looked at Callum walking just a few steps ahead of him, narrowing his eyes in suspicion.

Which meant he couldn’t leave just yet. He needed to get back to Kaerndal Castle.

Warn his brother first, gather resources and then skedaddle out of here.

An anxious knot soon twisted in his stomach.

He couldn’t remember what he did during his panic attack, but he hoped he didn’t give away anything that would blow his cover or worse reveal his real identity. He had enough trouble on his plate already.

Though even if North felt sick the more he thought about what could have happened if the water did have magical properties, a part of him couldn’t help but feel a wee bit smug about it.

The hours spent practicing in his room with the handheld mirror did pay up in the end. He wasn’t discovered by a dagger and a supposed magical spring. He should get a medal for that. 

When they reached the top of the hill, his mood soured when he saw the clan, reminding him why he was brought to the spring in the first place. He rubbed his stinging cheek, sending a dirty look to Callum.  

His face burned like a furnace when the group turned their attention to him. He did his best to ignore them as he stared at the ground with such intensity, he was pretty sure Scotland could feel it.

Great, everyone was looking, he thought with gritted teeth. 

At least he thought so, because Malcolm was, of course, in the middle of telling another of his wild stories. He was well invested in telling it, not even noticing North’s arrival for once.

“So there I am in bed, Harelip Chrissie on my left and Sweaty Netty, the butcher's daughter, on my right.” The short man said with a snicker, holding his arms out as if imagining having the ladies by his side. “They get jealous of each other, start arguing about who I'm going to shag first. Can you believe it?”

North, running on fumes from earlier and honestly done with Malcolm’s bawdy stories, walked past him and snarked without missing a beat. “I believe your left hand gets jealous of your right. That's about all I believe.”

Stunned silence filled the air as the clan stared between North and Malcolm. North paused in the middle of climbing on the cart, nervousness skyrocketing at the attention, but then Ian burst out laughing, followed by the others.

“Aren’t you a witty one!” Ian reached over to ruffle his hair with a meaty hand.

North squawked, ducking under the man’s arm to jump into the cart. He ignored the chuckles of the others and the indignant grumbling of Malcolm as he sat down in his corner. 

Andrew brought his horse by the cart and looked at him in confusion, though a bit of concern slipped in his voice. “What happened back there?”

“The smoke got into the wrong pipe. I’m fine.” North put the satchel on his lap to pull out his book, averting his gaze.

He felt kind of bad about being short with Andrew, but he reached his social limit. One more confrontation and he might blow a fuse. He didn’t have the energy to talk to anybody and there was no way he would talk about that.

Thankfully, Andrew got the message and left him be. 

Moments later, the cart lurched forward and they hit the road once more.

North rolled out one of his blankets and wrapped it around himself, forming a warm cocoon. He then opened the leather book and leaned back against a crate.

It didn’t take long to feel the looks sent his way every now and then, but North kept his eyes trained on the flowery texts about plants.

He was fine. Nothing was wrong.

North picked a paragraph at random and started reading, paying no mind to the white-knuckle grip he had on the book.

Later that evening...

“Stop brooding.” Hamish huffed as he swatted the boy’s head before sitting down on the bench with a mug of ale. “You’ll glare a hole into the damn table.”

North sent him said glare but stayed silent. He glanced at the meal before him where a warm plate of creamy fish broth with a piece of bread was waiting for him, but he just went back to reading.

They arrived at the next village at the end of the day and after going through the same process of rent collecting, they were now eating dinner at the local tavern.

Meaning the speech will start soon. Again.

Honestly, North just lost all fight in him. He just wanted to go to sleep and forget about the whole day.

The headache was far from gone and the scars on his chest were still itching. It always happened after a panic attack and normally North would use a poultice to soothe it away, but no such luck in this hellhole.

So yeah, he was cranky, but could you blame him? Today was a shitty day and it will only get worse in a few minutes. Give him a fecking break already.

“Oi, I’m talking to you,” Hamish snapped a finger at him, a scowl forming on his face. “Don’t go wasting the food we give you.”

“Why do you care?” North muttered, eyes still staring at the book.

“Mrs. Gibs will have his hide if she finds out he let you starve!” Ian chipped in as he walked towards their table with a plate in his hands. Hamish hushed him, trying to slap his arm but the giant man swiftly moved away and sat down on the other side of the table.

North glanced up, blinking at the man before sighing heavily. He slid the book on the side and pulled the plate towards him. The broth was creamy with bits of potatoes, onions and smoked haddock. If he remembered correctly, Modern Scotland liked to cook Cullen Skink during winter. He said it kept someone warm and full for the day.

Grabbing the spoon, he stirred the broth and took a small bite. Not the same as his brother’s but it will do.

“Best way to recover from a fit is to eat a hearty meal.” Ian grinned, taking a huge bite of his bread.

North felt his stomach sink at the man’s words, face flushing in both anger and embarrassment. He looked down at his plate, forcing his voice even. “It wasn’t a fit.” 

Hamish pointed his spoon at him. “I once saw my great auntie have a fit when she saw a dead rat on her bed. Froth was coming out and everything. Dreadful, you ken.”

“It wasn’t a fit.” The boy gritted his teeth, clenching the spoon.

“Seemed like one.” The man shrugged. “You were yapping just like her.”

“It was a fecking panic attack, you twat, not a fit.” North snapped, mismatched eyes narrowed into slits.

Hamish leaned back, blinking in surprise at the heat of his words. “The hell’s a panic attack?”

Ian barked out a laugh and went back to his meal. “Let the lad be, Hamish. He’s as taut as a bow ready to snap. Keep poking him again and you’ll find yourself flat on the floor like he did to Andy.”

Huffing, Hamish rolled his eyes but didn’t make another comment.

North ground his teeth and it took him several breaths to calm himself. Panic attacks were no laughing matter. You have no control over it and it took time to calm down from one. He knew he shouldn’t feel ashamed of it, his brothers told him many times that it was something that could happen to anyone, but being mocked at and downgrading the episode pissed him off.

He wasn’t there when the Blitz happened in Belfast back in 1941. To keep him safe and away from the war, England sent him to live with Ireland because his older brother was a neutral nation during the war. Of course, there were still tensions between his brothers, but it was the safest safe for seven years old him. At least, they thought so.

While North stayed in Dublin with his brother, he still felt the destruction caused by the Blitz. The scars on his chest were proof of that. He sensed the death and pain of each of the victims. And although the strain of the attacks forced him into a coma for a time, North still got flashes of the wreckage left by the airstrikes. That was the curse of being tied to the Land, you get visions of the dangers, no matter how horrific they are.

A part of him knew that ignorance played a major role in Hamish’s response. Just a few decades ago, shortly after WW1, people called PTSD as being shell-shocked or suffering from a nervous shock. They even blamed the victims for being cowards and ‘unmanly’ because they were taken by fear. And while North lived in a world where it was more understanding and compassionate, he never experienced meeting someone who treated it as being in hysterics.

He took comfort in knowing the world of medicine and psychology would get much better in the future. Much better.

Sadly, as if Malcolm’s sole mission was to make his life miserable, the man walked to the table with Angus and Andrew trailing behind. He sat down beside Ian and looked at North with a cocked eyebrow.

“Done with you flying off the handle over nothing like a wean?” He asked bluntly.

North bristled, really considering to square go with that arsehole once and for all, but kept his mouth shut.

Cool. Calm. Collected.

“Did you lose someone to a fire?” Malcolm pressed on with mocked sympathy, smirking at the murderous glare he got. “Explains why you wailed about wanting to save th-”

He squawked when something splashed all over him and he looked up to glare at Andrew.

“Sorry, Malcolm, I tripped!” The young clansman said with a shrug, his cup askew between the plate he was balancing. 

The man gritted his teeth, ready to say something, but one sharp look from Angus made him change his mind. With a huff, he stood and mentioned going to search for a cloth before leaving the table.

North was still staring daggers at the man when Andrew sat in front of him. “Don’t pay him no mind. He can be a real bastard.” He frowned when he got no response. “Seán?”

Andrew recoiled a bit when frigid blue and green eyes snapped to him, but before he could say anything the boy went back glaring at his food.

It took North several minutes to stop seeing red and by then, he was beyond exhausted. He took another breath before unclenching the hand holding the spoon, only to curse under his breath when he noticed the dents.

Damn his Nation strength.

He set the spoon down and quickly slid the book closer, opening it to cover the bent utensil. He’ll fix it once everyone was busy listening to the speech.

North was in the middle of reading a passage on the properties of valerian roots when a small plate entered his field of view. He blinked at the sight of a scone with a bit of jam on the side. He looked up at Andrew, but the young man was in the middle of a discussion with his uncle.

The boy looked back at the pastry, a wry smile on his face. He grabbed the scone and spread a bit of jam on it before taking a bite.

His mood dampened, however, when a hush rolled across the room as Callum walked to the middle of the tavern, the familiar pouch sitting neatly on the table beside him.

Here we go again.

North didn’t bother looking up as the man started his speech nor did he pay mind to the glances from Andrew or the looks of sympathy he would soon get. Instead, he focused on the book Dr. Graham lent him and pushed down the spark of anger fluttering in his chest.

He was helpless, he couldn't do anything to stop it. He could just sit back and let it pass. Be used for Callum’s plans. And say nothing on the matter.

The young nation huffed and hunched his shoulders in the hope to make himself small, not that it would do much once the villagers started to stare at him like he was a freaking exhibit.

So caught up in his simmering anger, he didn’t notice the speech was coming to an end until his ears sparked to a name he heard somewhere before.

Long live the Stuart.

Each of his brothers made him go through a deep dive into their history by visiting museums and art galleries so he could be ‘up to date’. Though, most of the time it ended with his brothers complaining about the inaccuracies of events and bashing historical figures with juicy drama. It was honestly more entertaining than educational, but he did learn a few things.

In one of his ‘journeys of knowledge’ as England liked to call it, Scotland took him to the National Museum of Scotland in Edinburgh. And while his brother was an amazing storyteller and funny as hell with his deadpan delivery, hearing the ridiculously long line of monarchs was tedious. 

That was when he first heard of the Jacobite risings. Some say there were four uprisings. The first was in 1715 and the one in 1745 was the most famous because of one Bonnie Prince Charlie.

It was said that the Bonnie Prince was gathering Stuart sympathizers, called Jacobites, for a rebellion in the hope to restore a Catholic King after King James II was dethroned by the Protestants. And Charles Stuart used the Scottish Highlanders to raise money for a Jacobite army.

A lost cause written down in stone and blood.

North looked up in dawning realization, the dots finally connecting as he watched Callum speak.

The activities Callum and the clan were involved in weren’t criminal.

They were political.

They were using his meeting with the English captain not to gain sympathies from the audience, but to stir outrage against the British. 

Callum was raising money for a Jacobite army.

Mismatched eyes widened, seeing the man in a different light for the first time since he met him.

These men weren’t criminals, but rebels. They were fighting for something they believed in with all their heart and might.

North’s heart twisted in dread, a pang of sadness washing over him.

How he wished he could tell them they were on the losing side of history, that it was all a pipe dream. 

The Stuarts would never unseat the Protestant King George II. How could he tell them that to these passionate men who lived and breathed for a flag of blue and white?

He remembered the wistful look that washed over his brother’s face when he was looking at a painting depicting the Battle of Falkirk. The way he paused when he talked about the Battle of Culloden in 1746.

The battle that ended all and caused the domino effect of decades of oppression known as the Highland Clearance. Where the clanship was nothing but destroyed, wearing tartan and carrying swords was banned and even the Gaelic language was oppressed.

In effect, Culloden marked the ends of the clans and the end of the Highlander way of life.

A battle three years from now.

The sadness turned to anguish as North looked at each member of the clan, heart sinking.

How many of them were doomed to die in that bloody field?

He may not like them, but he didn’t wish their death, not even Malcolm. He didn’t wish any of them to face a horrible demise. He couldn’t bear the thought of imagining Andrew dying in battle from a musket or a mortar.

Should… should he do something? Should he say something?

Will he be willing to change the past to save them? Was he allowed to change their fate?

Or should he let history run its course as intended?

Would he be able to stay silent and live with the knowledge he could have helped them?

What about Scotland? Should he warn his brother about the upcoming pain and suffering his people will live? Should he spare his brother’s pain?

What would happen if he irreversibly changed the past? What then?

He didn’t know.

Northern Ireland swallowed the tight knot in his throat as he watched villagers throw coins into the pouch.

He didn’t know.

And he feared the day he had to choose.

Talsworth stronghold, North East of Inverness, 1743

Captain Jeremiah Alexander Johnson was a boy with big dreams. And now, a straightforward man with matchless ambitions. He only needed himself and himself only to thrive in life. Yet, he wasn’t foolish enough to neglect any resources available to achieve his goals.

Pulling strings on one side and whispering secrets to the other, he revelled in his influence over any situation. 

He believed knowledge is power. Being two steps ahead of everyone at all times, monitoring every variable and knowing when to strike were the only ways to get beneficial results.

And relish in the favourable outcomes.

Was it an easy path to take? Of course not, it took patience and time, but that was what made it worth it.

Even when faced with drawbacks, he knew more than to let himself slip and lose his poise. After all, a hiccup could be easily changed as a perfect opportunity.

That was what happened when he was first sent to work up in Scotland. Aside from staying in a place of uncultured peasants in a dreadful environment, Johnson quickly saw the potential in his new post.

Being so far from civilization may have slowed a bit of his work, but it also gave him a new playground for his… effective interrogation methods.

After all, it was his duty to gather information and report them to his commanding officer. Besides, they were mere criminals and vagabonds. He was doing a service in putting them in their place.

Captain Johnson walked down the torch-lit hallway of Talsworth Castle, heading for the office at the far end. He passed by a window facing the shores of the Moray Firth, the setting sun painting the sky in reds and oranges.

He stopped in front of a large wooden door and checked himself for any wrinkles blemishing his uniform. He patted the front of his coat, making sure the reports were safely tucked inside.

He looked back at the door and pursed his lips.

While he had control over the situation, the person on the other side of this door had proved to be a bit of an obstacle ever since his recent transfer. Nothing worth being hasty about. Working in the shadows was child’s play.

Taking a deep breath, the English captain raised his fist and knocked twice.

A moment of silence passed before a muffled voice resonated through the door. “Come in.”

Straightening, the captain opened the door and stepped inside. The office was large with wall lamp oils lined up on the stone walls. At the far end of the room, in front of a large window, rested an imposing wooden desk with an intricate armchair. The desk was neatly organized with a stack of official papers on one corner and an inkpot and quill on the other.

On the left wall stood a wide bookshelf filled with tomes of all sizes. Beside it was a fireplace, the fire crackling and popping from the burning logs. Lastly, on the right wall, several maps hung with landmarks and city circles in ink, blocked from his view by his commanding officer, hands clasped behind his back.

Adorned in his pristine red uniform and white breeches, blond sandy hair tied into a low ponytail, the man was studying the maps intensely.

“Admiral, sir.” Captain Johnson saluted the man.

Admiral Arthur Kirkland glanced away from the maps to look at the captain, a bushy eyebrow cocking ever so slightly. “Captain Johnson, back from patrol, I see. How did it go? Followed the correct route this time?”

Schooling his expression, Johnson deflected the jab by pulling out the reports from his coat and handing them to him. “My men reported sightings of the Campbell clan travelling three days South West of Inverness. According to locals, they’re doing their rent collecting.”

“Any sign of the Laird?” The admiral asked, green eyes scanning through the reports.

“I’m afraid not, sir, he hasn’t been seen since last month,” the captain said, hands clasped behind his back. “We asked a few villagers of his whereabouts, but none came with valuable answers.”

He hoped the message he sent to the last one would make them think twice before wasting his time.

“Typical,” his commanding officer tsked, frustration flashing on his rather young face. “The people here harbour great loyalty to him. They’d rather starve to death in this desolate place than give anything away. Bull-headed fools.”

Johnson tilted his head, intrigued by the younger man’s demeanour. He could admit he was rather vexed at the arrival of his commanding officer. Aside from being young, barely in his twenties, Admiral Kirkland was an enigma wrapped in a naive-looking shell.

His arrival put a hold on his plans, mostly due to the admiral’s all-seeing eye, but also because Johnson couldn’t get a sense of his person.

And it irked him.

Judging character came naturally to him. Digging for weaknesses could be done with one single glance.

So when the young man came to Talsworth stronghold a few months back,—someone from the royal navy of all places, and introduced himself as his new commanding officer, Johnson lost his footing for a quick moment.

There was a strange glint behind Admiral Kirkland he couldn’t get through. A calculating glint that told him the admiral knew something he didn’t and Johnson didn’t like being out of his depths.

Admiral Kirkland showed a surprising level of perceptiveness with a difficult mask to crack despite his apparent short temper. His tight-lipped character was displeasing. He didn’t explain the reason for his staying other than overseeing the hardworking troops stationed here. He didn’t reveal much unless it was about Laird Campbell.

Johnson had to admit he didn’t fully understand the admiral’s hostility towards the elusive Laird the locals barely heard of. Nor the reason why he was desperate to capture him. The most confusing part was, behind the colourful rant and expressive tirades, the hint of worry in the young man’s voice.

A childish display, in his opinion, for someone in such a high rank in the army. It was infuriating, really, to be ordered around by someone ten years his junior. But he needed to play his part if he wanted everything to work out.

The last thing he wanted was his commanding officer sniffing around his work. It was better to keep the admiral’s attention on his futile search of the Laird.

“Rest assured, sir, we will keep searching until we find him,” Captain Johnson said, watching the juvenile man pace back and forth in the room. He took pity on him. “In fact, one of my informants contacted me letting me know they will soon have access to Campbell’s whereabouts and meeting points.”

As expected, Admiral Kirkland paused his pacing, turning to face him with pursed lips. That same glint appeared in his eyes. “How soon?”

“In about a month’s time, I believe.”

The blond cursed under his breath, walking to his desk to search for something. “I’ll be on the mainland by then. Send word to London for any progress.” He signed something on a piece of paper and handed it to the captain. “Until then, keep searching for him or any members of the group. That should be our first priority.”

“Of course, sir. I’ll send another troop by dawn.” Johnson nodded, taking the signed paper. “Would that be all?”

“Dismissed, Captain, thank you.” Admiral Kirkland sat down on his chair, rubbing his temples as if fighting a headache.

Saluting his commanding officer, the English captain left the room, closing the door behind him. But not before hearing glass shattering. Once he was halfway down the hall, the captain let a smirk curl on his lips.

While he told the truth that his men had indeed reported no sighting of Laird Campbell, Johnson had known the man’s location months ago. He knew Allen Campbell resided at Kaerndal Castle in the region of Strathpeffer.

He was just waiting for the best moment to strike.

After all, good things come to those who wait.

Chapter Text

Chapter 10

A Precarious Trade

On the road, October 5th, 1743

Andrew Findlay hit the ground with a grunt, pain spreading from his back. Sweat poured down his forehead, dirt sticking to his face. He shut his eyes, groaning when he tried to roll over.

That would leave a bruise.

A shadow blocked out the blinding sun and he blinked several times to look at the figure standing over him.

“Your right side was wide open,” his uncle Angus said gruffly, lowering his short sword.

“I noticed.” Andrew huffed, wincing at the dull pain on his abdomen.

“Maybe next time you’ll fall face-first!” Ian called out from the side, watching the two of them with apparent glee. Andrew rolled his eyes and flapped a hand at the blond sitting on a lug. Please, he wasn’t Hamish.

His uncle nudged his boot with the tip of his sword. “On your feet.”

Getting on his knees, Andrew picked up his sword and pushed himself up. He barely had time to take a breather before the older man lunged at him. Gritting his teeth, the young clansman parried it with his sword, the collision resonating in the campsite.

The older man swiftly moved to the left and thrust his sword forward, forcing Andrew to retract his weapon to his chest. Another strike. Widening his stance, Andrew pushed his uncle’s sword away and swung his sword in a wide arc. Without even a glance, his uncle deflected it with a flick of his wrist.

While he held great respect for his uncle and always took his advice seriously, he could be a right bastard when he wanted to. His training was getting ruthless and more strenuous, not that he complained much about it. Andrew was proud of his progress and it showed. He wasn’t one to brag about appearances, but he was quite chuffed at the muscles he was gaining.

However…

A sharp pain shot through his arm when he missed a block, almost making him lose his grip on the sword. Noticing this, his uncle quickly sent a series of quick swipes, forcing Andrew to pull back several steps to avoid getting sliced.

He had to admit that his swordsmanship needed a bit of work.

But Andrew was determined to get better. If he wanted to be part of the clan, to be ready for the Pledge of Allegiance, he needed to be in peak performance.

He needed to make his family proud.

He parried another attack, focusing on his defence and waited for an opening. His uncle was skilled with a sword; one of the best. His quiet nature made him hard to read and even harder to predict, but Andrew learned a few things over the years of being his pupil.

His uncle had a vast knowledge of swordsmanship and the proper duelling ways. There were rules and etiquette to follow when sparring with someone. Although for a life or death situation, those rules could be discarded, there was an art in fighting with a sword.

But sometimes, improvisation was key.

Lowering his stance, Andrew feigned to the left as he aimed his sword to the man’s shoulder. Swiftly, his uncle parried it with a sharp right and Andrew internally grinned.

Using his uncle’s momentum against him, Andrew grabbed his arm and twisted it. Surprise coloured the older man’s face as his sword clattered to the ground by the awkward hold. Then, stepping behind his uncle, Andrew gave Angus a brisk push on his back, making him stumble forward.

His uncle turned to look at him with both eyebrows raised as if asking ‘what the hell was that?’ and Andrew grinned with a shrug.

Ian had no shame as he burst out laughing, pointing at Angus. “Ha, your nephew finally bested you!”

Andrew couldn’t stop but preen at the fact. He really did best his uncle. The smirk faltered, however, when the man in question just stared at him.

His uncle approached him, the scar on his right eye making him even more intimidating. He always wondered how his uncle got the scar, but the man kept telling a different story every time he asked.

The young clansman held his breath as the man stopped in front of him and regarded him with dark eyes.

“That’s cheating,” he said with a stern look for a long minute before cracking a smile, taking years off his face, “but you used my strength against me. Well done, Nephew.”

Andrew visibly sagged, grinning as his uncle patted his arm. He then yelped when the man swiped his leg under his feet and flipped him over.

For the second time today, Andrew slammed the ground with a wheeze. His uncle bent over once more with a visible smirk on his bearded face, offering his hand.

“But I didn’t say I yield, therefore, I win.”

Andrew huffed out a breathy laugh, accepting his uncle’s hand as he climbed to his feet. He patted the dust off his coat and picked up his sword. “Next time, Uncle, you’ll be the one kissing the ground.”

His uncle chuckled and sheathed his sword back to its scabbard. He looked at him solemnly, but the proud glint in his eyes was clear as day. “You’re making progress, Andrew. A few more weeks and you’ll be ready.”

“You know what that means!” Ian clapped a meaty hand on his shoulder, giving him a firm shake. “The last test will be sparring with Allen.”

Andrew sent a look to his uncle, silently asking if it was true or not. His stomach flipped at the nod from the man. He gulped.

Sure, he was adept with a sword, but that was nothing compared to spar with Laird Campbell. The clan chief of Castle Kaerndal.

“Ach, dinnea fash, Andy boy! You’ll do great.” Ian reassured with a wink. “We all had to go through with it in order to be in the clan.”

“Even Callum?” Andrew asked in surprise. After all, Callum Dougall was the previous Laird of the castle. He didn’t think he would have to do it.

“Aye, it’s a way for the Laird to make sure you are worthy of the status, but also to judge if you can defend yourself,” Ian explained, tapping Andrew’s chest with a callous finger. “Remember lad, being part of this clan could put you in dangerous situations. He goes to great lengths to make sure his men are ready for anything.”

Noticing the serious tone of the usually jovial man, Andrew nodded dutifully. He was well aware of the risks of becoming a member of the clan. 

His father was part of the last Rising back in 1719 and he had played a major role in rallying the men. Eoghan Findlay was a great spokesman and an even greater swordsman that made everyone want to fight by his side. 

Although the death of the Swedish King Charles XII, one of the allies supporting the Jacobite cause, greatly decreased their forces, his father hadn’t given up. Neither did the men he had managed to rally. His father fought in the Battle of Glen Shiel, even if the odds were against them.

And when they were defeated by the British army, instead of running away, his father stayed to help his compatriots escape. Even with a shattered leg, he pushed through and made sure everyone was safe first. It was his best friend, his uncle Angus, who carried him on his back on their way home when the battle was over. 

His father’s heroic acts made him a legend amongst their people. His efforts helped bring the men back to their mothers and wives. Sadly, his leg couldn’t be saved and had to be cut off, but Eoghan Findlay didn’t falter. He stood proud and tall.

Andrew wanted his father to be proud of him. He wanted to be as brave and skilled as him. 

It was why he wanted to be part of the Jacobite cause. Why he wanted to fight and defend in the name of their Laird.  

Even though he might appear young, Allen Campbell proved to be an outstanding leader despite his temper. In the past five years, he brought many positive changes for the people of Strathpeffer, from the help in the farming system to the effort in keeping the peace between the tenants.

Which made the Pledge of Allegiance even more stressful to think about. It was fast approaching and Andrew prayed he would not fail. His uncle reassured him he was more than prepared, but Andrew still felt anxious every now and then. Just in case, he would practice his oath with Mairead when they got home.

“By the way, that move you did, where did that come from?” Ian asked, scratching his bearded chin. “Looks familiar.”

Andrew answered reluctantly, “I learned it from my own walloping.”

Ian laughed, “ah right, who can forget that. Nimble little bastard for a lad like him.”

That he was. Seán Killough may have twigs for arms, but he sure can haul you over like a sack of potatoes.

Over the past two weeks, Andrew grew to tolerate having Seán around. He had been away at the time, visiting his aunt at the next village when Seán was first brought to Castle Kaerndal. He wasn’t sure what to think of him in the beginning, having just heard tales from his uncle and Mrs. Gibs.

That a boy had been found in the forest all alone before being rescued from the British. That he was to stay at Castle Kaerndal until the Laird got in contact with his missing brother.

However, when Andrew got back, he quickly noticed that the kid was a bit odd. Aside from being reserved around strangers, Seán had a sharp tongue and an even sharper mind when provoked. Like when he interrupted the monthly session with the tenants to defend Mairead.

Now, Donnell Kendrick was a despicable man, and few were those who could stand being in his presence. He always wondered how a right bastard like him could be related to someone as sweet and genuine as Mairead. So it made his blood boil when he learned what happened to her. How cruel her uncle could get. Fortunately, she was spared from lashes all thanks to an Irish boy deciding to interrupt the session.

A ballsy move, that was.

It gave him all the more reason for wanting to talk to Seán, but Callum had ordered everyone not to interact with the kid during his labouring hours, as part of his punishment.

Except for Mairead, who everyone seemed oblivious to her defiant nature hidden behind that innocent smile of hers. Seán was supposedly not to be interrupted, but somehow, Mairead had managed to sneak her way in to thank him for his help. She had even roped Andrew in her scheme by asking him to keep watch in case Callum was around.

Not that Andrew minded, it was hard to refuse her. So he stood by the archway of the entrance of the castle and waited. When he spotted her a few minutes later with Ian, basket in hand, her whole face was glowing. Then, after bidding Ian goodbye, she turned to him and unfolded her fingers.

In her cupped hands was a lump of cloth. He remembered being confused by it until she changed the angle. It wasn’t a lump, the cloth was folded into the shape of a weird bird with its wings stretched out.

“Isn’t it a bonnie thing?” She had said with a grin, holding it up to her face. “Seán made it like it was nothing. He seems very nice too. You would like him, Andy!”

Mairead wasn’t kin, but he still held her dear. They grew up together. She was like the little sister he never had (and sometimes never needed). So his protectiveness was to be expected when she expressed such awe for the boy. 

Because why should she be so delighted over a lump of cloth? It was just a lump of cloth.

So, he deemed the whole thing as suspicious and decided to keep a close eye on Seán.

After all, he did promise her father to look after her before he passed away.

A few days later, when his uncle had told him he was to accompany them for the rent collecting, knowing Killough would be going too suited him. It was the perfect opportunity to uncover his motives.

However, the more he watched, the more confused he got. 

First, while Seán can be a bit childish at times ―especially when complaining about chores― he was quite mature for his age. Sometimes, Andrew forgot he was talking to a fourteen years old boy and not a middle-aged man. Except when he had the audacity to throw pebbles at him to prove a point.

Second, the kid could be a tad oblivious at times. When Andrew had interrogated him about his offering to Mairead the other day, rather than transforming into a fluttering mess like her other suitors due to his imposing presence, Seán just seemed genuinely clueless. Like the thought had never crossed his mind. 

And lastly, he was surprisingly insightful. During the gathering in the taverns, even if he couldn’t understand the speeches Callum was giving, Seán had known it was somehow connected to him. The anger he’d expressed on the matter was shocking.

But Andrew was a man of his words and kept silent. He wouldn’t go against his uncle’s orders. You could be arrested ― or worse executed ― if you were caught openly supporting the Jacobites.

Yet, behind that surly attitude, Seán rarely spoke of himself. He was open in sharing stories of his brothers, yes, but stayed quite guarded.

It was something Andrew noticed when they left the castle two weeks ago. The way he would shy away from people. The tensed shoulders, the flinching at approaching hands and the gritting of teeth when someone brushed past him. 

It took him a while to figure out, but Andrew now made sure to exaggerate his movements before punching his arm whenever he was annoying. And so far, it worked. 

Overall, Seán Killough was an odd kid. 

And last week, when they had reached the burned-down village, he caught a glimpse on why.

Andrew wasn’t ignorant of the hardships of his people. At a young age, he had seen atrocities and knew his future would be full of them as well. So when they entered the village, he was mentally prepared for the upcoming devastation. Seeing the scared families strengthened his resolve to keep training so that he could one day give the protection they deserved.

But he wasn’t expecting to see the two burned corpses tied to a post up the hill.

Nor the way Seán had reacted to them.

When he was ten, Andrew and his parents had visited his aunt Mathilda to congratulate her on her newborn, his cousin Archie. He remembered holding him in his arms. What a wee thing he was. Everyone was overjoyed by the new addition to the family, unaware of the tragedy that would greet them the next morning.

The anguish howls of his aunt when she found little unmoving Archie in his crib still haunted him to this day. No one knew exactly how his little cousin had passed, but his aunt’s broken heart and colourless spirit were the only traces left.

The cry Seán let out upon seeing the two dead men was just as gut-wrenching. The raw pain in his voice as he pleaded to save them chilled his blood. No child should sound this agonized.

It took both Hamish and Ian to keep Seán from reaching for the two corpses as the kid fought in their grasp. He kept repeating something about ‘he couldn’t abandon them’ or ‘they were dying’.

Callum practically had to manhandle Seán away from the scene. And by then, everyone was wondering about what had just transpired. It had been so sudden. Even Malcolm had seemed taken aback, which was out of character. When Callum and Seán came back, it was like a husk of a boy standing before him instead of the witty kid Andrew had grown to know.

The change had been unsettling and he wasn’t the only one to notice it. Despite Hamish complaining about being his babysitter, he kept giving him long glances. Seán may have been pretending to be fine, but the haunted look in his mismatched eyes betrayed his claim. He looked to have aged thirty years in the blink of an eye. The white-knuckle grip on his satchel contradicted the smile plastered on his face.

The mood had been a bit tense after that. The clan had tried to return to their usual banter, but never fully succeeded. Except for Malcolm, who once had realized there was no imminent danger, didn’t show a lick of compassion and proceeded at being his arsehole self.

Malcolm really went for it later at the tavern that day, when he had called Seán out for having a fit and openly mocked him. Andrew didn’t think twice about dumping his drink all over him. Call it instinct or just wanting to shut the man’s mouth shut for once, but Seán’s seething glare was unsettling. It was stone-cold yet it held a burning fury that made Andrew freeze in his steps.

Because he had a feeling that if he had let Malcolm continue, he would’ve ended up with a broken nose.

Since then, Seán Killough has kept quiet. Too quiet. He barely talked to anyone and obeyed the group’s orders without a quip. Not even an eye roll. Like all fight had left him.

He would be lying if he said he didn’t find it troubling. 

Speaking of which.

Andrew looked around the camp for any sign of the boy and found none. He turned to his uncle. “Are we done training, Uncle?”

The older man nodded, grabbing the waterskin Ian just offered him. “Go look for him. We’ll train tomorrow.”

Aye, if his uncle was showing a hint of worry, then there was something really wrong with Seán.

Andrew nodded back and walked towards the campsite. The rent collecting was finally over and they were now heading back to the castle. If the weather fared well, they would arrive in a few days.

He walked past the campfire where Hamish and Malcolm were skinning two rabbits they caught earlier. They paused their conversation to greet him.

“Did you beat him yet?” Hamish asked, hands bloody as he plunged the dagger into the mammal’s skin.

“Sure, if you consider ending the fight on your back,” he said with a grimace, rubbing his side. They may have trained with blunted swords but it was no pillow.

“Aye, saw you flopped down like a fish.” Malcolm snickered, pulling the skin off his rabbit with ease. “Pathetic, really.”

Andrew rolled his eyes, letting the jab pass over. He knew better than taking the bait. The man loved to provoke any breathing being.

“Have you seen Seán by any chance?”

He didn’t pay mind to Malcolm’s scoff of derision and focused on Hamish. The latter pointed his dripping dagger to the right. “He’s helping Tobias make rope.”

Leaving them before Malcolm started ranting about the kid, Andrew headed for the pointed direction. The camp was near the road, in a bosquet that provided good shelter for the tents and a decent cover from passersby.

He took the path leading to the other side of the bosquet, to a clearing near a pond and soon enough, he spotted Seán.

Sitting on a rock with his back to him, the kid was hunched over as he fiddled with strands of thread. A coil of rope spilled by his feet, a bit crooked in some parts but still sturdy-looking.

He approached the kid, making sure to step on a twig to make his presence known.

“I’m almost done, Mr. Hewson. Just finishing this bit,” Seán said absentmindedly.

“Already?” Andrew said, entertained when the kid startled at the sound of his voice.

Seán looked over his shoulder before looking down at the rope in his hands. “It took me an hour just to braid half a foot.”

“It takes practice.” Andrew shrugged, hands in his pockets. “Where is Mr. Hewson, by the way?”

“He went to get more material.”

“Mind if I join in, then?”

A shrug was his only answer.

Andrew sat on the rock beside Seán and picked up one of the coils. It had been a while. In fact, he was around Seán’s age when he helped make rope for the village. All children took turns helping Mr. Hewson.

They worked in silence, each focused on braiding their rope. Andrew glanced at the kid, noticing the visible bags under his eyes. He looked down, a frown forming on his face at the bowl untouched by his feet.

Andrew didn’t want to sound like Mairead’s grandmother, but he had also noticed that Seán didn’t eat very often. He was always picking at his food. 

He was about to mention it, but Seán spoke first. “Why did you let me think you were thieves?”

“Uh?”

“Callum’s speech the other night. Raising money for the Jacobites,” the kid said, voice flat. “Why did you let me think you were thieves?”

Andrew’s eyes widened in shock. “I thought you said you didn’t speak Gaelic.”

Seán shrugged again, fingers fidgeting with the rope. “Well, I've picked up enough to understand what ‘ Long live the Stuart’ sounds like.”

Aye, that kid was alarmingly observant.

“I told you before, I can’t tell―”

Seán then turned to him, face carefully blank. “What if I told you that the odds were against you?”

Andrew cocked an eyebrow. “And which odds are those?”

“The British army is the best in the world.”

“Aye, that's a known fact. What of it?”

“You're raising money for a war that you cannot win.” The conviction in his voice was clear as day.

Andrew huffed. “And that worries you?”

“Of course!” Seán snapped, anger colouring his voice. “And you're the ones that should be worried.”

Andrew frowned, starting to get annoyed. He didn’t want to argue with Seán, as it was clear that whatever happened in that village had left a mark. From what he could understand, Seán had lost someone in a fire before and still never recovered from it.

It truly was a tragic incident, but his anger was uncalled for. Fighting for the Jacobites was a worthy cause. He was more than ready to take arms for his people.

“You talk as if the future has already been decided.” Andrew waved him off. “Outmanned we may be, but I would match our fighting hearts against the best army in the world.”

He wouldn’t let his uncle Bryce and cousin Harris’ death be left unpunished. His father came out a hero in the last rebellion at the price of his leg. It was Andrew’s turn to return the favour. They will win this time.

“Fighting hearts don't stand a chance against cannons or a fecking mortar to the face.” Seán hissed, an echo of grief flashing in his eyes. “You are going to lose .”

“That's your opinion, and you're entitled to it.” Andrew scowled, crossing his arms. “You may think you have everything figured out, but you don’t know the full story. I told you before, don’t judge something you don't understand.”

What the hell did he know about the Jacobites and the weight of the British’s oppression? He was just a farming boy from a village near Edinburgh.

“I’m telling the truth, Andrew. You have to believe me,” Seán insisted, shaking his head. “History will never record the name of another Stuart king, but it will record the names of thousands of Highlanders who've died needlessly for a doomed cause.”

“History be damned, then! What we’re doing is right and we won’t stop until we make a difference.” Andrew snapped as he rose to his feet, insulted by his claims. 

“Even if it costs you your life? Don’t be daft,” the kid scoffed, rolling his eyes. “There’s a better way to do this than by dying in a ditch, a bullet in your head.”

“We won’t because we are more numbered than before. The French are aiding us now.” They will help greatly in financing the army and sending weapons. Everything to give them a fighting chance.

“Ha, please, as if that would make a difference. It’s the fecking British empire we’re talking about!” Seán threw his hands in the air. He narrowed his eyes, gritting his teeth. “Think about your parents! Think about Mairead! Didn’t you tell me they worry about―”

“How would you know, you don’t even have a family!”

He knew it was wrong but he said it anyway. 

The kid recoiled as if burned.

Seán didn’t talk much about himself, that was a given fact. He only shared stories of his brothers and nothing else. When Andrew had asked him about his parents, however, he grew oddly silent. Then, in a subdued voice, he mentioned he lived with his aunt, but the fidgeting of his fingers and his fleeting eyes said it all.

Andrew sighed. “Look, Seán, that wasn’t what―” 

The hurt on Sean's face quickly morphed into the blank look he had a few minutes ago. And for the umpteenth time, he looked far older than he appeared. His usually bright eyes hardened like ice and his posture stiffened.

“I should go back to finishing the rope,” he said, voice void of any emotion. Dead. “Mr. Hewson will be back any minute now.”

The kid turned his back to him and picked up the rope. He went back braiding the strands, ignoring Andrew entirely.

Andrew clenched his jaw and exhaled. He turned to leave and stopped a few steps later, looking over his shoulder. 

“I don’t know what’s happening in that head of yours,” Andrew added, voice sombre. “But we’ll talk later when we’ve both calmed down.”

The boy stayed still, silent.

With that, Andrew took his leave and headed back to the campsite. His mind raced with questions. 

What if he was right? What if they lose again? What if they weren’t strong enough?

Andrew shook his head, angrily stamping down the worry.

No, doubt wouldn’t solve anything. They will win this, he thought with determination. 

They will.

Glasgow’s train station, October 6th, 1997

“And you said you work for which company again?” The employee asked as he guided the two men in suits at the end of the hall. “We don’t get many inspectors this time of the year.”

“The Maverick Inspection Corporation,” the man with auburn hair said as he looked up from his clipboard. He glanced at the window showing the storage centre, looking unimpressed and jotting down something with a click of his tongue. “We’re just here to ensure the quality of service: hygiene, littering, vandalism and all that. This place was at the top of our list.”

“What my partner is trying to say,” said the second man with an Irish lilt when he noticed the employee bristling at the other inspector’s words. He flashed a winning smile, gesturing the badge around his neck. “We’re just checking if everything is in order. It’s a protocol all public transport must go through, so we can assure the public we’re offering them the best service available. We’re covering every service; starting with the most popular one.”

The employee seemed to calm down at the explanation but still sent them a skeptical look, especially at the first one who seemed to be choking in his suit with his broad shoulders and tight collar. One sharp move and the sleeves would rip apart.

The older man flashed his key card and the door beeped open. He led them to the storage hangar and pointed at the rows of trains. “Here’s the lot of them. The next ones are coming in tomorrow to switch them up.”

“Good, good.” The Irishman nodded and glanced at his colleague before asking, “In fact, we’re looking for a train with the series number 979 143.”

“Why so specific?” the employee cocked an eyebrow.

“Ach, that’s just how the protocol works.” The auburn-haired man rolled his eyes. “We cannae inspect the trains if they expect us, aye? We pick one randomly and this—” He tapped his clipboard with the pen, “—is the one.”

The employee grumbled under his breath, muttering something that sounded like ‘insufferable penguins eejits’. He walked them down the hall and pointed at the train at the far end of the platform. “Should be this one. Here—” he fished out a set of keys and handed it out, “―you’ll need this to open the doors.”

“That’s grand! Thank you for your cooperation. If you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to give us a call.” The Irishman pulled out a business card with a flourish. “Shouldn’t take us too long.”

The middle-aged man inspected the card, noticing the folded corners from its cheap material and faded letters of the text. He looked back at the two men with a flat stare for a moment. Then, he shrugged as if to say, ‘ oh what the hell’ . “I’ll be in the lobby if you need anything.”

“Got it. Thank you, sir, and good afternoon.” The ginger inspector shook the employee’s hand with a broad smile.

“We’ll send the report to your boss when we leave,” the first inspector said, voice strained and face slightly flushed.

Eyeing him weirdly, the employee nodded and left the two men in suits alone on their business. Once the door closed, Scotland immediately started to button off the top of his shirt. “Didn’t expect the damn thing to shrink in the dryer. I can barely fuckin’ breathe.”

Ireland snorted a laugh as he walked to the front gate of the train. “I told you, get yourself a drying rack for the shirts. Otherwise, you look like an overgrown sausage.”

“Shut it,” the Scottish nation grumbled as he tugged his tie loose, fanning the clipboard to his face.

The two men stepped into the train, the lack of the usually bright and packed interior giving an eerie ambience.

Scotland flipped the first page of his clipboard to reveal the scribbled notes instead of the fake inspection report. He squinted at the paper, cursing Wales’ microscopic writing.

“Didn’t you bring your gl―”

“Fuck off. You try reading his chicken scratches.” He tapped his pen to a specific line on the paper. “Here, it says seat In43.”

“Which way is it?”

“Hell, if I know.”

Ireland looked at him flatly. “Alistair, you bought the damn ticket.”

“I got it for free! I didn’t get to choose the seat.”

“Christ, train tickets don’t cost a fortune, ye cheeseparing ogre.” Ireland scowled as he headed towards the nearest cabin. After finding the correct seat number, he pointed to his left with a glare. “That way. Let’s see if you didn’t send the poor lad to the loo cabin or something.”

Rolling his eyes, Scotland tucked the clipboard under his arm and followed him down the hall. He didn’t bother checking the seat numbers, knowing Ireland was eyeballing them like an x-ray. Besides, he already knew which wagon was In43; this was just an excuse to study his brother’s demeanour.

It had been a little over a month since Ireland first raised the alarm about their little brother. The damn fire-sending almost set his pyjamas pants on fire when he got it. They were skeptical about the news, in the beginning, knowing full well North preferred to hide whenever he was in a sour mood for who knew how long. Typical moody teenagers, you know. Even so, they searched all of North’s favourite places, and it wasn’t until after checking each of their respective houses that the worry slowly settled in.

Though Scotland wasn’t that worried, honestly. Ever since that science conference fiasco a few years back, he was confident that North could handle himself just fine. Almost caused a freaking civil war by disappearing out of thin air to visit a science exhibition on his own for a few days, without telling anyone.

“Hey, Ali, how much does a room cost for two nights?” Asked North one late evening, wherever the fuck he was, completely oblivious of the frenzy going on the other side of the line. Before he could answer, the phone was ripped from his hands just as England started tearing him a new one.

It wasn’t that surprising. Though even if the lad could be a tad mindless at times, he was smarter than he let on. It was a fact everybody knew but always discarded. While the other bampots went into a rampage in searching for North on that day, Scotland was the only one to wonder how in the world the kid had managed to pay for a room without the presence of an adult or even a credit card. Or how he had ended up in Copenhagen in the first place to attend said science conference. 

Apparently, bribing people with a plate of cookies can do wonders and Denmark was one of the idiots who could fall for that when he spotted his kid brother strolling in his capital.

“Those were some really good cookies, Scotland, how could I refuse? Besides, it was a really interesting conference,” Denmark had said sheepishly over the phone when Scotland flew over to pick North up. Better him than letting a furious England go instead. And his little brother had the gall to smile at him innocently when he fetched him at the hotel. 

Cheeky little shit. As if the puppy eyes trick worked on him still. It didn’t .

However, that wasn’t the case. This wasn’t just another adventure to a science fair without telling anyone. The twist in his gut told him that it was something entirely different.

First, he couldn’t Sense him, which on its own, was pretty fucking weird. And a little scary. He was always able to Sense his brothers, all four of them, whether they were their own Kingdom or lived under the same flag. They may not have had the same parents, but their history and culture were so intertwined, it was just natural for him to Sense them and vice-versa.

But now, it was like the signal was lost when it came to Northern Ireland. They didn’t even have any idea if he was dead or alive for Christ’s sake! 

Second, the video footage England and Wales got from Edinburgh’s Waverley train station just made no sense.

They saw North step onto the train as the other passengers, but they never saw him get out of the train. It was as if the kid vanished from the face of the Earth the second he boarded the train. Like he went on radio silence.

Poof, fucking evaporated. No explanation.

And it freaked him the hell out.

Not to mention the video from the library that was tampered only when North was present. Like whoever was behind this was covering their tracks.

Which brought them to this very place right now. The reason they were at Glasgow Central Station.

“Did England manage to get in contact with the Library’s owner?” Scotland asked as he closed another door behind him to enter the next wagon.

Ireland kept striding forward, taking note of the seat numbers. “By phone only. He wants to meet up with him for more questions and Wales is filling the warrant.”

Said warrant being the document Scotland managed to slip away when he passed by Scotland Yard. Having chats with the police force at the pub did come in handy in the end.

The Scottish nation hummed, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Good. Maybe the owner saw something we didn’t.”

“That’s the idea,” Ireland said.

“You think he’s an accomplice?”

“Maybe.”

“What about the police report? Any progress on your side?”

“No.”

Cocking his head to the side, the younger nation raised a brow. Ireland was speaking with his indifferent tone again. Flat and void of any emotion. It happened whenever he was over-stressed. It amazed him he even managed to act cheerful when they talked to the employee. But then again, his brother was a master of façades. He could look genuinely happy when in reality, he was seething in rage and planning your murder.

Or a trigger-happy psychopath , as Scotland so fondly referred to him.

At least he wasn’t with Wales for this. God forbid he spent another five minutes hearing him rambling on and on in a stuttering mess of worry. It was already bad enough he struggled with words when facing stressful situations, but now Wales seemed to forget how to speak entirely over the constant fretting he was doing. And England being a mother hen himself, didn’t help to keep things rational. It was a wonder Scotland kept his cool for this long. As always, he needed to be the steady rock for this crazy family.

He looked back to Ireland’s tensed shoulders and the way his hands would clench every now and then. Even with his back turned, Scotland could perfectly picture the furrowed brows and the clenched jaw.

For someone who proclaimed he didn’t care and didn’t have time to spare for the matter of others, Ireland was doing a piss poor job. 

Scotland huffed, shaking his head. He shouldn’t be surprised. 

“So…” He looked around the wagon, feigning disinterest as much as he could. “Wanna explain why I found the twerp sitting on my porch at eleven in the night the other day?”

Other than a stiffening of his back, Ireland stayed silent, focusing on his task at hand.

Normally, Scotland wouldn’t care less about his brothers’ drama and arguments. If he wasn’t part of it, then it was none of his business. As he said more than once, he wasn’t a fan of soap operas and his brothers had a knack to live in one, dragging him in against his will.

However, he had to admit he was curious about the latest argument between Northern Ireland and Ireland. With these two, it could be over anything.

Scotland had just finished his late shift at the hospital, on a warm August evening, mindlessly smoking a cigarette as he walked down the street of his flat. He was thinking of taking out the garbage only to stop at the sight of a figure sitting on his porch clutching a backpack.

For a moment he had thought a homeless person had decided to make his porch their temporary home and that he was forced to engage in a conversation to try to convince them to get going. Slap a tenner and share a cigarette with them if he had to.

It wasn’t until a car had passed by, the headlights illuminating the porch, that Scotland recognized who it was. That shock of ginger hair could be seen from miles away.

There could be two reasons why his kid brother would be here. Either his house got burned down from an experiment gone wrong and had nowhere else to go or he had a fight with Ireland. From the way North kept glaring at the ground as if it had personally offended him, Scotland could safely assume it was the latter.

So with a sigh, Scotland flicked his cigarette away and pulled out his keys. Once he opened the door, he glanced at his unexpected guest sitting on the porch and said, “There’s Chinese leftovers in the fridge if you’re hungry .”

With that, he stepped inside, leaving the door open, and headed to his room. It was as he was changing to his nightclothes that he heard the front door closing, footsteps shuffling in the kitchen, the opening of the fridge before the faint buzzing of the telly.

And because England would have killed him if he hadn’t made sure North was safely inside, he went to check on him an hour later. The sight of his couch occupied by a curled-up lump with a toff of ginger hair poking out of it shouldn’t be that pathetic to look at, but there it was.

On that next morning, he had found North sitting in the kitchen with a bowl of cereal in his hands. His hair was sticking in every direction, his pyjamas shirt backwards and there were heavy bags under his eyes as he glared at the spoon. 

It took another day until the lad returned to his annoying snarky self as if nothing had happened. And being a candidate for the best brother in the world, Scotland gave no fucks about it. It wasn’t his business, to begin with, and North didn’t come to him to complain about it either. So, he showed North his latest purchase of horror movies and they watched it together over a bowl of popcorn.

But now, a month and a half later, he had to admit he was curious about the whole thing.

“What was that fight about?” Scotland asked bluntly. No need to be subtle.

Ireland said nothing as he headed for the next wagon and Scotland rolled his eyes. Christ , the two of them were insufferable sometimes.

“The silent game again?” He drawled with a hum. “That’s a bit childish, Kiki, even for you.”

He smirked when his brother glared over his shoulder.

“What’s it to ya?” Ireland gritted out, going back on checking the numbers. “And stop calling me that.”

Scotland shrugged lazily. “I’m just bored. And wondering why North would leave his house for two weeks.”

He would have stayed longer if he hadn’t kicked him out in the first place.  

“He was just being a little shit, that’s what.” Ireland huffed angrily, almost tearing the sliding door off its hinges. Yep, definitely rattled. 

“He’s always a little shit. What changed?”

“Nothing.”

“Aye, that sounded so convincing, Ciarán, I almost fell for it,” Scotland said dryly. “Lately, you’ve been pricklier than a cactus and you’re already a huge prick to begin with.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” the Irishman scoffed, stomping down the aisle like a man on a mission.

“You didn’t answer my question.” Scotland pressed on impatiently. “What was it about? Did you two argue about the usual? Throwing insults left and right on who-”

Ireland suddenly stopped and Scotland had to grab the back of a seat to keep from colliding with the man. His brother glanced over his shoulder, scowl still present on his face. “That’s the last wagon.”

“Obviously.” Scotland rolled his eyes, both amazed and annoyed at his brother’s constant avoidance of the subject. Interrogating a wall would have been easier. And they say he was the stubborn one. “Wagon 17, said it on the ticket.”

“Said on the… why didn’t you say―” the Irishman paused to peek into the little window showing the other side and cursed under his breath. He took a deep breath and slowly turned to look at him. “ Albain…”

“What?” Scotland would forever deny he got chills running down his spine. It had been centuries since Ireland used that tone. He was pulling the I’m-the-older-brother-so-you-listen-to-me card. Christ, he suddenly felt like a kid again when eight years old Ireland would scold five years old him for eating too many berries from the basket.

Taking another deep breath, Ireland pointed behind him and smiled. Oh fuck . “Scotland, you’re my brother from another mother and I love you… but what the feck is wrong with you?”

He wasn’t sure whether to freak out or not about the fact Ireland threw the L-word so casually with that blasted demonic smile of his. But one thing for sure was that whatever was on the other side of that door, those furious eyes would be the last thing he would see.

Though those thoughts were spinning in his mind, Scotland just raised an eyebrow in askance.

A ginger eyebrow twitched as Ireland gritted his teeth. He stepped aside to let him peek with a sharp gesture towards the door. Again, Scotland had to hold the reign to keep from squirming under that stare. He needed to be careful now for a silent pissed-off Ireland could lead to unexpected things. One wrong move and the whole world could bloody explode when it came to that lanky leprechaun.

Mustering his best nonchalant face, the Scotsman looked inside the last wagon of the train and the sinking feeling he had earlier got heavier.

Even without the lights on, he could already tell the wagon was in a pitiable state. Half the seats were either ripped off in some ways or dirty to the point we couldn’t see the original pattern. The windows were filled with graffiti and the carpet was stained with suspicious trails that left little to the imagination.

Okay, he admitted begrudgingly, his brother’s pissy expression was valid. This was a bloody cheap deal, even by his standards.

They could have at least added a ‘do-not-disturb’ sign for the loo’s half-broken door.

He glanced at Ireland, who was still glaring at him like a deranged accountant with a fever. The crooked clip-tie added some flavour to the whole assemble.

Scotland cleared his throat and leaned back fully. He never would have thought in his entire life to wish to have England yelling at him instead of Ireland right now.

But he wasn’t Scotland the Brave for nothing. The song said so!

“It was the monthly free ticket give-away!” he said eventually.

Another twitch of the eyebrow and Scotland thought for a split-second he would turn into coal from that look, but Ireland ended up rolling his eyes upwards with a sigh. He muttered what sounded like a prayer asking for patience and sighed again. Ireland then slid the door open and stepped inside without a word.

A smirk formed on the Scottish man’s face at the small victory, but it faltered when he saw Ireland freeze. Frowning, he called out his brother as he peeked over his shoulder, expecting to see a dead body or something as dreadful, but saw nothing interesting.

“Kiki?” He tried again.

The nickname seemed to snap Ireland out of whatever trance he was in because he whipped around to jab a finger to his chest. “You fucked up good, Scotland. Real good.”

Scotland glared back, the confusion quickly turning into irritation at the accusation. “What the hell do you mean, ya fu-”

He suddenly felt it: the cool shift in the atmosphere so faint he almost missed it if it wasn’t for the centuries of experience. Keen grey eyes glanced around the wagon as Scotland expanded his senses until he stopped at the seat a little ahead from them on the left side.

As if reading his mind, Ireland walked towards it and looked up at the seat number. “Seat In43.”

“Is it his?” Scotland wondered, though he already knew the answer.

“He doesn’t have magic. That Echo is definitely not his.” Was the curt answer. Ireland knelt to look under the seat, making a noise of disgust at the sight of the plethora of old gums and other things he refused to guess.

“So, we’re dealing with the Faes, then,” Scotland said with an exasperated sigh. “And here I thought they would have given up when they realized North couldn’t See them anymore.”

Ireland tensed ever so slightly and Scotland was reminded it was still a touchy subject for his brother, even after all these years. The old bloke was still not over that, wasn’t he? Sure, it was a total letdown to discover their little brother couldn’t do magic, but it was nothing to cry over about. His little bro was a crafty little shit when it came to chemistry and other sciences.

Take for example the freaking hole in his roof because of a flying toaster.

But still, from all of them, Ireland took the hardest to North’s lack of magic. As cheesy and sentimental as it sounded, his older brother wanted to have at least one thing in common with the lad so they could get along. Which Scotland believed to be total bullshit.

They were both annoyingly infuriating when they were brooding and they shared the exact same scowl. A perfect carbon copy.

Scotland glanced at his brother, finding the scowl in question as Ireland leaned closer to the wall filled with graffiti.

Guess he’ll drag the idiot to the pub after this to cheer him up before he was too far deep in his fuming. Better have him drunk than brood in silence for days.

“I reckon we’ll have to meet with both Courts, then,” Scotland said with a sigh, running a hand through his hair. “England will be thrilled at the news.”

Ireland hummed absentmindedly, running his fingers over the scribbles. He scratched the ink off the surface and cocked his head to the side. “Doesn’t this look like a sigil to you or is it just me?”

Looking away from the explicit but rather poorly drawn phallic doodle he spotted on the back of a seat, Scotland looked at where his brother was pointing. He tilted his head, grey eyes squinting at the symbol. “I think? Could be a coincidence. Kids thinking they're cool or something. Are there more of them?”

Ireland pulled out a set of keys from his pockets and started scratching the marker off the wall. Scotland walked up behind him, watching as more symbols appeared the more the marker came off. He looked up, noticing some sections of the ceiling seemed newer than the rest as if it was recently painted. He looked down at the carpeted floor, finding the same contrast.

Climbing on a seat, the Scottish nation took the pen from his clipboard and started chipping off the paint from the ceiling. The fake inspection report may be in good use after all. There was no way they would let that wagon go.

Scratching noises filled the space as a new series of sigils were revealed, some big and others small that formed a trail going from where Ireland was to the seat on the other side. Scotland did the same to the carpet, tearing the cleaner section off only to find more runes and sigils underneath.

“ Èirinn… ” He took a step back to look at the pattern, careful to not step into one of the bigger drawings.

“I see it,” Ireland muttered, chipping off the last bit of paint on the wall where North was seated. He leaned back, craning his head to look at the rest of the symbols. From there, he could see the geometric details of the circles drawn on the walls, ceiling and floor.

Blast it all!

They were standing on an arcane Circle.

It could only mean one thing.

“How the hell did the Fae even manage that?” Scotland sputtered in disbelief. “The place is crawling with iron! Do you think we’re dealing with a witch?”

“Doubt it.” The Irishman carefully scratched one of the circles off in case it would activate again and stepped back, not taking his eyes off the sight. “This is a very meticulous piece of work. Most faes wouldn’t have the patience to do this. From the different states of the sigils, it was drawn on separate occasions.”

“Look here.” He pointed at a series of runes carved on the left wall. “It would take someone with great knowledge in runes to even know the basics of it, not to mention to keep it active after a time. This is―”

“Aye, something only you could pull off. No need to brag your sorry arse about it.”

“This is serious, Scotland!” Ireland snapped, eyes flashing in anger and mounting distress. “We’re dealing with something much more than just a bunch of mischievous Faes having a laugh. This is… this is something else.”

“I know, I know.” Scotland raised his hands in a placating manner. “At least we know we’re not dealing with normal humans kidnapping people, aye?”

It was one of the first conclusions they jumped onto. They each contacted their police forces in secret. Though, it didn’t do much since they couldn’t broadcast it to the public without exposing themselves. England tried to contact the MI5, but they had their hands full already with other matters and it would only have alerted the parliament.

It wasn’t that they refused to ask for help from their respective government, but they wanted to make sure what kind of threat it was. If it was a normal kidnapping or a Nation-level of kidnapping. Because the latter should be handled with extreme caution. 

So they were pretty much on their own. For now.

“We can cross that theory off the list, right? I doubt one of the groups could pull off something like that.” Scotland said with a shrug, nodding at the intricate drawings on the floor. “They’re as incompetent as a drunkard walking in a straight line. It can’t be one of them.”

That was also one of the worries everyone thought about it. Even with the renewal of a ceasefire a few months back, tensions were high over his little brother’s home and with England and Ireland playing stand-off at the drop of a hat, he doubted it would last for long, unfortunately.

Strangely, Ireland didn’t react as he expected at the mention of the conflict. Normally, the man would tense and glare at everyone just hearing about it; shoulders stiff and hands clenched. Instead of that, he just hummed without even a flinch.

Scotland filed that information away for later. He looked back at the arcane circle at their feet with a frown.

The good news though were –depending on where you look at it– that those sigils prove that North wasn’t in the middle of the tug of war of politics. God knew how unfortunate the kid was to be stuck in this nutshell at such a young age but that was the life of a Nation. The bad news, however, was that they were facing a magic problem. Either by the Faes or some mortal with knowledge of it, it was still magic.

And magic was always messy.

Even though he liked to practice magic every now and then, not much as England mind you, he was more than happy to live in a world where magic was more of a myth than reality. Besides, it put a mysterious flair into it that he shamelessly enjoyed, and he was sure his brothers felt the same.

He had seen Wales’ sneaky smiles whenever he called the Wind to blow England’s hat away. Ireland sure took great joy in giving someone a taste of misfortune for a minute by flipping them off with his ring.

He was that petty of a man… not that he could blame him so much. Scotland had his own special bracelet that when rubbed in a specific pattern, would give the target the sensation of having a pebble stuck inside their shoes, but would find nothing no matter how much they shake their shoes off.

Ah, the beauty of charms.

While magic may be useful in some ways, he learned at a tender age that depending on magic made you vulnerable. It distracted you from trusting in your instincts, something that magic users tend to neglect over time which would bring them to their early demise.

The arcane wasn’t something you simply dabble in, you must be committed to it and show the utmost respect because if one crossed the line, the consequences could be dire. It all came to balance as Mum used to say.

“ Ye mustn’t fall for the charms of greed for ye will end up tipping off the balance of Nature.” She warned sternly, bandaging his arm after a spell went wrong. “And Nature dinnae like having its intricate work disturbed. Respect it and it will show you mercy.”

Even though most of the magic he and his brothers used was for dumb reasons, they still respected it. They were always careful when using the arcane. And whoever was responsible for this Circle, they were dancing dangerously close to that balance, and they bloody knew it. That was the worst part of it.

They knew what they were doing which made the whole thing even messier.

Scotland glanced at the seat, imagining his wee brother sitting there with his Walkman on, oblivious of the danger he walked on. Literally.

Of all the people to get into trouble with magic, it had to be the one who knew fuck all about it.

Why didn’t you let him stay for longer?

He looked back at Ireland, watching him worrying his lip as he scanned the sigils for the tenth time. “So, what do we do now—”

Grey eyes widened when he saw his brother make a sharp gesture in the air, causing a small rip through space to appear in front of him. Then, in a shimmering green light, a dark teal grimoire fell into the man’s hands.

It had been decades since he saw Ireland’s Mark. His brother was viciously protective of his core conduit and rarely summoned it in the presence of others. Hell, it took Wales and him centuries to convince Ireland to let them even take a peek at the damn thing.

Not that it did much because the Book was unreadable by anyone but Ireland.

Translucid green mandalas appeared around Ireland’s wrists as he opened the Book, the moving inky swirls on the pages only readable to its master.

So, for his brother to throw precaution to the wind and call upon his Mark out in the open, in front of him, meant serious business.

Ireland flipped through the pages, eyes scanning ancient words. He didn’t even look away when he asked for a pen, muttering under his breath.

Scotland passed him the pen and leaned against the door, crossing his arms over his chest. He wished he had his box of cigarettes with him right now because the upcoming shitshow would be inevitable.

They had a lead, yes, but it also just opened a whole new world of possibilities.

Northern Ireland was taken via magic by an unknown entity. The question now was who did it.

And why?

Because this wasn’t just some human wanting political leverage or some creep kidnapping children. This was someone who targeted a Nation for a reason.

Someone targeted his little brother.

Scotland watched Ireland crouch near the seat, looking from the Book to the sigils on the ground. Deft fingers tapped anxiously over the book cover as green eyes moved feverishly across the floor, desperately trying to find a connection.

The knot in Scotland’s stomach got tighter.

Why did you let him take that train?  

On the road, October 7th, 1743

He shouldn’t have said anything. 

He told himself multiple times to not reveal information from the future in order to protect the timeline.

And what did he do?

He practically said the Scottish wouldn’t win the fight because he knew how it would end.

North was so stupid. Argh!

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

He was supposed to follow the Holy trinity of time travel. And here he was, breaking another rule like it was nothing.

He already failed the first rule when he met Scotland. Not that it was his fault, it wasn’t like he wanted to interact with his brother from the past.

And now he fucked up and told Andrew they were fighting a losing battle. What next? Tell every passerby he was from the future and wait for their verdict with open arms?

Unlikely!

North tugged his hair harshly, the pain distracting him for a moment from the frustration swirling in his chest.

He didn’t know what to do. The dilemma was crushing him as the days went by. A part of him wished he could warn them or at least better prepare them for what was to come. But the other part, the reasonable one, told him to stay quiet to avoid disrupting the timeline.

The changes could be catastrophic for all he knew. The theory of the butterfly effect, where the drop of a pebble could evolve into an earthquake, could potentially happen here. He wasn’t completely sure it worked that way, but he sure as hell won’t fuck around and find out.

He wouldn’t compete against the masterpiece that was Back to The Future.

The moving cart hit a rock, jostling a few crates, including the cage where the two chickens, Marty and Doc, stayed. Several feathers scattered in the air. He huffed and put the cage back in its place.

He looked over the edge of the cart, spotting Andrew a few paces in front of him. He was having a conversation with his uncle, passing a wineskin between them.

Annoyance bubbled in his chest.

It had been two days since their argument. He shouldn’t let Andrew’s comment get to him. It was a dick move, yes, but it was said in the heat of the moment. Both were a bit high-strung. 

But North couldn’t deny that his words cut deep. 

He was aware that having a normal family was practically impossible for a Nation. They weren’t born from a mother, they came from the Land. You weren’t really related by blood to other Nations even if you have a close relationship. 

Northern Ireland grew up with four older brothers and as much as they can be complete idiots, he cared for them deeply. He can’t imagine living a life without them. They were his family.

But they weren’t his parents . Sure, his brothers raised him as much as they could. They basically had to scramble for a ‘how to take care of a baby 101’ instruction manual when he appeared in their life, but they did their best.

And yes, he did look up to Arthur, but never as a father figure. There was a distance between them he couldn’t explain. A hesitation to cross an unspoken line. North didn’t say it out loud, but he used to grow jealous of how England treated his cousins. He would sometimes watch them spend time together and wonder what life would be like to be the son of someone.

Wales had often told him stories of their mother Albion, memories of her singing and living together in a small hut. Even Scotland put his own two cents by mentioning Celt, the one who raised him for a time before he was passed over to Albion. His time with the Ancient nation was short, but Scotland still recalled a few things about the man. 

But that was their mother, not his. Celt was Scotland’s father figure, no matter how brief, but not his. North paid his respects whenever his brothers toast in Albion’s honour, but he never felt a connection with her. For the longest of time, he was resentful he couldn’t relate to their nostalgia and reminisce about their childhood. But also terribly guilty for thinking such a thing. 

Yet, try as might, North couldn’t see her as his mother, he just can’t. It just didn’t feel right. She Faded over a millennia ago, long before even the idea of Northern Ireland crossed the people’s minds.

He should be grateful instead to have had four brothers from the very beginning. Some Nations weren’t as fortunate when they came to be. Some grew up with no one around until either the humans took them in or another Nation stumbled into their life. 

So he focused on that and tried his best to ignore the childish dream of having a parent. He crushed the wandering what-ifs and didn’t dwell on the fake scenarios drifting in his head.

He made peace with it, that some things were just not meant to be. And he was fine with it, really. Can’t cry over spilled milk and all that. 

There was no need to pick at the scab, no matter how much it itched.

Anyway, putting all those silly thoughts aside, if North was to grasp at straws, there was a fat chance Andrew now believed him to be absolutely mental. 

Though, he had to admit he wasn’t thinking straight at the time. He was so caught up with the weight of what would happen. Of realizing that some of these people would die in three years in the Battle of Culloden, that he didn’t hesitate to warn Andrew. 

Because again, he didn’t wish for the death of this group. They were arseholes, yes, but not deserving of death. No one was. 

But that also put North in a constant limbo of morals. A tug of war of what to do next. Of what he should and not do. And it was starting to wear him down.

Not that it mattered what Andrew thought because now, they were keeping a bit of distance. Andrew wasn’t pissed off, per se, but he wasn’t in the best of mood either. In a way, he could understand why Andrew reacted strongly to his claims. North basically insulted his whole purpose in life.

North wasn’t clueless, he could empathize with what Andrew was going through. What these people were going through. Fighting against someone with much higher power than you was downright terrifying, but the hope you give to the future generation was worth it. Fighting for a better world for your children was what gave you the strength to keep going.

And hope was a powerful thing when it came to hardships. Without it, empires would have crumbled to dust. Nations would have vanished in the blink of an eye. The Blitz was the perfect example of it. He wasn’t as affected by it compared to his brothers, but if it hadn’t been for their people’s hope, his brothers wouldn’t have made it. Morale was crucial in keeping a Nation going in times of crisis.

Why do you think the ‘keep calm and carry on’ campaign was so successful?

Of course, North couldn’t compare the Jacobites rising to what was happening to his present nor did he grasp the whole context. Of that, Andrew was right. He didn’t know the whole picture. But he could understand the anger and helplessness these people were feeling. Even before North was born, the tension between Catholics and Protestants was high, despite being more of a political and nationalist reason than a religious one. And with the conflict going on back home for the past three decades, he could also relate to what his brother was dealing with.

Yet…

North looked at the group he was travelling with for the past two weeks. Ian was in the middle of singing a song with Hamish, sharing a laugh with the others.

Moments like these were what gave a Nation hope, what gave everyone hope. Finding happiness in the little things. Helping someone with the groceries. Giving a meal to the homeless. Building a shelter for strays. Nursing a bird back to health. Despite living in a world of bloodshed and violence, there was always a ray of humanity that united them all.

That made everything they fight for worth it.

It was how a Nation could live for centuries. Nations may be the personification of the Land, but they are, most of all, the embodiment of the people they represent. And a Nation will fight tooth and nail to protect it.

As long as that hope persevered.

Scotland would go through many hardships in the coming years, but North knew he would come out stronger as ever.

A wan smile curled on North’s face.

After all, his brother’s people were stubborn bastards.

“Come on, Killough, let me hear it!” Ian called out, snapping North out of his thoughts.

He looked up at the giant man driving the cart. “Hear what?”

“You hail from Ireland, you must know a few songs from your home!” The jovial man said over his shoulder, his grin wide.

“Um…” North drew a blank, not sure how to respond. While he knew a handful of folk songs from both Ireland and Northern Ireland, he wasn’t the best singer. Wales was the musical one, not him. Besides, he mostly listened to classic rock and pop music from the 80s.

And he sure as hell won’t sing something like Waterloo by ABBA and break space and time continuum for announcing the defeat of Napoleon in 1815.

“I’m not the best singer…” he said lamely.

Hamish snorted, bringing his horse close to jab a thumb at Ian. “Didn’t you hear him sing the entire trip? I swear I expect a banshee to announce my death every time.”

Instead of being offended, Ian agreed wholeheartedly.

“Come on, laddie, it’s time to turn that frown upside down.” Ian urged with a wink. “Your brooding break is over.”

North rolled his eyes with a huff. He wasn’t brooding. He was just in a constant turmoil of a moral crisis, there was a difference.

He flushed when Ian kept looking over his shoulder, clearly waiting for him to perform a perfect rendition of Irish folk songs.

Andrew slowed his horse, sending a tentative smirk at North. “I think it would be a great idea to pass the time.”

North sent him a mild glare. They hadn’t talked about their argument, having mutually decided to let it go instead and for that, North was grateful. He didn’t want to go back and explain why he said that.

It had taken a few hours for the two of them to cool down and by dinner, they were back to normal. Mostly. A hint of tension was still present, but at least North knew he could poke fun at him and vice-versa.

So Andrew shamelessly betraying him right here by supporting Ian’s idea was a good sign. 

North looked back at the others, though only Ian and Hamish seemed the more invested in all of this. Yeah, they won’t stop until he gave in.

Forcing his nervousness down at being put on the spotlight, the young nation wracked his brain to pick a song.

It must be something that wouldn’t make future references or be overly cheesy songs. Because let’s be honest, 90% of Irish folk songs were either about drinking, about a pretty girl or lamenting you couldn’t be with said pretty girl.

A song popped into North’s mind.

North looked at Andrew, silently mouthing ‘do I really have to?’. Andrew, the traitor, seemed amused and made a gesture as if saying ‘go on then’.

He flipped him the bird in retaliation.

Aye, it was now or never. At least, he had the reassurance that no one would pull out a tape recorder to film it.

Wiping the clammy sensation off his hands, North cleared his throat. Goodbye dignity.

“As I went home on Monday night as drunk as drunk could be

I saw a horse outside the door where my old horse should be

Well, I called me wife and I said to her: Will you kindly tell to me

Who owns that horse outside the door where my old horse should be?”

He started off awkwardly, put-off by the lack of music, but he pressed on. It was normally sung in pubs with the other patrons, not in the middle of the road. He flushed beet red at the apparent glee from Hamish. Ian, on the other hand, looked like Christmas came early with stars shining in his eyes.

“Ah, you're drunk,

you're drunk you silly old fool,

still you can not see

That's a lovely sow that me mother sent to me

Well, it's many a day I've travelled a hundred miles or more

But a saddle on a sow sure I never saw before.”

Andrew snorted a laugh at where the song was going. Hamish was clearly enjoying his struggle at keeping the song in tune. Narrowing his eyes, North decided to tweak the song a bit.

“And as Hamish went home on Tuesday night as drunk as drunk could be

He saw a coat behind the door where his old coat should be

Well, he called his wife and he said to her: Will you kindly tell to me

Who owns that coat behind the door where my old coat should be.”

The smile was wiped off Hamish’s face at that and he glared at him, but it held no bite. Ian caught on immediately as he threw his head back with a laugh. Bolstered at the response, North kept on.

“Ah, you're drunk,

you're drunk you silly old fool,

still you can not see

That's a woollen blanket that me mother sent to me

Well, it's many a day I've travelled a hundred miles or more

But buttons in a blanket sure I never saw before.”

Soon, Ian and Andrew joined in, replacing the name with the other members of the clan for the next verse. Then, Hamish was pulled in alongside a complaining Malcolm before most of the clansmen and travelling men were singing.

Singing like dying cats in the middle of the road up in the Highlands.

Finding happiness in the little things.

A few hours later...

“Let’s stop right here,” Callum called out.

North lifted his head from the sack of grain he was snoozing on, blinking owlishly. He sat up, pushing the blanket off him as he ran a hand through his hair. Leaning over the edge of the cart, he looked around.

The day was cloudy and a bit nippy. Fog blanketed the mountains of the highlands, giving a ghostly ambiance across the vast mossy fields. After the perfect performance a few hours ago by yours truly, they’ve been travelling non-stop.

He had to admit it was quite fun. It reminded him of the road trips he did with his brothers. Normally, they would sing whatever came on the radio, but the chaotic energy was similar.

Especially when Ian decided to replace the line “ That's a baby boy that me mother sent to me ” with Callum’s name, causing an uproar of laughter. The frosty look Callum sent North would have burned a hole in his forehead, but it was worth it.

Nevertheless, the spirit was high and merry. They stopped at the base of a hill, surrounded by trees and thick vegetation. 

“Why did we stop?” North asked Ian, confused. There wasn’t a village in sight. They were still in the middle of nowhere.

“We have business to attend to,” the man said, guiding the cart towards the nearest tree. He jumped off the cart, pointing at Andrew. “You stay with Andy the whole time, got it?”

“Okay?” North was still confused but complied. If business meant taking a piss in a bush then by all means. Yet, he had a feeling they stopped for something else.

He grabbed his satchel and hopped off the cart. He walked over to Andrew, who was tying the reins of his horse to a tree. “Do you know why we stopped?”

Andrew looked over his shoulder for a moment. Making sure no one was looking, he lowered his voice. “Callum has business with someone called Mr. Horrocks. They often meet up here.”

North frowned. “Why?”

“The bastard claims he has information that could get the price lifted from the Laird’s head,” Hamish said gruffly from behind, startling the two of them.

The young nation swirled around, mismatched eyes wide in shock. “Mr. Campbell is wanted?”

Holy hell, his brother was on the run from the law? What the hell did he do? How much was the price on his head?

Was his face plastered on posters like in the movies?

“The English are looking for him for questioning.” Hamish scowled, crossing his arms over his chest. “And he’s not wanted, boy, they’re just looking for him.”

“Isn’t that basically the same thing?”

“Wanted is when you’ve committed a crime and Allen is innocent in all of this,” Hamish corrected.

“Hence, the price on his head?”

Hamish swatted his head. “Haud yer wheesht!” 

“I’m just asking, Jaysus.” North scowled, rubbing the back of his head. It was a perfectly logical question, thank you very much. Why the hell was a bounty on his brother’s head if he was innocent? That made no sense.

“Just stay close and keep yer mouth shut.” The clansman huffed, walking towards the hill where the others were making camp.

The boy sighed and looked at Andrew. “I suppose you can’t tell me more about it.”

Andrew shrugged, adjusting the short sword strapped to his belt. “Afraid not. The English have been scouring the lands in the last few years, but it was until a few months ago that a bounty was announced.”

North frowned, processing the information. He may not know the circumstances of his brother’s supposedly outlaw life, but it still worried him that someone was out to get him. 

Though, to be fair, his brothers did some shady shit in the past. Apparently, Ireland used to go to underground bare-knuckle boxing clubs. Hell, Wales was an informant to one of the biggest street gangs in Britain in the 1920s. Wales! The guy who cried to puppy advertisements and kept a sheep plushie under his pillow. 

Now, the biggest question was who would put a bounty on his brother’s head?

And why?

The two youngest of the group walked up the hill. A fire was already lit as the clansmen prepared a small meal. Callum was looking at the horizon with his arms crossed, a heavy frown on his stern face as he spoke in hushed voices with Angus.

A cool breeze passed by, making North shiver. He pulled his coat closer, shoving his hands into his pockets. The days were getting cooler and by the look of it, rain was fast approaching. 

Just another day in Scotland.

He glanced down to where the cart was, wondering if he could fetch a blanket but decided against it. The trees should provide enough cover.

He followed Andrew and sat on one of the rocks near the fire. He accepted the piece of bread Ian was passing to everyone and nibbled on it. Malcolm was tending the fire with a stick, the ambers sparking at each poke.

Andrew sat beside him and nudged his wineskin to him. “Here, that should keep the cold off for a bit.”

“What is it?” North took a sniff, wrinkling his nose at the strong smell.

“Whisky.”

North looked up at him, bewilderment clear on his face.

For people who can drink a whole liquor store for shit and giggles, his brothers were pretty adamant about him never touching a drop of alcohol except for special occasions. And only when in the presence of one of them. Otherwise, his brothers prohibited it; even if he was technically 76 years old and definitely had a better tolerance than a human.

“No drinks for you until you can have a driver’s licence.”  England had scolded him when he saw him eyeing a piña colada at a restaurant.

Not that he minded that ridiculous rule. North did sneak a sip or two when his brothers weren’t looking and honestly, he didn’t see the appeal in burning your throat off with rubbing alcohol. Beer was the same thing, all bitter and weird. He supposed the champagne France once brought over for dinner was okay, but the after-taste wasn’t worth it.

Still.

“I’m just fourteen!” He couldn’t help but say, his brother’s lecture echoing in his mind.

Andrew huffed a laugh, rolling his eyes. “You’re not getting blootered by just one sip.”

“Unless you cannae hold a drink,” Ian snickered.

Feeling his face heat up, North scrunched his eyes shut and took a big sip. He almost choked when he swallowed, the burning sensation in his throat making his eyes water.

God, how can Scotland drink this so casually?! Hell, any of his brothers!

He coughed, ignoring the laughs from the men and handed the waterskin back to Andrew. He will gladly wait until he is old enough to get himself a driver’s licence. Though the warmth that spread from his stomach did feel nice if you ignore the horrible taste.

A shudder ran down his spine, but this time it wasn’t from the cold nor the alcohol. Tensing, North looked over his shoulder down the hill.

A few second later, Mr. Hewson called out to everyone, pointing at an approaching horse in the distance.

Hamish stood up from where he was sitting and looked over where the old man was pointing. He rolled his eyes. “Aye, that’s the prick alright.”

North leaned backward for a better view and soon enough, there was a man riding a horse. The stranger reached the base of the hill and jumped off the horse.

It was a man in his thirties with dark curly hair and green eyes. Adorned in nondescript clothes, he flicked the tricorn hat upwards and looked at the group.

“Mr. Horrocks.” Callum greeted with a nod.

Horrocks sent a salute. “How’s she cuttin’?”

North perked up, recognizing the Irish lilt in the man’s voice. He wondered which part of the island he was from, it was hard to pinpoint the accent. 

“I heard you bring information?” Callum asked, eyeing the man carefully.

“Depends if I can have a drink first. Long travels and all.” Horrocks smirked as he sat near the fire, accepting the flask Hamish handed him. “Thank you kindly.”

The man took a long sip, taking his time in enjoying the drink despite the impatience flashing on Callum’s face. Exhaling harshly at the taste, he grinned, gesturing the flask. “Forgive me, but I haven't tasted fine whisky like that in quite some time.”

“Now that you've washed the dust from your throat, Mr. Horrocks,” Callum sniffed, arms crossed. “I'd be obliged if you'd tell us what you know about the bounty on Laird Campbell. Do you or do you not know who put the bounty?”

“I do.” At the lack of response from the older man, Horrocks took off his tricorn hat. He flicked a lint from the rim. “Hand it over and I’ll talk.”

“The name first.” The war chief said tersely, blue eyes narrowing.

Silence filled the camp as the two men stared, each waiting for who would break first. North watched with mounting nervousness, fingers itching for his necklace. This was like watching a cowboy standoff. He was half expecting a tumbleweed to pass between them.

After what felt like an eternity, the younger man leaned back, a sleazy grin on his face. “You’ll have it when I have the gold in my hand. That was the understanding.”

Gritting his teeth, Callum acquiesced. “Give him the gold. I trust his words.”

“The British Army trusted him, too,” Malcolm said not so subtly.

Horrocks cocked an eyebrow and stood up with a heavy sigh. “Perhaps today's not such a good day for business after all.”

“Whether you deserted is of no concern of ours, Mr. Horrocks.” Hamish rolled his eyes.

Ian raised his flask. “We commend ye for it!”

Oh. He was an Irish Redcoat deserter, how ironic. 

“We just want a name.” The war chief said, gesturing to Angus. The latter pulled out a small pouch and lobbed it to Horrocks. The deserter caught it with a hand and shook it.

“I've come a long way, at considerable danger to myself, eluding Redcoat patrols...” He opened the pouch and pulled out a few coins before stashing it inside his coat. He sat back down and crossed his arms over his chest.

“There was a switch of command a few months back. The colonel left for another post in the South. An Admiral took his place, changed the whole routine and everything.”

“An Admiral? From the Royal Navy?” Hamish asked, perplexed, as well as the others.

“Aye, strange times. But he’s the one who’s been sending Johnson and his dogs sniffing about. Young fella with a nasty temper I reckon. Probably the one who ordered the bounty on your Laird as well.”

“And his name?” Callum demanded.

“Admiral Arthur Kirkland.”

North choked on air, blue and green eyes widening in shock. Holy shit!

So he didn’t imagine it on that day. On the day he was rescued from that creepy captain. The voice he had heard before he was knocked out. It was really him.

England was the one who put a freaking bounty on Scotland? What the hell was going on? Why would he do that?

So caught on by the shock of the revelation, North didn’t notice the shared look between Callum and Angus at the mention of the name.

“Anything else?” Callum asked, posture tensed.

“You bargained for a name. A name is what you received.” Horrocks said and put his tricorn hat back on. He saluted the group and turned to leave. “Good day, lads.”

With that, the deserter walked down the hill, mounted his horse and left.

Once Horrocks was far enough, Malcolm let out a harsh curse in Gaelic. “Allen will be pissed. Better bring him a few bottles of whisky as a peace offering.”

“More like a whole wagon,” Ian added with a wince.

“Who’s Admiral Kirkland?” Andrew asked, noticing the scowls on most of the clan.

“Someone you better not cross paths with.” Hamish shook his head, pulling off his bonnet to run a hand through his hair. “Kirkland’s a powerful man. He normally works down in London, but he has close ties within the monarchy.” A pinched look appeared on his face. “If he’s personally looking for Allen, then that’s not good.”

Andrew looked even more puzzled and it took a moment for North to realize he didn’t know who Allen Campbell really was. While the existence of Nations was known by a small handful of people, mainly the government, it wasn’t unheard of for other humans to know their true nature.

He assumed Andrew would be one of them, but from the look of it, that wasn’t the case. For him, it was just a man of high ranking looking for his Laird.

Andrew was unaware it was the personification of England looking for his home Nation.

“We best get going,” Callum ordered, heading for his horse. “The Laird should know of this as soon as possible.”

After the fire was put out, the party quickly left the place. The cheery mood from earlier had all but crumbled to dust. Instead, it was replaced by an oppressive feeling.

North’s mind went racing with questions.

Because why would England be looking for Scotland? He doubted it was just to have a nice chat over a cup of tea.

If his memory served him right, it wasn’t long ago that the Act of Union came to pass. Although his brothers had shared a monarch for over a century, they each had their respective kingdoms. Until 1707, when the Act of Union merged their kingdoms to form what was known as the Kingdom of Great Britain.

North had always known Scotland and England argued like an old married couple over the stupidest of things. They were constantly at each other’s throats, yet they cared for each other in their own weird ways. Because that was what brothers did.

But that was from the perspective of the 20th century.

Here, in 1743, it was immensely different. They were in a world where the War of the Austrian Succession was currently happening. This was a world of kingdoms, of fighting for power and conquering lands.

The nations of Scotland and England may have merged into one single kingdom for the greater good, but the hostility between them was very real. It wasn’t the friendly banter as seen in football matches or letting out pent-up frustration through rugby games.

Here, Scotland had inevitably lost his kingdom to England to avoid complete bankruptcy and poverty to his people.

Here, England was on his path to becoming one of the biggest empires in recorded history.

Yeah, North had a sense he was currently in the middle of a freaking minefield.

Grand. Just grand.

Just his luck.

Castle Kaerndal, October 12th, 1743

“Should I add them now, Mrs. Gibs? The soup is boiling.” Lily asked, gesturing the bowl of cut vegetables by the cauldron.

“Yes, dear, put the meat in as well,” Mrs. Gibson called over her shoulder, hands covered in flour. She flipped the dough over, sprinkling a bit of flour before kneading it thoroughly. A few more minutes and it should be ready for the filling. She glanced around for the berries, frowning. “Where are the―”

Blair passed by the table, depositing two small bowls. “The fruits and cream.”

“Ah, thank you.” Mrs. Gibson smiled, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. She could always count on Blair to get everything she needed.

Blair rounded the corner and headed for the other table where she was preparing the salads.

The old cook then looked at the empty space by the counter, the uncut carrots swimming in the pot. “Where’s Aileen?”

“Went to fetch water from the well for the dishes,” Lily said, stirring the cauldron with a large wooden spoon.

“That was half an hour ago! Those carrots aren’t going to chop themselves.” Mrs. Gibson huffed, exasperated. “What’s taking her so long?”

While Blair was resourceful and Lily was hardworking, Aileen always seemed to be wandering about to do who knew what. She worked well, yes, but Mrs. Gibson often needed to pray to the Almighty for patience when it came to that girl.

“Maybe she ran into Brian again,” Lily wondered out loud, amusement sprinkled in her voice. “She fancies him, doesn’t she?”

“Just the other day she came bawling her eyes out because she saw him talking to Heather.” Blair deadpanned, eyes focused on the potato she was peeling.

“Oh, that’s right.”

“That’s no excuse to neglect her work.” Mrs. Gibson huffed, stretching the dough with the rolling pin. “The stew won’t be finished if she―”

As if on cue, Aileen came rushing into the kitchen with two buckets in her hands. Water sloshed with each step as she hurried to the other side of the room.

“Where have you been?” The old cook scolded.

“Sorry, Mrs. Gibs, I got distracted,” The young maid said sheepishly, setting the buckets down. Her face was flushed as if she ran a marathon. “I was pulling water from the well, you ken, and then I heard Brian at the stables talking to Elias of the watch. Apparently, he heard Mr. Cameron tell Mrs. Kelly―”

“Honestly, Aileen, get on with it.” Lily laughed, shaking her head. “You know we can’t understand your ramblings.”

The young maid blushed brighter, hands fluttering about. “Right, well, as I was saying, I heard from―”

“Straight answer,” Blair sighed.

“The clan is back!” Aileen blurted out.

“Already?” Mrs. Gibson’s eyebrows jumped in surprise. Normally, the rent collecting took around three to four weeks to complete. There were around a dozen of villages to visit across the land, not including the quick stop to Inverness for trade.

So for the clan to be almost a week and a half earlier meant that something must have happened.

Worry set in her stomach as numerous scenarios flashed into her mind.

Strathpeffer was relatively safe compared to other regions in the Highlands, especially in recent years. When Allen Campbell had come to be the Laird of Kaerndal Castle five years ago, many were skeptical of his legitimacy.

After all, his arrival had been unexpected just as Callum Dougall’s announcement of stepping down as clan chief.

But when Mr. Campbell started talking to the farmers in the hope to find better ways to help with the crops or personally making sure the mills were in working condition for the upcoming winter, the people’s opinion shifted.

And soon enough, the young laird earned the respect of the whole region of Strathpeffer and for good reasons. He was a dedicated man with wisdom that exceeded her expectations.

Though sometimes, his temper could get the best of him.

Nonetheless, since taking the mantle of Laird, there had been very few conflicts between the tenants and the neighbouring clans.

Yet, that didn’t stop the increase of British patrol roaming the region in the past few months nor did it reassure her that the clan came back far earlier than intended.

Mrs. Gibson wiped her flour-covered hands on her apron. “Where are they now? Did someone notify the laird?”

“I don’t know, I came straight up here when I heard the news.” Aileen shook her head, brushing a strand of hair off her face.

“Alright, I’ll go fetch him then.” Mrs. Gibson turned to them. “Blair, finish the salad first before working on the pie. Lily, once the meat is well cooked, set the cauldron aside. We dinnae want it to burn off completely. Oh, and start on making the gravy.”

The two maids nodded, getting back to work effortlessly.

The cook then pointed to Aileen with a stern look. “The carrots better be ready when I come back, lass.”

“Right away, Mrs. Gibs!” Aileen said as she all but jumped towards her station. She hastily grabbed the knife, but stopped short at the thought of something. “What about the buckets?”

“That can wait, we’re about to receive a group of very hungry men any minute now.” Mrs. Gibson said as she lef the kitchen. She walked down the corridor to take the stairs.

She entered the Great Hall, the tall windows letting the bright sunny day peek inside, giving the large room an ethereal ambiance.

Despite having an office on the second floor, the laird often worked in the Great Hall during lunch hour because there was little activity. Only breakfast and dinner were open for the public.

She looked up at the dais where the large table stood only to blink at the empty chair. There were documents neatly piled up on the table with a inkpot beside it. But no sign of Laird Campbell.

Where could he be?

She usually would find him here to give him a drink while he did paperwork. While most castles and great houses had assistants especially hired to aid the owner of the estate, Mr. Campbell never once made a request for one.

On the contrary, the laird had been firm in saying that he didn’t need a servant at his beck and call. It was a habit Mrs. Gibson had struggled to accept over the years, but it still bothered her sometimes to let someone of his station personally go to one of the maids instead of requesting one to someone else.

After all, Laird Campbell was a busy man. She didn’t want him to waste time wandering about the castle.

Which apparently was what happened here. There was no sign of him.

A screech of laughter echoed through the walls followed by the pitter-patter of little feet. Then a little boy, around five years old, came bursting into the Great Hall, face flushed and giggling all the way. He skidded to a halt to the nearest table and slipped under it.

Mrs. Gibson huffed at recognizing who it was, ready to scold his grandson that this was no playing ground. “Keith Maxwell McRae why are you―”

But then, Mr. Campbell came strolling into the room with his arms out and a mischievous smirk on his face.

“Where are you now, you little rascal?” He called out in an overexaggerated deep voice.

A muffled giggle was his only answer.

The laird slowly walked around the room, making a show of looking under one of the tables before checking the other.

“Mmm, perhaps he ran away,” he mused out loud, sounding confused. He cocked an eyebrow at hearing shuffling to his right and carefully made his way over the table. “Or maybe… he was waiting for the perfect ambush!”

He lifted the table cloth with an ‘a-ha!’ and a squeak greeted him before scooping the little boy in his arms. The young man then started to tickle him, causing Keith to burst into giggles.

Mrs. Gibson sighed, a wry smile on her face.

Yes, Mr. Campbell was usually a serious man, but it was nice to see him relax sometimes and enjoy life. God knew how much weight he carried for the people of Strathpeffer.

“Sir?”

Like a lightning bolt striking him, the laird straightened up and turned to face her. There was a look of surprise on the man’s face and a faint colouring of his cheeks before it was masked by his cool demeanour.

“Yes, Mrs. Gibson?” He said calmly.

It was amusing to see him try and fail at maintaining a serious air. Especially when he had a giggling child dangling in his arms.

Which was why she felt bad about interrupting the moment.

The cook folded her hands in front of her. “I have news. The clan is coming back.”

All trace of playfulness left the Laird as he sighed. He jostled little Keith a bit, earning him another giggle before setting him down. “Next time I found you sneaking around, I’ll lock you in the cellar.”

Her grandson laughed, looking up at the man with a toothy grin. The laird rolled his eyes and ruffled his dark curls. “Go on then, you dinnae want yer granny to pull out the broom again.”

Keith’s brown eyes grew wide at the possibility, looking at her and blurting out. “Love you, Granny, bye!”

Her grandson slipped between them and disappeared around the corner in a blur. She looked back at Mr. Campbell, catching him staring at the doorway with an indescribable look on his face before it was washed away.

He adjusted his coat, brushing off his sleeves and tilting the brooch pinned on his left shoulder back to its place. “What’s that about the clan coming back?”

“Aileen heard the news when she fetched water at the well.”

“Aye, the lassie is a better messenger than a royal courrier.” The Laird huffed before walking towards the dais. “Right, thank you to notify me. Is the room for Laird Mackenzie’s advisor ready? He’s supposed to arrive tomorrow to help with the preparations.”

Yes, the month-long preparation for the Gathering. Mrs. Gibson was already starting to feel the all-nighters she would pull to get everything right.

“Yes, sir, Blair made sure of it yesterday.” Mrs. Gibson nodded, already coming up with plans to better organize the banquet. She would need all hands on deck.

Mr. Campbell hummed, gathering the stack of paper from the table. He grabbed the inkpot and quill and set them on top of the pile. “Then, best get back to work. We have a busy month coming up. I trust you will get by just fine?”

“Of course,” she said with confidence. “Mairead will come up to help if needed. And with the clan back, I’m sure Seán would like to help as well.”

Such a helpful lad. She had found it strange in the beginning when she was told that a boy would be staying for a time at the castle. Her heart had ached at the thought of being ambushed by ruffians in the middle of the night. It must have been a scary experience for the lad.

It wasn’t surprising then, that she quickly took him under her wing. His awkward, shy personality had charmed the girls in a way that amused her to no end. The way they would coo whenever he left after helping them in the kitchen. Watching him getting all flustered when they thanked him.

Yet, behind all of that, burned a bright fiery passion. Mrs. Gibson would forever be grateful for what Seán did for her grandmother, even if it had pained her greatly to learn he wasn’t left unpunished.

Normally, she respected her laird’s decisions. He had proven countless times to be a capable young man. But on that awful evening during the session, she balked at his verdict of letting the lad be beaten on behalf of her granddaughter. And that didn’t include the week-long labour Seán had to endure.

Mr. Campbell was her laird, yes, and she respected him greatly, which was why she hadn’t hesitated to give a piece of her mind. Mr. Campbell had told her once, in the first few months of being laird of the castle, to not let his authority impede her from voicing her thoughts in case he went too far.

It was a strange request, but she had taken it to heart. So when she confronted him the next day, he took it all in stride and thanked her for letting him know. Though he did look a bit miffed at her scolding for a moment, like a child being caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

Mr. Campbell hummed at the mention of Seán. “You will have to check with Dr. Graham first. I gave him permission to take the boy as his assistant.”

“I will,” Mrs. Gibson promised. She tilted her head, curious about something. “If I may, sir, do we have any news of the lad’s missing brother.”

The laird paused in his movement for a moment, back tensing ever so slightly, before going back gathering his things. “Not as of yet. Which is a bit amusing assuming the brother has the same bright ginger hair like him.”

“Oh, well, I suppose the lad will be staying for a bit longer, then?”

Laird Campbell hummed again. A commotion outside caught their attention as they heard a series of voices and clip-clops of horses.

“That should be them,” she said with a relieved smile.

Like a mantel settling on his shoulders, the laird schooled his expression and stood up straight. Gone was the relaxed young man she saw a few minutes ago.

He turned to her, raising a bushy eyebrow. “Shall we?”

The cook nodded, wiping a bit of the flour off her apron but it was no use. She followed the laird to the entrance of Kaerndal castle.

The sun was bright with a clear blue sky. Dry leaves were gently covering the gardens.

By the archway, she saw a group of carts slowly making their way. She let out a sigh of relief at recognizing the men. She did a quick headcount, pleased to find no one was missing and they appeared to be all well.

She spoke too soon, however, when she noticed Mr. Campbell tense beside her, the documents in his hands rustling by the clenching of his hands.

Frowning, Mrs. Gibson looked back at the approaching group and it was then that she took notice of the grave expression on their faces.

Perhaps their early arrival was not for good news after all. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 11

A Change of Perspective

Kaerndal Castle, October 17th, 1743

“What can you tell me about the white willow bark?”

Northern Ireland narrowed his eyes in thought. “It treats pain or at least reduces it and I think it’s the one that can help with headaches and fever?”

“Aye, that’s right.” Dr. Graham nodded as he moved a few jars to the side. “What else?”

North looked down at the rag he was using to clean a wooden mortar, gnawing his lip. He jolted back a second later with a grin. “Oh, oh! The willow bark is also known as creek willow because you can often find it by bodies of water.”

“Indeed, it can be harvested in spring or fall. I prefer doing it in spring because the new branches grow fast.” The man raised an eyebrow in approval. “You answered all of the questions correctly. Well done, lad.”

The boy ducked his head, going back to scrubbing the mortar with new fervour. “I-I had a few hours to kill.”

“I’ll say more than a few if you managed to memorize the whole book.” The doctor chuckled, causing North to pink a bit.

He didn’t memorize the book per se. He just happened to have been bored to death while being on the road with a bunch of crazy Scotsmen. It was either staring at the landscape, making conversation with two chickens or reading a book on plants to escape the reality he was forcefully dumped in.

Besides, as ancient and flowery as the content was, it was reminiscent of the hours he would spend reading chemistry books in his local library. So yeah, sue him for clinging on the one thing that brought him a wee bit of normalcy during the wearying rent collecting.

North was brought out of his thoughts as the doctor set three flasks in front of him, the glass clinking softly. “That’s the rest of it for today. We’ll continue tomorrow for the next cabinet. I’ve never realized I had so many of them!”

“Where should I put these?” the boy gestured to the dozens of jars he had cleaned so far. And that was only from the first cabinet out of five. The doctor’s workstation may look like it was straight out of a fantasy book with its line of shelves, scattered oil lamps and batches of dried plants hanging from the ceiling, but it was a right mess.

Or at least an organized chaotic mess. From all the travels and back and forth between villages, the doctor didn’t have time to clean up the place. Yet, he would always know where to find a specific book or the location of the last time he put his scalpel down.

North could relate, his room in Belfast looked like a tornado passed through and yet, he knew every crook and cranny like the back of his hand. Hell, he could go through his things with his eyes closed and still manage to find what he was looking for.

It drove his brothers up the walls, especially neat freak England, but at least his room wasn’t dirty. Sure, it was chaotic and nicely disordered, but there weren’t cobwebs dangling from the ceiling or an inch thick of dirt on his things.

Like here.

So cleaning the doctor’s basement was a wee bit of a struggle, but between the amicable chatter with the man and the mindless scrubbing of jars, it was bearable. Soothing even.

In fact, being back at the castle was bizarrely welcoming after being on the road for almost three weeks. A part of him had dreamed to leave this place so he could find a way home and yet when they reached the castle’s gates, North had felt a wave of relief wash over him.

He tried to convince himself it was due to the fact he needed to warn his brother about the secret meetings and the whole thing with the Jacobites. But the way his shoulders relaxed at the sight of the castle as if a weight was lifted off him left him with conflicting feelings. As if he honestly missed being here.

Why should he be happy returning to the place he was basically under house arrest?

He was seriously wondering if he was starting to suffer from Stockholm syndrome.

“Just push them on the side for the moment, I’ll find another crate to store them.” The doctor pointed at the table behind him, bringing North back to focus.

“Right away, doctor.” The young nation set down the mortar beside the pestle and reached for the flasks.

The man pulled out his pocket watch, a surprised look on his face. “Goodness me, it’s almost time for lunch! Finish that up, lad, and we’ll head upstairs lest Mrs. Gibson comes to fetch us herself.”

North quickly gathered the flasks and rushed to the table. If there was one thing that every person living in the castle feared more was to be on the receiving end of one of Mrs. Gibs' scoldings.

It took using a spoon to scratch the dry bits of one of the flasks used to store a blending of who knew what, but eventually North had all the recipients in a neat row.

After putting the rag into a basin to wash for later, he waited for the doctor by the doorway. Dr. Graham wiped his glasses with his shirt as he approached him, only to stop in the middle of the room with a muttered curse.

“I completely forgot to prepare the salve for the Laird.” He scrubbed his face with a sigh before slipping his glasses back on. He sent North an apologetic smile. “You can go, lad. Tell Mrs. Gibson I’ll be up shortly.”

“Do you need help?” North had mostly spent his time cleaning in the last few days than helping the doctor prepare blendings or other medicines, but it was worth a shot.

The man shook his head as he turned towards one of the cabinets. “It doesn’t take long to make. Fortunately, the Laird only needs it till the evening.”

North frowned. “Is he alright?”

He hadn’t seen his brother since his return. Hell, he had barely caught a glimpse of the man before he vanished from sight like a ghost. Which made his ‘warn your brother for a possible under-the-table business’ attempt hard to do.

And while a part of North had found the lack of greeting kind of rude, he got a sense his brother wasn’t in a good mood. He was proven correct a few hours later when he was having a well-deserved bath that wasn’t just a rag and a bowl of water.

It was as he was scrubbing practically a crust of dirt off his body that he heard the booming voice of his brother from upstairs, rattling the castle like it was made of paper. North had almost launched the soap bar across the room in shock.

Out of all of his brothers, Scotland had the shortest of temper and didn’t hold back in expressing it. He didn’t get violent by any means, at least to anyone — unless it was with England, then all bets were off — but watching a six-foot-something tall man stomping around the place like a vengeful giant that promised a slow painful death was sort of terrifying. And he was already intimidating on a good day.

So North had known right then. He didn’t even need to talk to his brother to know he was in a bad mood, he could feel it.

Don’t get him wrong, North had seen his brother lose his temper many times throughout his life: arguing with his brothers on a daily basis, cursing someone in the middle of traffic, yelling at the tv during football matches or something as silly as trying to screw a new lightbulb.

But he had never heard him that angry before. And sure, learning your little brother put a bounty on your head was a valid reason to be pissed off, but the outburst had caught him off guard.

It sounded like a roaring dragon finding out someone stole from its hoard.

Either Modern Scotland didn’t show North his true colours or he learned how to better control his temper over the years, North was thanking his lucky star he wasn’t on the receiving end of whatever was going on.

Then again, it was England they were talking about. Of course, Scotland would blow a fuse over him. Some things never change, no matter the time period they were in.

The most shocking thing in all of this, however, and to be honest a bit embarrassing, had been that the residents of Kaerndal Castle didn’t bat an eye at the random string of curses or the thundering stomps echoing in the halls. The staff would wince or give a wide berth if needed, but other than that they carried on.

North was disappointed in his family for conditioning people like that.

All to say was that North hadn’t seen his brother since he got back and it was probably for the best. Normally, he would know how to deal with a moody Scotland — throw him an Irn Bru and a bag of sea salt Mackie’s and call it a day — but with this one, there were too many unknown variables to get by.

And North can say with the utmost confidence that he wouldn’t find a Tesco around here.

But that didn’t stop him from being a wee bit worried for the man. Moody arsehole from the past or not. No wonder Malcolm had mentioned bringing a crate of whiskey as a peace offering.

“Oh, nothing too major, don’t worry,” the doctor said, pulling out a few jars from the top shelf. “He often strains his shoulder when he trains. And peppermint salve is great to soothe out muscles.”

That made sense, North hummed, remembering the entry of that specific plant in the book he spent hours leafing through. Although Modern Scotland didn’t carry a sword around like Past Scotland, he did like to train with one every now and then. The broadsword proudly displayed in his living was proof of that. Not to mention Alistair always went into a rant about the lack of sword fights in modern society and how a duel was a much better way to settle an argument than talking.

Though, it was curious to learn that Past Scotland had the same shoulder ache as the present one. He had seen more than once his brother pulling a warm Magic Bag out of the microwave and balancing it between his right shoulder and neck. North thought it was just his brother being the cranky old man he was because let’s be honest, his brothers were old as dinosaurs.

But if it was the same spot he thought it was then maybe the ache came from something beyond old age.

North absently touched his chest, the linen shirt rubbing against the twisting scars from decades ago.

Aye, sometimes time did nothing to heal the wounds of a nation and all you can do was shrug and live with it.

So with a nod, the young nation left the doctor to his work and headed for the Great Hall. 

The Great Hall, at this hour, wasn’t as busy compared to breakfast and dinner time. It was a lull in the normally hectic kitchen — though that didn’t stop Mrs. Gibs to take a breather — it let the staff eat at the long tables without stressing over cooking and serving the guests.

He stepped into the room, taking note all the curtains from the windows were pulled open to let the warm sunlight wash over the room.

Most of the kitchen maids were already digging into their plates, chatting with the other staff of the castle. There was also Hamish, who was still playing the exasperated babysitter, much to North’s ever-lasting annoyance. It was clear the man wanted to do literally anything else than check on him every few hours. It had bothered North, in the beginning, to be constantly watched on, even in the presence of the doctor.

But he quickly found out how funny it was to witness the clansman’s eyes glaze over whenever North started explaining the process of blending plants. In those moments, he was seriously tempted in introducing him to the wonders of stoichiometry just to see how he would react. Needless to say, Hamish didn’t stay long for those check-ups, preferring hanging out in the kitchen or, in this instance, here in the Great Hall.

The surprise, however, was to see Malcolm at the table. Aside from Hamish and Callum staying in the castle most of the time, the clan had all but scattered to the four winds without a word since they got back. Except for Andrew, who had the sense to inform him he would be gone for a few days to visit his aunt.

Not that he missed that crazy gang or grew accustomed to their presence, he was just glad he wasn’t being ordered left and right all day long.

Though, he did envy them for having the option of not being in the castle. The metaphorical dark cloud looming above them for the past three days was starting to get annoying.

Miss Lily came out from the kitchen door with a tray in her hands and headed over to the table. She spotted North and waved him over.

“Good day, Seán, we were just about to send Aileen to fetch you.” She set the platter down and looked over his shoulder as if expecting someone else. “Where’s Dr. Graham?”

“He just remembered he had something to do but said it won’t take long.” North sat at the far end of the table, which so happened to be where the two clansmen were sitting.

Hamish grunted at him in greeting while biting into a sausage. Malcolm just ignored his existence entirely. Nothing surprising there.

“I swear, sometimes the doctor is worse than Mrs. Gibs. Can’t take a break for the life of them.” Miss Lily said with a sigh before taking a seat beside Blair.

North looked at the array of food plates with a tight expression. He still had trouble eating three meals per day without keeling over. The rent collecting had actually been a nice change of pace because of its sporadic breaks and how little they ate. But now, he was back on full meals.

With a resigned sigh, he grabbed a few slices of cheese and ham. He really should find a better way to let them believe he ate it all without shoving food in his pockets. He could still find bread crumbs in his trouser from last night’s dinner.

“Any news on the arrival of Laird Mackintosh’s advisor? I was told he was supposed to arrive four days ago.” Lily asked as she spread jam on her flatbread.

“I would like to know as well,” one of the maids said from her seat. “We were rushed to clean the whole floor until it sparkles only for him to not show up!”

“The weather has been a wee harsh the last few days…” Aileen wondered with a shrug. “Maybe he got held up.”

“Or died in a ditch.” Malcolm quipped over his cup.

“Mr. Cormack!” Lily gasped, scandalized at the suggestion. “Mr. Reid is nothing but a kind, honourable man.”

“Honourable? More like a pompous prick.” The red-headed clansman rolled his eyes with a scoff. “He’s always flaunting his ‘expertise’, expecting everyone to follow his orders. He’s not even the Laird!”

“That’s no excuse to talk ill of the advisor of Clan Mackintosh like that.” Lily huffed, still ruffled at the man’s words. “He has been our guest on many occasions over the years. You should be used by now by his… flamboyant nature.”

“Aye, flamboyant nature. That’s one way to put it.”

North watched the whole conversation with a tilt of his head, curious about who was this advisor. He knew from Andrew about the preparations for the Gathering next month but he never heard of someone coming to help.

He couldn’t rely on Malcolm’s words since the man seemed to hate everyone by default but the ridiculously long list of ingredients Mrs. Gibs was doing the other day gave a pretty good idea of how big the Gathering was going to be. So it made sense they needed all hands on deck.

“Do you know anything about it, Mr. Bryce?” Aileen asked, leaning over a bit to look at Hamish.

The man paused mid-bite from his sausage and shrugged. “Callum said by October 13th, but you know how it goes. Mr. Reid must have had a last minute meeting or —”

“Got his carriage driven off a cliff,” Malcolm said, snickering when Lily shushed him.

“I call it a blessing for his lateness for I doubt our Laird would have been able to put up with his theatrical antics at this time,” Blair said flatly over her mug, causing everyone at the table to freeze and look a bit frightened at the idea.

Yeah, North internally winced. Whoever Reid was, he dodged a bullet for being late. North knew more than anyone how much his brother hated dealing with puffed-up eejits, even more, when in a bad mood.

As if on cue, Laird Campbell stormed into the room, face set in harsh lines and that specific dark scowl North was familiar with. Even in a somewhat younger face, it was still effective.

He wasn’t wearing the usual dark blue and green kilt, instead, he was in brown trousers, his short sword strapped to his belt with a maroon vest over a white shirt. The long black jacket billowing behind him like a cape added to his dramatic entrance.

Damn, his brother was in a foul mood. The beams of light coming from the windows practically seemed to dim by his very presence.

North half expected to start hearing the Imperial March theme song.

At once, the staff straightened up in their seat and watched nervously as the laird strode by without sparing them a glance. The man’s boots echoed across the room as he headed towards the hallway leading to the side part of the castle.

There was the beginning of a sigh of relief amongst the staff but it was cut short.

“Mr. Killough, with me!” The Laird snapped over his shoulder before disappearing around the corner.

North jolted from his seat, staring eyes wide at the retreating figure. He turned back to the table to find everyone staring at him with equally wide eyes, half in confusion and another in trepidation.

Except for Malcolm who cackled and slapped his shoulder. “Godspeed, boy, you’ll need it.”

The boy looked at Hamish silently but the man just shrugged again. “Better not keep the Laird waiting, lad.”

North all but jumped out of his seat, almost tripping on his feet. He scrambled after Scotland, heart hammering in his chest and mind racing.

That’s one way to skip a meal, he thought half hysterically.

He stepped outside, squinting painfully at the bright light before looking around. Footsteps on his right caught his attention and he saw his brother round another corner. He quickly trailed after him, trying to catch the man’s expression, but his face was like a stone wall.

Curse his immaculate poker face.

North was in the middle of thinking if it would be a good idea to ask what was going on but his brother beat him to it.

“Do you know how to ride a horse?” Scotland asked, eyes looking forward.

“Um… Not really.” North frowned, not sure where he was going with this. “The few times I was always with one of my brothers.”

Wales used to take him to horse rides back when his brother owned a stable in the 50s. North would sit on the front while his brother held him close and they would go on strolls around the valleys on top of Midnight. She was such a gentle creature.

But other than that, he had little to no experience in horseriding, even less riding one on his own. It was until he got stuck here that he got to ride one again and to be honest, he would rate travelling by horse for days as pretty fecking exhausting.

The laird hummed but didn’t bother to elaborate nor slow his brisk pace.

They walked down a path until they reached the stable by the courtyard. A young man around Andrew’s age with short blond hair was tending the place.

Scotland approached him. “Brian, have my horse ready if you please.”

Brian looked up from the rope he was tying around a post and straightened at the sight of him. “Right away, sir.”

“Is Daisy here?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Russell just finished his round.”

“Bring her out as well.”

With a nod, the young man entered the stable. Scotland crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, waiting. At a first glance, he would appear relaxed but North could spot the tension on his shoulders and the tight clench of his jaw.

He knew he shouldn’t ask, not when his brother looked ready to blow a fuse, but his curiosity got the better of him.

“Are you going somewhere?” he asked.

“We are going somewhere,” Scotland corrected, and seemingly out of nowhere, produced North’s jacket and threw it at him.

North sputtered when it landed on his face. “And where is that?”

Staring ahead as if the meaning of life was somewhere on the horizon, Scotland said, “You’ll see.”

North couldn’t stop the huff escape him. That didn’t sound ominous at all.

So he waited for who knew how long, fiddling with the buttons of his jacket. He glanced a few times at Scotland but the man kept on being silent. Really, just add a tricorne hat and a pipe and he’ll be the mysterious brooding pirate.

Brian emerged from the stable with two horses in tow. North recognized the one from the left; the massive grey horse peppered in white spots. It was the one he rode with Scotland the first time he got here. The one on the right, however, was new. It was a smaller horse with dark brown fur and a black mane, a white strip running across its forehead and muzzle.

“Here you go, sir.” The stableman handed him the grey horse’s rein to Scotland. The Laird thanked him and slung a satchel North didn’t notice he was carrying off his shoulder and attached it to the back of the saddle.

Giving a firm pat on the neck of his horse, Scotland turned to him expectantly. “Well, don’t you stand there. Grab the other one.”

“I can’t ride a horse,” North reminded him dumbly. He expected to tag along with Scotland, not riding one on his own.

But then again, Modern Scotland was the ‘learning on the job’ kind of guy. Like the time he taught him how to properly fall in rock climbing by slapping a helmet to his head and shoving him off a cliff. Sure, the cliff was only a few meters high and there was a landing pad at the bottom but it still gave North a fecking heart attack.

“You’ll learn on the way.” Scotland waved a hand, unknowingly confirming North’s thought. He hopped on the horse in a graceful move, adjusting the sword to his belt before heading for the courtyard.

North stared at him for a moment before looking at the stableman, completely at a loss. With an amused smile, Brian stepped forward and gestured to the dark brown horse.

“Don’t worry, Daisy is a gentle, patient lass.”

With cautious steps, North slowly grabbed the reins from the young man. He presented his free hand to the horse, just like Wales showed him all those decades ago. Daisy bobbed her head with a snort before touching his hand with her muzzle.

North held his breath, body tensing when she pushed past his hand to shove her head to his chest. She seemed to sense his nervousness, however, because she leaned back, neighing softly but not before giving him a nuzzle to his hair.

“She’s really intuitive, especially around the little ones,” Brian reassured, patting her flank. “Come on, I’ll show you how to mount her.”

After a 5 minutes crash course on horse riding that North honestly only registered half of it, he found himself on top of Daisy, clutching the reins for dear life. He shifted his legs a bit, the leather of the saddle creaking under his weight.

“Remember, you only need a small tug to stir her.” The stableman adjusted the iron stirrups so North could reach them, securing the leather straps. “And keep your body relax or you’ll get sore legs.”

“My legs are already hurting,” North muttered.

Brian snorted, making the last adjustments before stepping back. “Trust me, it will hurt more if you’re tense. Just let your body loose and mind your balance.”

Rolling his shoulders to expel his nervous energy, North loosen his white-knuckle grip on the reins and exhaled slowly. He shifted on the saddle once more and waited for the horse to move. After a minute of silence, Daisy looked back at him with a look that could be only described as confusion.

“Squeeze your legs to signal her to move,” Brian reminded him with a laugh.

“Oh right…” Flushing, North did as told and scrambled to hold on when Daisy started to move. It took a bit to get the hang of the rocking movement but miraculously, or mostly Daisy’s self-preservation, they reached the courtyard in one piece.

He spotted Scotland waiting by the gate, looking at the tree line with a pensive look. He turned when he spotted North, a smirk quirking on his lips at his obvious discomfort.

“Riding like a true noble.”

North huffed, adjusting the reins in his grasp as he slowly guided Daisy towards the gates. “Where are we going, Mr. Campbell?”

“You’ll see.” With a gentle kick of his boot against the horse’s side, Scotland crossed the gate.

Rolling his eyes in exasperation, he watched the man trot ahead of him. North looked back at his horse, petting her neck.

“Okay, Daisy. I’m not wearing a helmet, so I’m trusting you to not throw me to Kingdom come. ”

If a horse could look offended, Daisy would be the perfect example. Nevertheless, with the kick Brian showed him, he urged Daisy to follow Scotland.

North recognized the way they were going from the time he went working for Mr. Duncan as part of his punishment. He was mostly half asleep when Hamish took him to the farmer but he did remember the cobblestone path leading to the village.

However, halfway through the main road, Scotland took a left to a narrow path hidden by a large tree. North panicked when he tried to remember how to correctly stir the horse around, but Daisy, bless her heart, knew where they were going.

They rode down the path, weaving through vegetation and rocks. The terrain was rough and uneven, hard to pass through by foot but not by horse.

North looked at the wind rustling across the field, the crisp air filling his lungs. He shivered a bit, pulling his jacket close. The cold didn’t normally bother him, but something about the Highlands made the weather a wee bit harsher.

After crossing the field, the trail led them to the edge of the forest.

“Watch your head,” Scotland warned over his shoulder before tugging his horse into the forest.

North pulled on the reins slightly on the left, ducking his head to avoid a branch and looked at his surrounding curiously.

Travelling with the clan was mostly done through vast lands and small villages. They would stop at clearings or near a cluster of trees to make camp, but they never entered a forest because of the carts.

The last time he was in the forest, everything was green and mossy. The trees were thick with leaves and flowers bloomed in every corner. Now, it was a multicolour show of red, yellow and oranges with only a few specks of green left. Leaves were falling from the sky, swirling in the wind like a graceful dance.

The scenery was like a slap to the face.

He hadn’t realized how much time had passed since he got here. The lack of a wristwatch or even a calendar on a fridge made him lose track of it. Hell, he only knew of the dates by listening to conversations. But now, he could see time had passed. A month and a half and he still hadn’t found a way to get back home.

His heart sank like stone.

God, he can already imagine the lecture of the century his brothers were brewing, just waiting for the opportunity to deliver it the moment they see him again.

Though, to be fair, he somehow travelled back in time with no way to contact his family. They can’t blame him this time for leaving without warning anyone. This was more than just a simple trip to a science fair.

And he was trying but it was so hard to do research when you’re surrounded by people all day long. Hamish was, unfortunately, a pretty good babysitter.

North had studied the map he found in the book in his spare time, especially during the hours he was supposed to sleep. At least as much as he could with the night sky as his only light source, but there wasn’t much progress. His best lead so far was to find the stone circle referenced in the song the bard sang last month. But even with that lead, there was a high chance it would be a dead end.

Aside from a couple in his own Land, he didn’t know any stone circles in Great Britain except Stonehenge and that was way down South of England. It would take him a million years to get there with today’s means of transport.

North honestly didn’t know where to start or how to ask for help without risking revealing himself. It was already a struggle pretending to be a normal human kid. The last thing he wanted to do was have people questioning why he was asking about magical circles. He would end up being burned at the stake.

A soft neigh broke him out of his thoughts and he noticed Daisy looking at him, her ears flickering toward him. She was indeed perceptive.

North breathed out shakily, loosening the reins he didn’t know he was clutching. He petted her mane. “Don’t mind me, girl, just me going through my daily existential dread.”

He glanced at Scotland for a moment, making sure he was far enough and leaned down. “Though, you wouldn’t happen to know where I could find a stone circle, would you?”

Daisy snorted, ears flickering before looking back at the trail.

North sighed. “Worth a shot.”

They travelled for a short time into the forest and North was starting to get antsy. Scotland hadn’t said anything yet and while the stroll was nice and all, the silence was a bit unnerving.

He had no idea where they were going. He hoped his brother wasn’t taking him far deep in the forest just to abandon him.

After what felt like an eternity, they came to a stop in the middle of the trail. Or at least, Scotland stopped his horse and had to signal Daisy to do the same when North forgot to pull the reins in time.

The man jumped off his ride and led his horse a few distances away from the trail. “Follow me.”

North struggled to dismount, grabbing the pommel of the saddle like a lifesaver. He slid down, hopping on one foot when the other got stuck with the stirrup, almost face-planting into the dirt but eventually he disentangled himself.

Daisy, ever so patient, didn’t bat an eye at the spectacle and let him guide her off the path.

Scotland looped his reins around a branch, and grabbed the satchel he brought before pushing past a bush and ducking under a fallen tree. North quickly tied Daisy beside his brother’s horse, giving her a scratch under her chin and followed him.

Weaving through branches and bushes, North stumbled into a small clearing and his eyes widened at the sight before him.

They were on the edge of a lake. Three small plots of land were in the middle of it with lush trees filling the place. Clusters of aquatic vegetation trailed around the lake, the still water rippling whenever a falling leaf touch down.

Wait… were they at Loch Ussie? The one mentioned on the map? Mairead had said once that it wasn’t far from the village. Was this the place?

“Apple?”

North jolted, looking at Scotland. His brother was sitting on a rock, legs stretched out with one ankle over the other and holding out an apple. His satchel was beside him with the flap open.

“Um...”

The man didn’t wait and threw him an apple. North barely caught it in time.

He watched his brother take out another apple from his satchel and leaned down to pull out a small dagger hidden in his boot. He peeled the apple and cut a slice before popping it into his mouth.

It was mystifying to spot little quirks here and there that still echoed centuries later.

His brother would always eat his apples like that, saying he didn’t like getting the skin stuck between his teeth if he bit into it. It was such a silly detail to notice yet strikingly familiar that for one moment, North thought he was with Modern Scotland.

Shaking himself out of his thoughts, North looked at the apple in his hand and sighed. He wasn’t that hungry but it was better than a full plate of food. And hey, the apple was crunchy and juicy.

North found himself a rock to sit on and pulled his legs close to his chest, arms wrapping around to keep warm. He took another bite, glancing at Scotland and waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Because there was no way they came all this way just to eat a freaking apple in silence in front of a lake. Sure, Alistair liked to go on hikes and get away from civilization to distress — and it seemed to work on Past Scotland as well from the look of it — but this was getting a bit weird.

Maybe this Scotland liked awkward long silences, which wouldn’t be a surprise if the man can get entertainment by the end of it.

“I heard you had a fit during the rent collecting,” Scotland said airily.

Yup, there it was. This Scotland didn’t beat around the bush too. Shocker.

It almost made North laugh but once the question registered, a small knot formed in his stomach and he grimaced.

“What about it?”

“My men told me their side of the story, but I want to hear yours. What happened?”

“Oh well, I don’t know. It’s not every day I see two corpses burnt to a crisp.” North couldn’t help but snark, ignoring the way his face flushed in embarrassment. Of course, they told Scotland about it.

“Yes, Ian mentioned the burial. I can see why it can be distressing.” Scotland hummed, completely blasé about it as he cut another slice of the apple. “Was that when you got your fit?”

North clutched his apple to keep from chucking it at the man. “It wasn’t a fit.”

How could he forget his brother can be a tactless idiot?

“Of course, you call it a ‘panic attack’, aye?” The man cocked an eyebrow.

Anger bubbled in North’s chest. Was the clan reporting his every fecking word?! He really can’t catch a break, can he?

Eyebrow twitching, the boy gritted out. “I saw two dead men nailed to a post, there was smoke, it went in the wrong windpipe, I couldn’t breathe, I panicked. There! Do you want me to drink some magic water too to prove I’m not lying?!”

The possibility sent a spike of fear in him. Although his brother can be a prick at times, North honestly believed Scotland wouldn’t go to such extremes to get answers.

Right?

The placid expression on Scotland’s face cracked for the first time since they left the castle to reveal shock.

Grey eyes snapped at him, narrowing into slits. “What?”

North shivered, heart pounding like a jackhammer. Oh God, Scotland was definitely pissed now. That growl was downright chilling.

He gestured to the lake, his hand clearly not shaking. “Isn’t… isn’t that why you brought me here? To drink magic water for an interrogation?”

“I would never.” The outright indignation in his brother’s voice was startling yet reassuring.

The relief must have shown up on his face because the older nation rose to his feet, something thunderous and dark flashing in his eyes. “Who made you drink it?”

North shuffled back as he stammered, caught off-guard by the reaction. “Callum took me to this weird spring in a crevasse called the Liar’s Spring. I was thirsty, so I didn’t question it.”

And he was half dissociating at the time, of course, he wasn’t thinking straight.

Scotland let out a string of swear words in his native tongue. “I wouldn’t think he would go to such lengths.”

He turned to face North, his right eyebrow twitching in poorly kept anger. “What did he ask you?”

“If I was a spy for the English,” the boy answered nervously. He also asked about his fake name but North decided not to mention that.

The man swore again, nostrils flaring and hands curling into fists. There was a small crunching sound from the apple he was holding. “And for a useless question. To a child no less!”

North was torn between feeling touched by the familiar protective streak the man was showing or just plain worried his brother would punch through a tree out of anger. It had happened once when Scotland dropped a hammer on his foot while fixing a fence.

Horror then shot through the boy’s body, remembering what the magic spring’s water was supposed to do. “Wait… You mean my insides would have feckin’ melted?!”

He remembered the warmth blooming from his chest after drinking the water and that strange buzzing in his ears and tingling in his fingers, but he thought it was just the adrenaline wearing off after his panic attack.

“You would have been fine, it just loosens the tongue a bit.” Scotland waved the hand holding the dagger dismissively, though his gravelly voice betrayed his calmness. “He doesn’t know the spell to trigger it.”

And that was supposed to be reassuring?!

The man took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He then leaned against a tree and went back to cutting his half-crushed apple, even if the dagger’s handle now looked a bit crooked. All trace of anger left like smoke as if he wasn’t one second away from screaming like a banshee.

“Thank you for telling me, Mr. Killough,” he said matter-of-factly, the stoic mask back into place. “I’ll have a word with him later.”

North was completely floored.

Of course, he wouldn’t apologize. Throwing the apple at him was really tempting now. Hell, a rock would be best.

Northern Ireland suddenly felt tired of all of this. He can’t get a read on him. One second Scotland acted like the Scotland he knew, the next, he was a complete stranger. It was bad enough North hadn’t gotten a good night's sleep since that eventful day at the burned village, he didn’t need to constantly psychoanalyze his brother’s every move.

Well, he’s not actually your brother, is he? A dark corner of his mind reminded him. You’re a stranger to him. He doesn’t know you.

You are nothing to him.

“What is this really about, Mr. Campbell?” he sighed, ignoring the constricting pressure in his chest. “Why do you care?”

There was a long pause before the man spoke. “You’re my guest, and as Laird, you are under my protection. I make sure all guests are looked after.”

North couldn’t stop the scoff from escaping him, incredulous. “Hence why you let Callum use me as the mascot for his little political campaign?” That wasn’t how he was supposed to ask his brother about the Jacobites' cause but better ripping the bandaid now than later.

“Callum has always been an opportunist. It wouldn’t be the first time he uses such tactics to gather support,” Scotland said.

So his brother knew after all. He knew about the meetings and the secret money. A clash of emotions swirled inside North: shock at the confirmation, relief his brother wasn’t being played and anger for his brother letting this happen.

“I didn’t agree on any of it,” North gritted out. He knew the context now and could sympathize with it, he truly did, but that didn’t mean he was okay with being paraded around to gather support.

“Doesn’t matter for him. He will do what he believes is right for the cause. From what I heard, it’s going well.” Scotland shrugged. “I don’t pay much attention to his work, as long as he doesn’t bring trouble back here, I let him be.”

“You’re not involved?” North asked, eyebrows shooting up in surprise. The Jacobite Rising of 1745 was a big thing. It was the catalyst that would cause a domino effect that would forever shape the history and culture of Scotland as we know it.

“No, I’m not.”

“Why not? You’re uh… you’re Scotland,” the boy sputtered. “Don’t you want to be a part of this?”

Scotland cut the last slice of his apple before throwing the core over his shoulder. He wiped the dagger clean on his trouser before slipping it back into his boot. Popping the last piece of fruit in his mouth, he regarded North with heavy brows.

“What do you know of my kind, Mr. Killough?”

North startled, mismatched eyes going wide as he stared at Scotland. The man looked back at him calmly, face revealing nothing.

“You mentioned, back when we first met, that you heard stories about me.” Scotland prompted. “A man who is the Land and knows every inch of it.”

“I-I did.” The boy gulped, hands suddenly clammy. “My brothers always told me tales of myths and legends when growing up. You know, like the Sidhe-Folk, the banshee and stuff. The existence of Nations was one of them.”

The older nation nodded. “And you believe in them?”

“Well, yeah, there’s always a grain of truth in every legend.” North shrugged, not sure how to explain without saying he was a Nation himself.

At that, the man narrowed his eyes, a strange expression flickering on his face. North panicked for a second, thinking he revealed more than he should, but then Scotland broke eye contact to look back at the lake.

“In your opinion, what does it mean to be a Nation? What is its purpose?”

North frantically tried to restart his brain, thrown off into a loop by yet another loaded question. He didn’t know where this was going — a daily occurrence for him if he was honest — but this was getting into dangerous territory.

Whether this whole thing was a way to tell him his cover was blown or his brother was genuinely asking him without realizing he was asking a fellow Nation, Northern Ireland didn’t have the mental capacity to delve into another existential crisis. At least for today.

“I don’t know, they um- they work for the people in power?” He guessed with an awkward shrug. Playing dumb was the safest route.

“One would think that, aye, but not exactly.”

The man sat back on the rock, straighten his shoulders and crossed his arms, and North saw the shift in his posture. The way his grey eyes suddenly revealed centuries of history. The way he went from being a simple Laird of castle Kaerndall to something older. Far older and bigger than a young man. A heavy presence that made North feel small.

This was the Land of Scotland speaking.

“A Nation is what you could call a bridge between the people we represent and the land we live on. We are the culture, the language, the voice: everything that represents a group of people who lives under one banner.” Scotland gestured to the lake before them. “Yet, we are also the hills and mountains, just as we are the lakes and rivers. We are both nature and humanity, the Land and the People. For us, one cannot live without the other.”

I can name each mountain and river in alphabetical order because it’s a part of me. I can tell you when a storm is brewing or how the winter this year will be harsher than the last one. I know this because I’m the physical representation of this Land.”

He pulled something metallic out of his breast pocket, something small, flat and circular. He turned it over in his hands, ancient eyes distant.

And North kept silent, completely enraptured by his brother’s words, not daring to interrupt him.

“I also know every person who lives here, everyone who sees this Land as their home. I could name you the line of Kings and clan leaders just as I can name you the forgotten mothers and fathers of centuries past. I’m the voice of the People.”

Scotland held up the object to his face, the light reflecting on the metal. It was the brooch he always wore with his kilt. The one pinned to his left shoulder.

“Nature is straightforward, it destroys or it creates. It shows mercy to no one yet gives a safe haven to anyone that seeks it. Humanity, however…” He turned to North with a flat look. “Humanity is a cluster fuck of a mess.”

The awestruck expression North had in the past minute burst like a bubble and he couldn’t stop the snort coming out of him. 

A smirk quirked on the man’s lips for a second before it faded away. He looked back at the lake, fingers rolling the brooch.

“Representing the People is different than representing the Land because there are so many facets, values and opinions to take into account. From a humble beggar to the very King, it’s almost impossible to decide who to listen to, they all have a voice that matters and I am that voice.”

“It sounds overwhelming.” North thought of all of the times the voice of his people got too loud for him. Normally, that whisper at the back of his mind was soothing, a reminder he wasn’t alone, but whenever there was discord, especially in the last couple of decades, it would erupt like a nest of angry wasps impossible to ignore.

North missed hearing it, despite its ups and downs. The complete radio silence in his mind since he got here was disconcerting. He had tried his best to distract himself but it was hard to ignore that void.

“It can be at times, aye, but it is what it is.” Scotland hummed.

“Is that why…” North looked at the man, carefully choosing his words. “Is that why you’re not involved, then? You can’t decide which voice to listen to? Which side to choose?”

Grey eyes locked to his as one bushy eyebrow quirked on Scotland’s face. Something indiscernible flashed again in his eyes before it was gone as he turned to look at the horizon.

“I may represent the voice of the People, but at the end of the day, I’m just one man. A man who happens to live for centuries yes, but a man nonetheless. ” The older nation said, no inflection in his voice. “Some of my kind prefer to stay close to humans’ affairs, keep a finger on the pulse in a way, but I rather keep my distance and observe instead.”

“But don’t you want to make a change?” the boy asked a bit too quickly, his heart speeding up. “If you have centuries of knowledge, centuries of experiences, don’t you want to use it to help? To change things for the better? To prevent a mistake from happening again? ”

If you could change the future, would you?

“I did when I was younger.” Scotland glanced at him, tilting his head to the side. “How old are you? Ten years old?”

North flushed, crossing his arms with a scowl. “I’m 14.”

Physically speaking anyway.

“Close enough.” The man shrugged. “I did try to get involved, countless times. But when you get to live for dozens of lifetimes, you soon realize that no matter how much you try, some things are meant to happen, for the better or the worse, and you need to accept that. Besides, humans do not like being told what to do, you ken.”

He said it so nonchalantly, but there was a hint of something in his voice that North had trouble identifying. A glaze going over his eyes that hid something bitter and painful, almost mournful.

Scotland wasn’t someone who showed vulnerability willingly. He rather chop off his own arm than talk about feelings. He preferred to hide his worry and care under a mask of anger or apathy.

The last time North caught a glimpse of it was during WW2 when Scotland came to visit Ireland. North was staying with his elder brother to stay out of the war and to recover from the Belfast Blitz. He remembered sneaking downstairs one night for a quick snack when he heard his brothers speak in hush voices.

He remembered Scotland’s poorly concealed pained voice as he admitted to Ireland he was essentially the last man standing. How mainland Europe was slowly falling into darkness. How resources and allies reinforcements were taking too long. How he had to hold the fort because England was recovering from yet another air raid attack all the while keeping watch on Wales who was slowly going in a downward spiral after losing his hearing.

North wasn’t stupid, he had known even as a child how hard the war was affecting his family, how it had affected him. But it was on that night that he realized how scared his brothers were, of the unknown, of the what ifs, of the dangers. It shook him to the core to see his ever-strong brother crack for a moment.

And North just caught another glimpse of that. With this Scotland.

What did his brother go through to let his mask slip for just a second?

“Nations don’t get to choose, not like humans.” Scotland didn’t seem to notice the slip-up as he continued. “Think of a ship sailing through the sea of time. The ship is the Nation, the mast is the government whereas the wind is the people. The ship will go to wherever the mast is pointing as long as there’s wind. If there’s no wind or no one to control the mast, then the ship cannot move.”

“You’re on the whims of other people,” North said softly. The analogy was weirdly apt. More than it should be. Who knew Scotland was secretly a poet.

His brother scratched the stubbles on his chin in thought. It was still weird to see him without a full beard. “Aye, I am the ship waiting for the next destination. I have no control over it just as I have no control over what’s going on right now with the rising tensions among my people. All I can do is wait to see if the mast will hold on or let the wind take a hold of me and send me the other way.”

When he put it like that, it made sense. North may represent Northern Ireland, but he can’t singlehandedly put a stop to the conflict going on in his home. No matter how much he tried, he just can’t. How can he, when their existence was kept as a secret except for just a handful of people? In a way, Nations were shackled to the decisions of the people and all they can do was follow them.

Did that apply to his situation? Should he try to make a change here or would he just let history run its course? Did everything that happened here was meant to happen?

Northern Ireland didn’t exist yet, did that technically mean that he wasn’t bound to his duties? That he was free to make his own choices?

Time travel was so fecking confusing!

He looked down at his half-eaten apple, noticing it was already in the process of enzymic browning around the edges. He set the fruit down beside him with a sigh.

“Here.”

North looked up to see Scotland handing him the brooch. Carefully, he took it and was surprised by its weight. Iron if he had to guess by its colour. He set it on his palm, thumb tracing the tusks of a boar’s head. The circle around the head had an intricate Celtic design with an inscription engraved that read: Ne Obliviscaris.

“What does it mean?” he asked, mouthing the foreign words under his breath.

“‘Forget Not’ in Latin. It’s the motto of clan Campbell,” Scotland said, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s a reminder that one shouldn’t forget history, whether it be the triumphs or the mistakes of the past. But for me, it’s also a reminder of what it means to represent my people.”

North looked up at him, tilting his head in curiosity.

“We established that Nations are like a ship, aye? Well, for living for so long, you get to a point where the destination isn’t something you care about or if you will even ever reach it. It’s the journey that’s important. It’s a difficult voyage but it’s what makes it worth it. I get to see the wonders and tragedies of humanity, the rise and fall of kingdoms, the hope and despair of people, the beauty and destruction of nature. To be able to witness this… is an honour and a burden I’m willing to carry.”

Once more North had whiplash from the whimsical words his brother was throwing around. Really, since when was his brother that eloquent? Sure, he heard his speeches when addressing his people, but this poetic spiel? Unheard of.

Scotland seemed to catch his puzzlement because he cocked an eyebrow in askance. “What?”

“Nothing.” North fiddled with the brooch to avoid his gaze. “Just that… I wasn’t expecting to hear such passion.”

The man narrowed his eyes for a moment, but there was no heat behind them.“You’re right, most of it comes from a friend of mine. It made more sense when he said it the first time.”

“No, no, it made sense.” North wondered which friend he was referring to. Who had a way with fanciful speeches?

“Truly? That would be a first. When I told the clan or any other human, most of them thought I lost my mind or were some kind of a bad omen.” He eyed North curiously. “You seem to accept such concepts in stride.”

“Myths, Mr. Campbell, they’re based on truth one way or another,” the boy said with as much confidence as he could even though on the inside he was pulling out his hair in panic. “At least you’re not some malevolent fae out there trying to kidnap me to steal my soul or something.”

Any sane person would think so when meeting a Nation.

“What makes you think I’m not a fae ready to take your soul?” The older nation mused, amusement flickering in his eyes.

“You can touch iron without burning you, eating with silverware doesn’t seem to bother you as well, when the village’s priest came to visit the other day, you didn’t flinch or shy away.” North pointed out with one finger at a time. “And you mentioned I was under your protection and since faes cannot lie…”

At least, I think so.

Scotland stared at him for a moment before he rolled his eyes, a smirk curling on his lips. “Cheeky little shit, aren’t you?”

North fought back a grin. Because that smirk? The banter? That was his brother right there, not just an indifferent mask, not Scotland, not Allen but Alistair. Through and through.

For a brief moment, he was with his brother.

The man stood up, stretched his arms above his head and grabbed his satchel. “Come on, let’s head back. It’s getting late.”

North pushed back the wave of nostalgia and stood up. He tried to hand back the brooch only to squawk in surprise when Scotland ruffled his hair instead of taking it.

“Keep it. As a token of good faith. As a reminder that while I know you still have secrets, I know you’re no danger to my people.” Scotland walked past him before disappearing around the bush they first came through.

Blinking dumbly, North looked from where his brother went to the brooch in his hand. At the weight of his words.

Trust Scotland to show he cared by vaguely threatening him.

Though, he couldn’t ignore the way his face warmed up at the familiar gesture. His brother had a knack to ruffle his hair whenever they end a conversation, it appeared it was the same here.

He huffed and pocketed the brooch, finding its weight comforting. He quickly arranged his hair back to normal and followed his brother.

Scotland was by the horses, having given them an apple each from his satchel. Did he bring a whole damn bushel of them?

“Want another apple?” the man asked, gaze focused on feeding his horse with another crunchy red fruit.

“No, thank you. I’m not hungry.” Another apple would definitely kill the microscopic appetite he had saved for dinner later today.

“Suit yourself.” The man shrugged and tied the satchel back to the side of the saddle. He then grabbed the reins of his horse and led it towards the trail. “Let’s get going, then. Ceò is getting restless.”

“Ceò?” the young nation voiced out loud, reaching a hand to scratch Daisy’s muzzle. She leaned into his touch, giving a soft neigh.

His brother patted the grey horse’s flank, apparently named Ceò, and hopped on the saddle. He walked a few paces on the path and looked over his shoulder, cocking an eyebrow. “We don’t have all day.”

To the surprise of no one, it took North several attempts to jump on Daisy and not once did Scotland offer to help. He just stood there with that stupid smirk of his the whole time.

Arsehole.

North eventually managed to climb on the saddle and by then his face was flushed both from embarrassment and exertion. At least, Daisy was kind enough to offer him silent comfort by nuzzling his boot.

He joined his brother on the trail and soon made their way out of the forest. The silence between them wasn’t tense or heavy compared to when they left the castle. It was light and calm, companionable even.

North had a feeling the conversation back on the lake was some sort of a test, to what end, he didn’t know. But he can’t deny he missed having that familiarity again, no matter how short it was.

They were reaching the field when a thought popped into North’s head.

Scotland said he wasn’t involved with the Jacobites nor was he interested in participating in the cause. Which would have been obvious knowing Modern Scotland despised going to world meetings or working in the parliament. But then why was he a laird?

As far as North knew, being a Laird consisted in dealing with politics, managing lands and dealing with people: all things Scotland just said he had no control over during his little speech.

“If you have questions, speak up.”

The boy jolted, glancing at Scotland who was staring ahead, face impassive. “Uh…”

“You’re thinking too loud,” the man groused, “it’s disturbing the serenity here. Speak up.”

Rolling his eyes, North shook his head. That was such a Scotland way to ask what was going on.

“You mentioned you weren’t involved with human affairs,” the boy said as he made quotation marks with his fingers, “Yet you are the laird of castle Kaerndal.”

“I was bored and wanted a change of pace in life,” Scotland said succinctly.

North shouldn’t be surprised. Of course, his brother would have a dumb reason. This was like the time Alistair complained about how loud bikers drove around the neighbourhood and then proceeded to buy himself a bike the next day just to flip them the bird.

“I also owed Callum a favour for helping me out in the past.” The man continued with a shrug. “It seemed fair to take his mantle if it means I get to stay away from unwanted eyes for a time.”

Just how long have they known each other for the literal personification of Scotland agreeing in taking the human role of Laird?

“Which is why I am most vexed in learning he resorted to using the St Ninian’s Spring.” Scotland clenched his jaw before looking at him seriously, brows drawn together. “While I believe his intentions were for my safety, know that he had crossed a line. Magic isnae something to use carelessly. You have my word, Mr. Killough, that no magic will ever be used on you without your knowledge or consent.”

Taken aback by the intensity of his declaration, North could only nod. “Of course, sir, I believe you.”

And he really did. If there was one thing his brother was good at, it was keeping a promise.

The older nation seemed surprised by his conviction but it was gone as fast as it came. He nodded back and clicked his tongue to make his horse trot ahead.

As they crossed the field and reached the narrow winding path leading to the main road, another question popped into North’s mind.

“Mr. Campbell,” he called out and waited until the laird looked over his shoulder in askance. “When we were on our way back, the clan stopped to meet with a deserter. He mentioned there was a bounty on your head.”

“Aye, there is. Should have known the idiot would steep that low just to get my attention.” Scotland scoffed, a hint of annoyance in his voice. “You’re the youngest of your brothers, yes? Is being a pain in the arse your sole purpose for us?”

“Of course,” North replied without missing a beat though it was mind-boggling realizing Past England was actually the youngest of the family.

“Count yourself lucky you have a short lifespan,” the man huffed, getting worked up by the second. “I get to spend centuries with him.”

“Admiral Arthur Kirkland is your younger brother?” Honestly, North deserved to get an award for his acting skill.

“Unfortunately. All I want is some peace and quiet and yet he keeps yapping at me any moment he can.”

“Can’t he just send you a letter?” North asked. It seemed like the most logical option. “Putting a bounty seems a bit extreme.”

“He doesn’t know where I am and he’s too prideful to ask. Besides, I would burn the letter before reading it.”

Really, it almost felt like he was back home. This was just another day in the Kirkland household.

Though, it was strange England couldn’t Sense Scotland. North was always able to pinpoint the location of his brothers by expanding his Senses. Like the blip of a radar. It was a vague estimation, but he could at least know if his brothers were home or not.

They reached the main road and North took the chance to ride alongside the other nation. He looked around in feigned curiosity, hoping to appear nonchalant.

“If I may…” the boy forced himself to keep his voice even. “How much is the bounty?”

The laird grumbled as they approached the gates. He saluted one of the guards before answering. “Last I heard, it was 200 pounds.”

North sputtered, eyes growing wide. “Really?!”

Only that? Damn, Arthur, that’s freaking cheap.

Scotland looked at him with a frown. “What, did you expect more?”

“Yes! I mean, no! But like―” he flapped a hand at him as if gesturing all of Scotland would explain it. “For someone of your station, I was thinking in the range of a million or something.”

Not to sound pretentious, but his brother was a Nation. And a Laird too.

The man threw his head back and laughed, it was sharp and unexpected. “I would have given myself up eons ago if that was the case just to watch him empty his pocket for little ol’ me.” He smirked at him. “You’re hilarious, lad.”

Scotland then went ahead towards the stable, where Brian was in the process of hefting a bale of hay.

North huffed and muttered under his breath. “Well, excuse me for believing you were worth more than a brand new washing machine.”

But then again, money value was immensely different in his time. The inflation rate back home just in the last few decades was staggering. He can’t imagine how much a pound in his present cost here. Hell, his weekly allowance from Arthur would probably make him a Lord or some other high-class idiot.

He tugged on the reins to guide Daisy back to the stable and it was then that he noticed the carriage parked in front of the castle. The carriage was elegant with intricate designs on the wooden doors. The coachman was in the front seat, talking to Hamish as Malcolm helped in taking the luggage inside.

“- arrived not so long ago, sir, he was shown to his quarters.” North heard Brian say as he approached the stable.

“I suppose asking for another day was too much.” Scotland rolled his eyes with a sigh. He patted Ceò’s neck before giving the reins to the stableman and turned to look at North.

All signs of his easygoing presence were replaced by the ever-serious face of Laird Campbell of Castle Kaerndal, albeit a bit resigned. It was fascinating and a bit sad to see how fast his brother don the mask, but North understood his position.

When duty called, you must answer.

“There’s a cart by the kitchen that needs tending,” Scotland said, pointing towards the left side of the castle, “if you could help Mrs. Gibs, it would be much appreciated.”

North nodded mutely. At this point in his life, he got conditioned to just accept the chores thrown at him. At least his brother didn’t outright order him. Small progress.

The laird stared at him for another beat, seeming to think carefully of his words before saying. “You make a passable companion for a horse ride, thank you for agreeing.”

He didn’t agree to any of it, but North let it pass. A half-arsed compliment from Scotland was a miracle by itself. The cherry on top would be —

“I trust you won’t lose the brooch.” Scotland cocked an eyebrow. “I don’t have many of those.”

Yup, there it was. Can’t have Scotland thanking you without ominously threatening you as well.

Though that didn’t stop the knot forming in North’s throat because he knew how big of a deal this was. His brother didn’t give his trust easily, he was a firm believer in the saying: ‘There’s always a grain of doubt in every truth.’

This was his brother handing him the metaphorical olive branch in the form of the brooch currently residing in North’s pocket.

And like hell, Northern Ireland would abuse that trust, no matter how little it was.

“I won’t,” he said, straightening his shoulders.

He wasn’t here to cause trouble or put anyone in danger. His goal here was to go home. Nothing more, nothing less.

Scotland hummed and with that, he turned and left to head inside.

Brian stepped forward and helped North get off the saddle. “How did it go? Did Daisy give you any trouble?”

“It went fine, she was very patient.” North smiled, giving a scritch to Daisy’s muzzle, much to her delight.

Brian grinned as he took the reins. “Aye, she’s a gentle soul and she seems to have a soft spot for you.”

As he said that, Daisy nuzzled North’s hair, her hot breath tickling his nose.

“Probably because she took pity on me in how pathetic I looked,” North said with a wry smile, shaking the tingles in his legs. Horse riding still left him with a numb arse.

The young man laughed. “Doubt it. Horses have good instincts. They know when your intentions are good and this one here sees it.”

He then bid North goodbye as he led Daisy back to her stall. North walked to the left side of the castle, glancing back at the carriage parked in the courtyard before continuing his way.

True to his brother’s words, there was a cart stationed by the side door leading to the kitchen. And it was filled to the brim with merchandise, almost toppling over the ledge. Ian was in the cart between crates as he stacked a box on top of a pile on the ground.

Ian spotted him down the path and waved him over. “Help me with those crates, will ya, lad? Where have you been?”

North jogged to him and accepted a crate full of onions. “Mr. Campbell invited me for a ride.”

The giant blond grinned. “Probably for the best, he needs all the peace and quiet he can get.”

North frowned. “What do you mean?”

Miss Lily came out of the door, dusting her apron off. “Dealing with Mr. Reid requires… a bit more patience than others.” She smiled at him, nodding at the crate in his arms before grabbing a sack of grain with surprising strength. “You can put that in the storage room.”

Ian laughed, hefting a barrel on each shoulder. “Aye, he can even make Angus lose his cool!”

The boy blinked. Well, now he was even more curious about who was this Mr. Reid. If he was able to make the most stoic man North had ever known lose his calm, then he must be quite the character.

North went inside, greeted Aileen — Mrs. Gibs too but she was too busy commanding the other staff where to put the incoming goods — and walked through the kitchen to head for the storage room in the back.

The storage room was a dark and cool room where they stored all kinds of foods, such as flour, cheese, dried fruits/meats, vegetables and of course, alcohol. They also kept boxes of utensils and fancy tablecloths for big feasts.

The place was already half full and with the number of goods the cart still held outside, it was going to be practically impossible to navigate through here.

Either way, North stepped around a row of barrels and set down the crate of onions beside another stack of more onion crates. Christ, the stack was taller than him.

He spotted crates of potatoes, carrots and such, but that amount of onions was just plain ridiculous.

Did Scottish people have a penchant for onions he never heard of?

Shrugging, he went back outside. With the help of the kitchen staff and Ian’s massive arms, the merchandise was safely stored and by then, North’s arms were sore.

That was how Mrs. Gibs found him, sitting at the corner table in the kitchen, gulping a glass of water Miss Lily gave him. The cook fussed over him, saying he was too thin to be hauling such heavy crates. North should have been offended by such a comment because he was stronger than he looked thank you very much, but explaining that would have been too complicated.

She tried to shove a plate full of food at him, but he kindly declined, spewing an excuse about wanting to freshen up and change his clothes before dinner. It kind of worked because he came out of the kitchen with only a slice of flatbread in his hand.

North headed for the staircase, pausing to check if anyone was at the Great Hall but the large room was empty. He had expected to see his brother and the guest here, but perhaps they were doing business elsewhere.

Shoving the flatbread in his pocket for later, North went upstairs. The second floor had two halls; the one on the left led to the office, a drawing room — even though there was already a bigger one downstairs — and a library. The difference between the office and the library was that the latter was open to everyone and apparently the staff was allowed to consult them as long as they brought the books back.

The master bedroom and guest rooms were in the right hall. There were five guest rooms as far as North knew; three on one side and two on the other while the master bedroom was at the far end. The communal bathroom was the first door on the side of the two guestrooms.

It took a while to get used to taking a bath in that room because the tub was right in the middle of it with only the fireplace to keep you warm. North always felt exposed being so out in the open with no curtains in sight but it was better than dragging the wooden tub into the basement.

Yawning, North made his way down the hall towards the third door on his left side. He pulled off his jacket, slung it over his shoulder and opened the door only to freeze at the sight before him.

A man was standing in his room. A mountain of a man with broad shoulders and dark red hair that reached past his ears. North would have thought it was his brother if it wasn’t for the fact the stranger was wearing a red and green kilt, instead of the familiar blue and green. He was holding a bag in his left meaty hand.

The boy blinked. “Uh…”

The man turned and North held back a shudder at the intimidating expression on the man’s face. He sported a thick beard and equally thick eyebrows, covering half his face and his dark eyes were shadowed by the woollen bonnet on his head.

Was this Mr. Reid?!

North tried to come up with a way to greet the man without getting punted across the hall until a jovial voice from behind startled him.

“Ruadh, there you are! I’ve been looking for you.”

The boy spun around and was faced with a rather stout man in his fifties with perfectly curled grey hair framing his round face. He was dressed in a fine maroon jacket with matching trousers and a beige vest with faint filigree and white buttons. The knee-high white stocking contrasted with his polished black shoes. 

The man smiled at him, leaning on an elegant dark cane in his right hand. “And who you might be, young man?”

“Sean Killough, sir,” North said, taken aback by the sudden appearance of the man. He didn’t hear him approach, not even with the cane. “And you are…”

“Oh, where are my manners!” The man gasped, dramatically putting a hand on his chest before bowing with a twirl of the same hand. “My name is Lachlan Reid of the Clan Mackintosh, advisor of Laird Mackintosh of Moy Hall.”

He then gestured at the giant behind North with another twirl of his hand. “This is my assistant Ruadh Boyle. Care to say hello, my good sir?”

Ruadh regarded the boy with a penetrating gaze and grunted in what North assumed in greeting. At least, he hoped it was a greeting and not a promise to crush him with his bare hands.

“Now that introductions are out of the way,” Mr. Reid said with great gusto, blue eyes sparkling. “I must ask, are you the hall boy in charge of bringing the logs? Because I find my fireplace missing a few and I do wish to have my room warm for the evening.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I’m no hall boy,” North said with a polite smile as he pointed over his shoulder. “This is my room.”

The advisor blinked owlishly as if the prospect of a 14-year-old boy having this room was even possible, and this time North felt a tad offended.

“I must have misheard you, my boy. This room has always been given to my assistant whenever we visit.” Mr. Reid shook his head with a bright laugh, grey curls bouncing. He looked up and down at him with raised trimmed eyebrows. “You are meaning to say this fine chamber has been assigned to you?”

North didn’t bother to hide his scowl as he felt his face warm up. Okay, so maybe he didn’t look like a spoiled Victorian child, but that didn’t mean the man had the right to judge him like he was dirt.

“Don’t you worry, lad,” Mr. Reid tutted with a patronizing smile, “I’ll make sure you won’t get in too much trouble for wandering in the halls with no-”

“I assure you, Mr. Reid, that Mr. Killough has every right to be in this room.”

North almost shouted ‘hallelujah’ at the sight of his brother walking down the hall because he was one second away from flipping the bird.

Laird Campbell stopped beside them and regarded Mr. Reid with a cool expression. “He has been my guest for a time now and he is to be treated as such. Am I understood?”

The boy held back a smug grin at the way the advisor floundered like a fish out of water. Ha! Take that, you overcompensating gobshite.

North had never been so proud to call Scotland his brother.

Mr. Reid recovered by dipping his head. “Of course, Laird Campbell, you have my deepest apologies.” He turned to North with a tight smile. “A simple misunderstanding, is it not, Mr. Killough?”

North channelled his inner Arthur when dealing with condescending idiots and smiled back. “Water under the bridge, Mr. Reid.”

“Splendid!” With a clap of his hands, the older man turned back to Scotland, his genial smile back into place. “If I may, sir, where would Ruadh-”

“There has been a slight hiccup when preparing the rooms.” Scotland interrupted smoothly as he looked at the giant silent man. “Mr. Boyle, your room has been moved to the one by the communal bathroom.”

Ruadh grunted and lumbered his way toward the mentioned door. He pushed it open and had to turn his giant frame to step inside, ducking his head to avoid hitting the doorframe.

Scotland looked back at the advisor, cocking an eyebrow as if daring him. “I hope he is not too far from your quarters, Mr. Reid.”

“Perfectly fine, Laird Campbell!” Mr. Reid adjusted the front of his vest primly.

“Good, the matter is over then. You may continue settling in, Mr. Reid, dinner is in two hours,” Scotland said with a patience North had to mentally applaud him for. He bid them goodbye and walked past them to head into his own personal chamber.

There was a blessed silence for about two seconds before the advisor spoke again.

Or at least attempted to because North went straight to his room, not bothering to excuse himself. He heard the man sputter behind his closed door, but North didn’t give a flying fuck. He should count himself lucky he didn’t slam the door to his face.

The boy threw his jacket over the armchair and kicked his boots off before flopping down on the bed with a groan.

If North didn’t have much urgency to leave before, he sure as hell did now. Not even five minutes with the man and he was ready to throw himself out of the window.

The one thing he hated more than anything was people patronizing him like he was stupid. As if he was unaware of how condescending they sounded, believing they knew better than him.

The clan can be total arseholes but at least they were upfront in their intentions. They didn’t put on a fake smile or talk to him like he was three.

The boy flipped onto his back and blew out a raspberry.

He can’t believe he was going to say this, but Malcolm was right.

Mr. Reid was a pompous prick.

And he was going to be here the whole month for the preparation of the Gathering.

Northern Ireland needed to get out of here and fast.

Or else, he would lose his goddamned mind.

Redcastle, West of Inverness, 1743

A carriage approached a castle on a vast plot of land. The edge of the estate was surrounded by a thick forest except for the left side which gave a view of the Beauly Firth.

A hand brushed the curtain away from the carriage’s window as Captain Johnson looked up at the imposing structure. The sun was bright and no clouds were in sight, making the rich red sandstone of the castle walls even richer.

Living to its namesake, the captain thought to himself as the carriage came to a stop in front of the castle where a footman and butler were waiting by the front entrance. The footman, a young man with nicely pressed dark clothes and brown hair, stepped forward and opened the carriage’s door.

“Welcome to Redcastle, Captain Johnson,” he said with a small dip of his head, voice flat and soft.

The English captain stepped down from the carriage and adjusted his red jacket. He looked around impassively, noting the lush flower beds that ran along the walls. Even in autumn, the flowers were as bright and colourful as they were in summer. He took a deep breath, the crisp floral air filling his lungs before letting it out evenly.

He walked up to the threshold and was greeted by the butler, an older man in his sixties with a tuff of grey hair swiped to one side.

“The Lady awaits, Captain, if you could follow me.” the butler intoned, face gaunt and pale.

The English officer followed the older man, polished boots softly tapping against the lush carpet as they passed through a hallway filled with paintings and beautiful marble sculptures.

He had been invited to many castles, estates and mansions throughout his life. After all, being Captain in the British army often made him an escort for high-ranking members of society. It can be dull work for some — spending hours in a social event doing nothing but watch over your charge — but for him, he revelled in those times the most.

While noblemen and noblewomen prattled over a nice meal and fine wine, he would drift between them, catching pieces of conversations here and there. Oh, the number of scandals and secrets he gathered over the years just by standing by the wall was truly laughable.

A captain can command his troops, yet they can be easily overshadowed by the higher-ups. It was the perfect position for him as it helped him blend into the crowd with just enough weight in his words.

It was in one of those monotonous high-class gatherings that he met the Lady, otherwise known as Lady Imogen Sheridan, mistress of Redcastle of Clan Mackenzie. She inherited the castle after her husband passed away from smallpox. At least, that was the official story but he knew better.

If there was one word that could describe the Lady, it would be enigmatic. From the way she purred her words like honey to her sharp piercing eyes, the first time he laid eyes on her, he knew she was just like him.

An opportunist: someone who calculated every move and knew they would get their desired outcome. Someone who would pull strings and spin tales to their advantage. Someone cunning who could dissect a person with just one glance.

He recognized that glint in the eyes all too well.

When she had approached him that evening, not even sparing a glance at the suitors throwing themselves at her feet, he also knew she saw the same thing as him.

Jeremiah was no fool. He knew more than fully trust someone. He had come this far by relying only on his skills and his ability to change the tide of a conflict. But he would be lying if he said he wasn’t intrigued by her Machiavellian nature.

So, he took a risk and offered an alliance of some sort, an alliance that was delicate yet mutually destructive. And they both knew it.

While he had proof of her implication on her husband’s death for the sole purpose to take over his inheritance, she had implied knowing his involvement in rerouting funds from the military to his personal vault.

It was a game of exchange and transaction, knowing full well the threat that dangled above them.

All to say, the Lady had his respect. Very few people had that privilege.

The English captain and butler reached the end of the hallway, passing a maid who was dusting a crystal vase. She caught sight of them and dipped her head, her dull eyes carefully avoiding their gaze.

It wasn’t the first time the captain had come to Redcastle. The recluse estate, despite its respected reputation, gave good anonymity and an adequate cover when he was on his way to Talsworth Stronghold.

However, he had found the staff here lacking a bit of… warmth. A vast contrast between the colourful gardens and the bright paintings. Not that he paid much attention to the meek workers but to live in such an esteemed castle, one would expect the staff to reflect such values.

But as agreed, Captain Jonhson wouldn’t question the Lady’s business just as she wouldn’t question his.

Mutual respect, mutual destruction.

The butler stopped in front of two large white doors leading to what the captain knew was the drawing room. He raised a hand and knocked twice before opening the double doors. He stepped to the side and announced in an apathetic manner. “The Captain is here, Your Ladyship.”

Captain Johnson stepped into the room, hands crossed behind his back. He looked around until he caught sight of her.

Sitting on a blue velvet couch, her burgundy dress spilling on the floor like a waterfall of red wine, Lady Imogen Sheridan turned a page from the book she was reading.

Golden hair cascaded over her pale shoulders, a few strands pulled into an intricate braid to show high cheekbones and sharp features.

She looked up at the sound of footsteps, sharp emerald eyes complementing the crimson of her full lips.

Yes, Lady Sheridan was a captivating creature, of that, he had no doubts. All the more reasons to be careful. For such a beauty always held a deadly venom.

“My Lady,” the man said with a bow of his head.

“Captain, so pleased to see you again,” she purred with a smile as she closed the book. She set it on a table beside her where a bottle of wine and two glasses were resting. She stood up and walked up to him, her dress swishing like a gentle wave. She presented her hand and without breaking eye contact, he leaned forward and gave a small kiss to the back of her hand.

“Pleasure is all mine, my Lady.”

Her smile grew as she cocked her head. To everyone else, it would appear innocent and playful, but the captain could easily spot the calculating glint in her eyes.

She pulled her hand back and turned to walk towards the window where a vase was laying on the sill. Dainty fingers brushed the petal of a beautiful purple flower he couldn’t identify. The bouquet was lush and healthy as if freshly picked from the garden.

“I trust your errand has been successful?” she asked, picking up a pair of scissors to snip at a bent leaf.

“The item was delivered, yes,” Captain Johnson said, placing his hands behind his back once more. “It should arrive in two weeks' time.”

She hummed as she arranged the flowers, turning the vase slightly to the right before stepping back. She walked back to the couch, sitting down gracefully.

“And you trust your supplier?”

“He had never failed me.” And never will if the pathetic man truly cherished his family. 

“What about your commanding officer, when is he coming back? Admiral Kirkland, yes?” She said as if unsure of the name, but Jonhson wasn’t fooled. She knew who he was just as she knew the exact location of Laird Campbell.

He had done his research on the elusive laird when his commanding officer first assigned him for the job, pulled strings on several threads and yet, he had been frustrated by the lack of history on the Scotsman. There were no records of him until the last couple of years and even then, they were patchy at best. Like he just popped into existence.

It was the same for Admiral Kirkland, his own superior, though his background was a bit more informative than the other. A young man from a respected reclusive family that rose quickly in the ranks. In charge of a whole fleet. Close with members of the court. In fact, his sources told him that the Admiral was seen several times with the royal family. He was an important figure despite being so young or not many people have heard of him. Similar to the other, he only came into the light when needed.

So for Lady Sheridan to find any compelling information on them with little trouble was truly impressive. And dare he say a little suspicious. He was confident in his network of informants and yet he couldn’t find as much information as she did.

“He’s on his way to the mainland for business,” he said, watching her carefully. “I am to send word to London if I have any information about the laird.”

“Good, he won’t be in the way for a time then.”

She knew more of the admiral than she let on. He wondered what kind of history she had with him. She wasn’t well known in the aristocracy, very few know of her from what he gathered, yet she held incredible influence over her peers. 

He would need to double his efforts in getting more information on her. Someone who stayed in the shadows was dangerous, he would know.

The Lady picked up her book. Delicate fingers ran across the spine of the book as she regarded the Captain, half-lidded eyes looking at him with intensity. He stared back, unwavering. This was the time when she would offer him wine and he would politely decline before taking his leave, business done.

“Do you enjoy fairy tales, Captain?”

The English officer held back a frown, caught off guard by the question. It wasn’t common for their meeting to go astray, preferring to go straight to business than mindless chatter. 

“It is not something that catches my attention,” he answered, deciding to play along. Fairy tales were a waste of time. Even as a boy, he found them ridiculous and unrealistic.

“Pity, I find them amusing and there are so many versions of them,” she said as she leafed through the book. “Yet, they always have the same moral, do they not? To warn people of the dangers of the unknown, of the unexplainable.”

More like giving delusions to people if the captain was honest. To think the locals around here truly believed them and were even frightened by such tales.

“There’s a folktale that I am rather fond of that faded throughout time,” she continued as she turned another page. “Have you ever heard of the tales of Land Walkers? Of beings that wander the lands for centuries, bound to history and living among men and women without us knowing.”

He shook his head, confusion turning into mild annoyance. Where was this going?

She looked up at him, cocking a delicate eyebrow. “What if I were to tell you they exist? That they’ve been present since the very birth of civilization?”

Captain Johnson almost scoffed at the notion but stopped himself. There must be a reason why she was telling him this.

“I would wonder why no one has mentioned them before,” he said flatly, humouring her.

“Ah, there have been mentions but we just don’t realize it. They like to change their names, you see, to keep us from finding them but they’ve always been there.” Her red lips curled into a knowing smile. “In fact, I believe you have met one already. Several times I might say.”

The man frowned.

She stood up, eyes never leaving his as she approached him. Like the wolf stalking the prey, but the man didn’t falter.

“Captain, I believe it is time for me to show you a little project of mine that will certainly be worth your time.” She ran a hand across the front of his jacket. “All I need is your assistance.”

“In exchange for what?” he asked cooly though his curiosity was piqued.

“I will aid you to get rid of the man responsible for your family’s downfall,” she said airily before smirking. “Wouldn’t that be wonderful, Captain Abbott?” 

His breath caught. He knew she was aware of the money he had been siphoning the past few years but he wasn’t expecting her to know that part.

He had made sure no one knew about that. Especially that name.

His family once held one of the wealthiest trading companies, especially in the New World. His grandfather, Alexander Abbott, started it as a fur trade that quickly branched out to other resources. He remembered his grandfather showing him the expanse of the company when he was a boy, how to manage the ledger and even bringing him to business meetings with potential clients. 

‘All of this, it’s for our future, grandson, your future,’ the old man would say, breath shallow and gait uneven.

And he believed him because even as a young boy, he could see the potential. He could touch it with the tip of his fingers. Everyone saw the potential, he was the perfect heir. His grandfather knew his end was near so he wanted his legacy to live on. He was calculated and ambitious. He made sure everything was ready for when Jeremiah would be of age to take over. He had made sure his grandson would have the future he had promised him. 

Everything was perfect.

Until his spineless bastard of a father threw it all away by selling it shortly after his grandfather passed away. And instead of using the money in securing the family, his father wasted every penny on gambling and drinking.

Like the snap of a finger, it was all gone. His future disappeared like smoke. His father brought shame and scorn from the other Houses. His mother, rest her soul, couldn’t bear to be associated with him so she took him and left.

Unfortunately, his mother, Eleanor Abbott, née Jonhson, took ill a few months later after leaving his husband and passed away, leaving her 15 years old son on his own. With nothing but the clothes on his back, Jeremiah took her name in her honour and vowed to bring his grandfather’s legacy back. 

It took years of careful planning, building up his network and ensuring he left no clue that would trail back to him. There were only a few details left to check before he cut the rotten root off the tree permanently. 

Yet, somehow, she had found the crumbs. He knew he made the correct decision in creating an alliance with her. It may be a small hiccup on his part, but he can also see the potential in turning this in his favour. 

Two can play that game, he thought as he cocked an eyebrow. If she were to double-cross him, he had the letters ready to be sent. Let her believe she had the upper hand. He only needed a few more weeks of planning before she had no use for him.

“We have a deal,” he said.

Her grin grew wicked to reveal pearly white teeth, emerald eyes almost sparkling in delight.

“Let’s begin then.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 12

Child's Play

Wentwood forest, South of Wales, October 22th, 1997

Gravel crunched under a navy blue Ford Fiesta as the car slowed on the path leading to the Cadeira Beeches parking lot. A couple of cars were already there, one of them revealing a young family coming out of a van, backpacks strapped to their backs as the parents attempted to keep their children from running off. A young couple holding hands was by the entrance, consulting the park map. A little ahead of them was a group of young boisterous students, and two teachers trying to regain control of the class.

“Wasn’t expecting that much activity so early in the morning,” the driver of the car said with a frown as he waited for the weary-looking bus driver, who was taking a smoke break just beside the school bus, to step out of the way.

“And I wasn’t expecting such nice weather.” The man in the passenger seat leaned over to look heavenwards with narrowed eyes. “It’s a bleedin’ miracle.”

“You’re exaggerating, Ciarán.”

“Tell that to that bright sunny sky. We didn’t get any rain in the past two hours, Dylan. It’s weird. Suspicious even.”

Wales rolled his eyes as he drove the car to the farthest spot available. It was true it was abnormally warm today, especially this far in October. At this time of year, rain was a daily occurrence — not that it wasn’t much different in any other month — and wearing a warm coat was the best protection against it. Yet, today, it felt like they were at the beginning of spring instead of fall.

A strange contrast when all the trees around them were an abstract painting of reds, yellows and oranges, not a speck of green in sight. But nothing to be worried about. The weather in the British Isles was as unpredictable as the ocean. Humans may have found tools to better predict the outcomes but sometimes nature liked to sprinkle a bit of mischief here and there for the hell of it.

Though, maybe he overdid it by bringing his scarf and woollen hat. Wales looked at the backseat from the rear mirror where his backup coat was, alongside his two umbrellas and disposable emergency poncho.

He shrugged to himself. Better safe than sorry.

“Then we better make the most of it. With any luck, they won’t pay much attention to us. We’ll blend in with the other hikers.” Wales parked the car and frowned in thought. “ But I can’t say the same for the car.”

If all went according to plan, they’d be back in a day or two. By then, the car would have probably been towed or at least called to attention by the authorities.

“Don’t worry, I got it covered.” Ireland fished out a small leather pouch from his coat pocket, alongside a couple of small plastic bags containing an assortment of herbs, dried plants and bones.

Wales watched curiously as his brother expertly picked one ingredient from each plastic bag and put it in the pouch. He closed it with a leather cord and cradled the bag in his palms before bringing the pouch to his lips. He then whispered a word and a glyph flared faintly in the middle of the pouch before disappearing.

“There, that should do it.” Ireland dangled the pouch between them with a satisfied nod.

“What is it?” Wales recognized the process of such a spell but he wasn’t sure the purpose of it. Normally this type of magic was meant to protect or curse the wearer.

“A little invention of mine.” Ireland shrugged nonchalantly, but the proud curl on his lips said otherwise. “It conceals the target by using misdirection, not strong enough to be entirely invisible but enough for you to forget it’s there in the first place.”

Wales’ eyebrows shot up in surprise as he looked at the pouch with renewed interest. “You created a concealment charm?”

“A temporary and portable concealment charm.”

Hazel eyes widened in shock.

He knew his brother had great knowledge of the arcane, especially in illusion magic and potion making, but even Wales knew the mechanics of invisibility. Magic may be mysterious and strange in many ways but it did follow some rules of physics to a certain extent. One cannot just make an object disappear in front of your eyes. You could, however, trick the refraction of the light to your advantage by manipulating the energy around you. That was how the Faes used their magic, by putting a glamour on themselves.

However, to cause such an effect, at least to an object or a location, you need to carve the correct runes in the area you wish to conceal such as on a wall, a tree or any surface available. It’s a time-consuming process and the effect is permanent, up to a point. As long as the runes were written down and stayed intact then the spell will take hold and the chosen target will be concealed.

So for his brother to have found a way to conceal something without setting down anchors first or directly casting a spell on it was just mind-boggling.

“How does it work? When did you make this?” Wales asked incredulously, taking the pouch to inspect it more closely. He had heard of powerful artifacts that made things disappear or muffle their presence, like a ring or a cloak, but he couldn’t fathom how a simple charm bag could cause the same effect.

There was silence, longer than he expected that made Wales look up, thinking Ireland didn’t hear him. His excitement, however, faltered at finding a distant look on Ireland’s face as his brother stared at the pouch with furrowed eyebrows.

Worry settled in Wales’ chest like a heavyweight.

Ireland had always been a friendly outgoing person. He was passionate about his ideas and eager to share them, especially in magic. There was a childlike wonder that twinkled in his eyes that made him look much younger and lively. While their mother was the one who introduced them to magic and went to great lengths to pass as much knowledge as she could, it was Ireland who took the role shortly after her passing. Wales remembered the days in their childhood when Ireland would teach them how to summon fire during cold nights or show them runes to sow into their pillows to ward off nightmares.

But there was a side of him that was more sombre and quiet. A part that very few knew of but was very present behind closed doors or when Ireland thought no one was looking. His brother had lived a long life, longer than most nations, and it showed at times in the weight he carried on his shoulders. A weariness that made his smiles brittle and his eyes dull at times.

Yet, there was a stubborn fire that burned bright in him that never went out no matter how hard life could get. It would falter, yes, no one was invincible after all, but it would still shine bright. It was one of the things Wales admired the most about his brother, how Ireland would always get up after so many falls.

But that changed the moment they realized Northern Ireland was missing.

No, not missing… taken.

They had found a couple of new leads in their search but it only led to more concerning questions. The tampered CCTV footage from the library revealed that North saw something during that time skip, something that distressed him enough to make him leave in a rush.

So, after reviewing the footage a dozen times in case they missed any crucial details, they went to pay a visit to the owner. While England asked Mr. Howells a few questions, Wales went to the back of the library for clues.

Magic, no matter what or who cast it, always left a trace in its wake. Like the distinctive scent of a person, the fingerprint that differentiated someone from another. It was subtle and easy to miss for the untrained eye, but for someone who had known the arcane since he was a child, it hadn’t taken him that much time to find that trace.

The trace was too weak to discern the source of it after so many weeks left untouched, but it was enough for him to detect a hint of dark magic on the green loose thread he found under a bookshelf. Probably from a coat or a hat. Sadly, it meant it was impossible to use the trace for a tracking spell, yet it confirmed that his little brother had indeed encountered someone with magic. Enough for his little brother’s instincts to tell him to go.

It was further proven when England made the grim realization the owner’s memories had been messed with. Luckily, the changes didn’t leave any permanent damage on the poor man’s mind, but there was enough altering to hide the identity of the caster completely.

And from the intricate arcane circle Ireland and Scotland found in the train wagon, the amount of time and preparation it took the person to do that. It meant this had been planned for a long time.

For months or — heaven forbids, even years — someone was stalking his little brother.

And the brothers hadn’t noticed a single thing. For a family who had practiced the arcane for centuries, they were completely oblivious.

For God’s sake, they didn’t even notice the wards around North’s house were disturbed. Someone tried to get past the layers upon layers of wards and they knew none the wiser.

They didn’t pay attention.

They didn’t pay attention to their little brother.

The realization was like a stab in the chest, a crushing worry and guilt that kept Wales awake most nights, his mind circling over what-ifs. Because he was ashamed to admit his brothers, himself included, weren’t the most attentive lot. He made a habit of calling the lad every now and there — especially after his infamous science-fair-across-the-channel adventure — and encouraging him to come to visit or vice-versa.

But at the end of the day, Wales knew those were all excuses they told themselves to soften the blow. It didn’t help that North wasn’t as involved in his government as the rest of them because of his age, leaving him with a lot of time to kill. And even for someone as young as North, that much free time was bound to lead the boy to a rather lonely lifestyle.

It was a hard pill to swallow to acknowledge how little Wales knew what his little brother was up to during those idle times. They weren’t a close-knit family by any means, yet Wales felt like they failed the lad by not bridging the ravine that stood between them.

Oh, how things had changed so much in just two months.

Because you didn’t pay attention.

How much it was affecting his family as time ticked by.

You should have seen the signs.

The research was taking a toll on all of them, but Wales knew Ireland was affected the most. Despite their strained relationship, Ireland cared deeply for the boy even if his brother tried to hide it, tried to keep a distance between the two. And it scared him.

His Irish brother was an expert at deflecting and putting on a façade to avoid topics he didn’t want to talk about but Wales knew where to look. After centuries of learning to pierce through his masks, Wales could read Ireland like a book.

And that bright fire he saw in his older brother was flickering as the days went on with no sign of North. He had seen his brother going through many hardships that no man could have survived, but this…

He prayed to the gods it would not come to this for he feared the day that fire would go out.

Which was why they were here, in the parking lot of the national park of Wentwood Forest.

Anything to keep that little flame going.

They won’t give up hope. They will find their little brother one way or another.

“Ciarán?” Wales looked back at his brother, taking in the lost expression on the man’s face. “Are you—”

“Let me show you how it works.” Ireland plastered a grin as he plopped the pouch on the dashboard before stepping out of the car, urging Wales to follow him with a quick gesture of his hand.

Sighing, Wales got out of the car.

“Keep your eyes on me for at least a minute. It takes a moment for the magic to do its job.” Ireland spun Wales around to face him, taking several steps back. He glanced at the bus driver at the other end of the parking lot but the man wasn’t paying attention to them yet, still focused on taking his smoke.

Wales did as asked but a frown formed on his face. “But won’t I be aware the car is right behind me since you told me? I know there’s a charm in it.”

“You shouldn’t be able to. Only the caster knows it’s there. Unless the pouch is destroyed or you’re able to see through its magic, you won’t notice its presence. Let’s try it.” Wales was relieved to hear a spark of real excitement in Ireland’s voice. His brother looked over Wales’ shoulder. “Alright. Why don’t you grab our bags?”

“Sure…” Wales looked a bit skeptical at the request but fished his car keys out of his pocket. He turned around and walked towards where his car was parked only to realize he reached the other side of the parking lot.

He blinked and looked around in confusion, noticing he reached the school bus. The car was only a few feet away from them. Why did he walk all the way here?

The bus driver looked up at his approach, raising a lazy eyebrow in askance as he puffed out a cloud of smoke. Wales smiled awkwardly, tipping his head in greeting. “Morning.”

He quickly made his way back to Ireland, growing confused at each car he passed but none of them were his. He could have sworn he parked it a few spots after the family van.

“Where the hell is my car?” He asked in bewilderment once he was far enough from the bus driver.

The smug look on his brother’s face would’ve annoyed him any other day but Wales was too flabbergasted to pay any mind to it.

“The same place as always,” Ireland said, pointing in front of them. “You didn’t realize, but the two times you walked past your car, you unknowingly moved around it.”

“I did?” Wales focused on his steps as he slowly made his way towards where Ireland was pointing. It took a lot of effort but he could feel it, he could feel a faint pull guiding him around something. “I think I can sense it.”

He reached out a hand and waved it around until it bumped against the side mirror. He blinked and there it was. His car was right in front of him as it had always been.

“Like I said, it’s not supposed to be a powerful charm. Just enough to keep something overlooked for a time.” His brother shrugged, hands in his coat pockets. “Blending into the environment and all that.”

“Like a chameleon?”

“Aye, but without changing the colours of the target.”

“That’s brilliant!”

Ireland waved him off, grumbling about how it wasn’t that big of a spell as his face grew pink. “Just remind me to burn the charm before we drive again unless you want someone to crash into us because they didn’t see us coming. Trust me, it sucks.”

Wales rolled his eyes but was pleased to see his brother was in a better mood.

He opened the passenger door to grab their bags and just in case, he took his backup umbrella too. You never know when the rain decides to show up in these parts.

“You have the letter?” the Irish nation asked as he slung his satchel over his shoulder.

Wales patted the front of his coat, feeling the crinkling of paper hidden under the layers.

The other man nodded, walking in the direction of the park’s entrance. “Good, I rather not get ambushed for trespassing their forests.”

“Minty did say she was successful in delivering the message.” Wales reminded him, clipping his umbrella to his backpack. “They should be expecting us.”

“I wouldn’t trust that glorified flying marshmallow with a goldfish,” Ireland huffed. “Remember last time? A coven of witches almost maimed us because she mixed up the name of their leader with the rival’s.”

Wales winced at the memory. As sweet as Flying Mint Bunny was, she was a bit scatterbrained and would cause unnecessary trouble despite her good intentions.

“We should have picked someone more discreet like Stardust. Hell, that dragon of yours would have done a better job!”

“Don’t drag Angharad into this.” Wales scowled, feeling a rush of protectiveness for his scaly friend. “Besides, last I heard, she was in the process of building a nest. She likes to be prepared before winter sets in.”

Ireland rolled his eyes but kept his mouth shut. Which was good because his brother knew better than not to cross the line. It had taken decades for Wales and his dragon friend to find a location safe enough to build a home far away from humans. After centuries of persecution, she deserved the best of the best.

The two brothers stopped at the entrance of the park, checking the map on the park board.

“Where’s the gates supposed to be?” Ireland compared the map from the board to the one he pulled out of his satchel.

Wales traced a finger on the board, following the dotted lines representing the trails. “It should be around this area, between trail number 1 and trail number 3. I’ll use my Staff to guide us once we reach the intersection.”

Circling the area with a pen, the Irishman folded the map in half. “Lead on.”

They took the trail on the right, following the wooden arrow nailed to a tree that had ‘Trail 1’ painted in white on a green panel.

They walked in silence side by side, taking in the soft tunes of nature; the chirps of birds between the branches, the crunching of leaves beneath their boots, the rustling of the remaining leaves in the trees, the sunlight warming their skin.

It felt almost spellbinding to be surrounded by nature, like a call to home after a long journey. Wales was always at his most peaceful when he was among trees or at the top of his valleys, far away from civilization. As a child, he would wander for days, lost in the beauties his Land offered, marvelling at how nature could be ruthless just as it could be merciful.

Sometimes, he even longed for those days when the lands were mostly forests and the fauna roamed free. Nations were after all part nature just as they were part human.

But he can’t deny the wonders of human ingenuity over the centuries. From the wooden wheel to airplanes travelling over oceans.

He would forever be grateful to whoever invented sliced bread.

Wales unbuttoned the buttons of his jacket, pulling the collar open with a huff. It really was a warm day. Good thing he didn’t grab his hat and scarf.

“Apple picking.”

Wales startled, almost tripping on a loose rock. He wasn’t expecting his brother to speak after half an hour of silence. He looked at him with a frown, but Ireland stared ahead, face impassive.

It would be a lie to say Wales wasn’t purposely giving Ireland space since they got here. When his brother was in his quiet moments, it was hard to get through to him — something that frustrated Wales to no end when he wanted to knock some sense into the man — but he learned a few tricks.

Let him make the first move, give him time to gather his thoughts.

Scotland was too brash to get Ireland to open up… at least in a calm manner. He would still get results but with Scotland, it was like poking the bear with a stick after throwing caution out of the window, all while grinning ear to ear.

And God forbid letting England attempt to have a deep conversation with Ireland without breaking something in the process.

No, the best approach was to be patient and it seemed it paid off. Even if Wales had no clue what his brother was talking about.

“He wanted to go apple picking,” Ireland said in a flat voice. “It was his turn.”

Wales blinked until realization hit him like a sledgehammer. “Oh…”

Every couple of months or so, the brothers would meet up to hang out, whether it be canoe camping or a movie marathon in the backyard. They would take turns on who would choose the activity. It was a tradition England started shortly after the Second War in the hope of giving North a semblance of a normal life. To offer him a chance at a childhood none of his brothers had the opportunity to experience.

Last time, on one sunny July, Scotland had the insanity to take them to an aerial adventure course and Wales still believed his brother specifically chose that place just to make him suffer. He had blisters for days and he wasn’t ashamed to admit children were faster in completing the course than him. It wasn’t his fault he got stuck in the middle of a swinging bridge for twenty minutes because he made the stupid mistake of looking down.

Aside from feeling like a walking bruise, Wales distinctly remembered how excited North had been about being the next person to organize their next event. He had boasted it would be ‘super awesome you won’t sleep for a week from the adrenaline’, something that had made Wales almost break into sweats at the possibilities.

But lo and behold, his little brother apparently chose apple picking.

North sure had a strange sense of humour.

“I better start gathering ingredients for the pies,” Wales mused with a lopsided smile. “He’ll want at least three for himself.”

There was a huff from Ireland, more a puff of air than a laugh, but it was enough for Wales. It was a good sign in fact. His brother wasn’t too deep in his thoughts.

Wales spotted the young family from earlier in the distance, the laughter of children barely audible. The group of students must have taken the other trail then. Even better, there won’t be any interruptions. It was now or never.

He took a breath.

Ireland sighed, shaking his head. “There it is.”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“I could practically hear you rehearsing a speech in that noggin’ of yours.” His brother rolled his eyes before glaring at him. “And before you say anything, I don’t want to talk about it.”

Wales flushed at being caught so easily. He thought he was being subtle but then again he wasn’t the best actor. Not that it would deter him from his goal.

“Maybe you won’t, but I want to talk about it,” he insisted, ignoring the warning look from the other man. “I want to understand what happened between you two. Ali told me that Seán told him his side of the story but that you—”

“What is this, a game of bleedin’ telephone?”

“Ireland, please.”

“It was a stupid fight like we always do. Nothing unusual.” Ireland snapped, hands tightening around the strap of his satchel.

“North left his own house.” Wales tried to catch his brother’s eyes, but Ireland stubbornly looked away. “I know you two argue but never to that level. Scotland said he didn’t leave his room for two whole days.”

“It’s called teenage angst, Dylan, look it up.”

Wales looked heavenwards with an exasperated sigh, fighting the urge to throttle the man while also gripping the last thread of his patience.

Sometimes he wondered who was the elder brother in this emotionally constipated family.

Yet he wasn’t surprised at the attitude. The more his brother felt cornered, the more he tried to deflect by provoking in the hope of changing the subject.

It would have worked on others, but as he said, Wales knew where to look before striking. He just needed to find the correct angle and keep his wits.

Cool, calm, collected.

He ran a hand through his hair, taking an even breath before saying. “I know we’re all unsettled by the circumstances of North’s disappearance and honestly, I feel we’re about to reach our breaking point soon enough, but brawd, something else is troubling you.”

Ireland stayed silent, eyes locked firmly ahead.

“It was more than just a normal fight, right?”

A clench of his jaw was his only answer.

Wales watched him carefully. “Did he say something?”

For a flash second, hurt and something akin to remorse crossed his brother’s face before the blank mask of indifference was slammed back into place.

Voice going soft, Wales asked, “What happened, Ciarán?”

Silence rang between them for several minutes and Wales was about to give up until Ireland spoke, tone flat and empty. “He spoke his mind so I responded in kind.”

Wales furrowed his brows, trying to dissect the meaning behind the words but before he could say anything, his brother stopped walking.

“We’re at the intersection.” Ireland gestured at the post sign that pointed in three directions as he pulled out the map from his coat. “You said the gate was between trail 1 and 3, right?”

“Iwerddon—”

“You should summon your Staff.” Ireland looked around, putting a hand over his brows to block out the glaring sun. “I think trail 1 is shorter than the rest, someone is bound to come back any time now.”

Wales let it go, knowing better than to push for more. They had more pressing matters to attend to. Though he did file that bit of information for later whether his brother liked it or not.

He cast a look around to make sure no one was present before he held out his hands in front of him, the right one hovering over the left one. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

He felt the wind pick up, the branches above them rustling and shaking. He breathed out and opened his eyes to see a miniature dust devil made of leaves slowly making its way toward him.

Then, in the blink of an eye, the leaves fused together to form a six-foot-tall shepherd staff. Wales curled his fingers around it, his thumb tracing the runes carved into the dark oak wood.

He didn’t get to use his Staff as much nowadays, yet it always felt like greeting an old friend every time he held it, the faint thrum of power familiar and comforting.

He twirled the staff once around him before setting it on the ground. He glanced at the two feathers tied at the base of the crooked top.

Where is the gate?

A moment later, the two feathers fluttered to the right as if a breeze passed through even though the wind was going in the opposite direction.

“This way.” Wales nudged his brother with a light tap of his Staff as he stepped off the trail and headed straight through the foliage.

The two brothers weaved between the trees, the terrain getting thicker and harder to navigate the deeper they went into the forest.

“What should we look out for?” Ireland asked as he climbed over a moss-covered fallen trunk.

“I’m not exactly sure,” Wales said, keeping an eye on his Staff but still watching for hidden roots or rocks. The last thing he wanted was a sprained ankle. “Minty said it would be obvious once we found it. She said to look for the ‘Archway of the Forest’, whatever that means.”

“So damn cryptic.” His brother huffed, pushing a branch away from his face.

It was but for good reasons. Gateways to the Otherworld used to be common back in the day when magic was more present across the lands. One could easily fall into one if you weren’t careful enough and the Faes would relish trapping humans to their demise.

But as time passed and as humans started to reject the concept of magic, the Faes took refuge in remote locations. Because of wars, forests being cut down and rivers turning into dams, countless gates were forced to close.

However, some of them were still open though they were much harder to find. One couldn’t just find one on their own, at least not anymore. Now they needed help from someone on the other side to show the way in. Which was why they asked Minty for help.

Help was a strong word though, because she only said the name of the gate, not what it looked like or where to find it exactly. His Staff could only give him a vague direction, like a compass but nothing more.

It was honestly by sheer dumb luck they stumbled across the gate half an hour later. 

Ireland was just leaning against a tree to step over a root, only for his hand to go straight through the tree, making him fall forward with a shout before vanishing before Wales’ eyes.

“Ciarán?!” Wales called out with wide eyes, gripping his Staff closer to him.

“I’m okay!” Came the voice of his brother before a tuft of ginger hair popped out of the tree, causing Wales to startle because only Ireland’s head could be seen like he was part of the tree. His body was nowhere to be found.

“There are anchor runes in the area for an invisibility ward. I think we’re close to the gate!” Ireland said with a grin before fading back into the tree. It was disconcerting, to say the least.

As was the Faes, so really, Wales shouldn’t have been so shocked at the situation.

With a sigh, he stepped forward and blinked as his vision warped for a second, feeling his skin tingling ever so slightly before it went back to normal. They were still in Wentwood forest, but there was a faint thrum in the air now, a hint of old magic around them.

He glanced at his Staff, noticing the feathers on the cord pulling in a more insistent manner. He looked to where it was pointing and knew right away they had found it.

Before them stood two large ancient-looking trees, bigger than the rest of the forest. They were wide, two people wouldn’t be able to circle their arms around it. The trees were about 5 feet apart but the twisted branches caused the trunks to bend inwards until they met and fused together at the top.

Two trees intertwined by time and nature to form an archway.

The Archway of the Forest.

“I suppose that’s pretty obvious,” Wales said, craning his neck in the hope of seeing the top of the archway, but the thick twists and turns of the branches made it impossible, barely letting light through yet the place wasn’t plunged by darkness. There was a sourceless light emitting around the trees.

“Aye, hopefully, the other two didn’t have trouble finding the other gate.” Ireland circled the trees, careful not to step on the roots.

While he and Ireland were about a thirty-minute drive Northeast of Newport, England and Scotland were currently up in the Northumberland region in search of another gate to the Otherworld. If Minty’s instructions were true, their gate was found behind the Hareshaw Linn waterfall.

Dealing with the Faes can be challenging and one needed to tread very carefully around them. While they can be of assistance at times, if they feel like it, mind you, their unpredictability and penchant for chaos often weren’t worth the trouble. They could turn petty and vicious in a flash of a second if they felt any kind of offence, no matter which Court they were part of.

But they needed answers —an explanation of what could have happened to their little brother.

Which was why they were here. Perhaps the Queen of the Seelie Court could shed some light on their search.

If not, then perhaps England and Scotland would have better luck with the King of the Unseelie Court.

And if that came to a dead end…

He didn’t want to contemplate the possibility.

“How do we get in?” Wales focused back on the task at hand, watching his brother poke one of the branches with caution as if he was expecting it to spring to life and attack him. It would be possible given the circumstances.

“Normally, you walk right through it but this gateway is the closest to her kingdom, so I suspect there’s more to it.” Ireland shrugged, poking the branch again, tensing for a moment before poking another once he deemed it safe enough to continue. Wales wondered for the umpteenth time how his brother managed to live this long.

“Maybe we need to find a glyph to activate it or walk backward for all we know,” Ireland continued, curiously scratching the bark with his fingernail. “We are dealing with Faes after all.”

“That’s true,” Wales hummed absentmindedly, his attention caught on a patch of fly orchids by his feet. The dark reddish-brown petals were vibrant, more than usual, making the wings-shaped patch of silver-blue in the middle pop out.

It was natural for Nations to be well-versed in the flora and fauna of their Land. Names can change over time, but the knowledge behind every plant and wildlife remained the same. With a bit of focus, he could get a general idea of a species within his home, like the cliff notes of a presentation.

Fly orchids were usually found in southern England, sometimes scattered in North Wales in grasslands or woodlands.

To find one all the way down here was strange, even more so knowing they normally bloom between April and July.

He looked up to voice the unusual sight only to jolt back at seeing their surroundings had changed in the past minute without them knowing.

“Iwerddon…” he said, looking around warily.

The leafless trees around them were now flourishing as if they were in summertime, colourful flowers blooming here and there. The air was fresher with a hint of sweetness that made his skin tingle. A thin layer of fog swirled between their feet.

A flutter to his right made him look at his Staff. The smooth crooked top had now transformed into the scaly wooden head of a dragon, its wings beating the air ever so slightly as if sensing the arcane energy around them.

“Well, I suppose the archway was some sort of diversion.” Ireland straightened up, taking in their new surroundings with a calculating gaze. His green eyes seemed brighter in an almost unnatural way. Wales wouldn’t be surprised if his own eyes were different now.

It was a weird effect they were prone to have, like a sign to say they weren’t from this plane of existence. Yet, it didn’t work on humans for some reason.

“It’s suspiciously quiet,” Wales noted as he got closer to his brother, the sudden lack of bird songs or critters making him nervous. The Otherworld was always buzzing with activity, from humming grass to dancing mushrooms, it was seldom idle.

The fog grew thicker.

Ireland narrowed his eyes, shoulders tensing. “You know, now that you mention it—”

Wales yelped when Ireland suddenly grabbed the strap of his backpack to haul him back just as a lance buried itself in the ground where he stood a second ago.

Then, as if materializing out of the trees, eight figures surrounded the two brothers with lances pointed at them.

They wore greenish iridescent armour with leaves and vines beautifully etched on the surface that seemed to shimmer to blend in with the forest. The helmets were intricate and chitinous with green golden trims to vaguely look like the head of an owl, the visor covering the entire face except for two almond-shaped slits to reveal amber eyes.

“You are trespassing the territory of Her Majesty, the Queen of the Seelie court.” One of the figures stepped forward, armour a darker green colour as they pulled their lance back before slamming it on the ground, voice hard and cold. “State your business, Land Walkers.”

Wales raised his hands, smacking himself in the process with his Staff. “W-We harbour no ill intention!”

“Damn it, Minty,” Ireland cursed under his breath as he raised his hands. He surveyed the guards around them for a moment before slapping a grin on his face. “Gentlemen, it appears this is just a simple misunderstanding. You see, we have a meeting with Her Majesty. She’s expecting us, in fact. If you could just let my brother show you the—”

His words cut off with a yelp when the guards stepped forward at once, forcing the two brothers to crash into each other to avoid getting impaled by the lances. Ireland swiftly put an arm on Wales’ chest as if to shield him, not that it did much considering they were surrounded from all sides but Wales appreciated the thought.

“Hey, hey, hey, back off,” Ireland called out, eyeing the lance closest to him with a glare. “We really mean no harm!”

“We’ll see about that.” The guard, who seemed to be the leader of the group, said with cold glowing amber eyes. “Cooperate or suffer the consequences.”

With nothing better they could do, the brothers let themselves be escorted by the guards. The leader took Wales’ Staff as a precaution, much to his annoyance but at least they asked first before taking it.

“I’m going to throttle that rabbit when we get back…” Ireland muttered angrily.

Wales sighed, feeling the beginning of a headache coming on.

Strathpeffer village, October 22th, 1743

Mairead Ishbel McRae rummaged through the chest at the foot of her bed. “Where is it? I swear I put it here.”

She shuffled towards the other chest by her little brother’s bed, lifting the lid to peek in. Other than wooden figurines of soldiers and horses, a spare blanket and for some reason, a single shoe that Mairead was sure belonged to the baker across the street, what she was looking for wasn’t there.

Just in case, she checked under the beds once more but only found their boots and one of Keith's wooden toy swords.

She stood up with a huff, hands on her waist as she took in the mess scattered around the room: drawers of the dresser wide open, the beddings of her bed twisted and spilled over the floor, the content of her wooden chest in complete disarray.

She couldn’t find her shawl.

She remembered putting it on last night to go outside to fetch some water to prepare her mother’s evening tisane. Then, after she helped her mother get to her room and wished her good night, Mairead retired for the night.

And she distinctly remembered putting the shawl on top of the wooden chest before putting Keith to bed. As usual, her little brother was being difficult by refusing to change into his night clothes, so she had to persuade him with the promise of a biscuit the next morning.

It had worked and shortly after, she tucked him in and climbed into her own bed before turning off the oil lamp on the nightstand.

And yet, when she woke up this morning, her shawl was nowhere to be seen. She had checked everywhere and no luck.

Which meant only one thing.

“KEITH!” She stepped out of the room with a scowl, looking left and right for her troublemaker of a little brother.

She guessed right because a second later, she heard the pitter-patter of footsteps and a muffled giggle coming from the living room. She made her way to the room, ready to give a swat behind Keith’s head only to find her mother sitting by the fireplace in her favourite armchair. She had a thick plaid blanket covering her lap, pooling around her feet.

“Morning, ma,” Mairead stowed her temper down as she smiled at her. She gave her a kiss on the forehead. “How did you sleep?”

“Morning, love.” Her mother smiled back, looking up from the book she held in her hands. She adjusted the blanket around her. “Better than yesterday. ”

“And the pain?”

Her mother’s smile was wan as patted her hand gently. “The tisane helped.”

Mairead bit her lips in worry.

They both knew it wasn’t the truth, but Mairead learned from a young age that her mother didn’t like to appear weak in front of her children. She always kept a strong face, never letting the aches in her joints stop her from helping when she could, even at the cost of her already struggling health.

And with winter approaching in the coming weeks, they both knew the flare-ups would be more frequent.

“Now, tell me. Why were you screeching like a banshee for your wee brother?” Her mother asked with a glint of amusement in her eyes.

Mairead huffed, her temper coming back in a flash. “I can’t find my shawl. I left it by my bed last night and it wasn’t there when I woke up.” She leaned over her mother’s shoulder to see behind the armchair. “And I know I heard him scampering around here.”

“Oh?” the older woman said with a raised eyebrow, voice feigning innocence. “I have no idea where he could be. He must have run off outside. Quite sunny today, you ken.”

Mairead narrowed her eyes at her, fighting a smile on her face. “Oh aye, that makes sense. Keith couldn’t have hidden here. Silly me.”

A muffled giggle was heard between mother and daughter. Mairead looked down at the blanket covering her mother’s lap, watching it wiggle and move.

Her mother made a show of looking away, putting her book down in a poor attempt to hide the movement. The blanket stopped wiggling.

Alright then.

“I suppose I will look in the garden.” Mairead made her way towards the front door and opened it. She stayed still for a moment before closing it, keeping silent.

A minute later, the blanket wiggled again and a tuft of hair popped out by her mother’s feet. With a wide smile on his face, Keith looked up. “She fell for it!”

“I’m not that sure, love,” her mother grinned, noticing Mairead slowly inching her way back toward them but kept her attention on her son.

Keith frowned, tilting his head in confusion. “What do you me—”

He screeched when Mairead scooped him up from his hiding spot. She winced when she felt teeth digging in her palm and she doubled her efforts to hold him still.

“Do you yield, O bane of my existence?” Mairead asked, dodging a well-aimed kick to her shin.

“Never!” Keith declared, body suddenly going limp in an attempt to free himself, causing Mairead to scramble to avoid dropping him. “Release me, you ugly ogress!”

“Ugly ogress!” Mairead gasped in shock before scowling. “I’ll show you ugly you little—”

Peals of laughter burst out of the boy as Mairead ran her fingers into his sides.

“Ma! H-Help me!” Keith reached out a hand towards their mother, squealing when Mairead spun them around the room.

“The Queen cannot help you. You’re all mine! Do you yield? ” Mairead repeated, making her voice deeper.

“I-I yield, I yield!” Keith gasped between giggles, wiggling away from merciless fingers. “You win!”

With a smirk, Mairead set him down. “There, that wasn’t that hard, was it?”

Her little brother stuck out his tongue, face flushed in exertion as he caught his breath. “You cheated!”

“No, I outsmarted you.” Mairead ruffled his hair with a grin. She looked at her mother, doing a courtesy. “What say you, Your Excellency?”

Eyes sparkling with mirth, her mother regarded the two of them as she tapped a finger to her mouth. “I believe you have been defeated, my little knight.”

Keith pouted, crossing his arms.

“Dinnae worry, now you know her tricks. You’ll be ready for next time,” she reassured with a nod. “For now, you must return the ogress’ treasure.”

Mairead sent her mother a look, but the older woman just winked. With a world-weary sigh only a five-year-old could pull off, Keith walked towards their mother and lifted the heavy blanket to pull out a familiar shawl.

Mairead snatched it from his hands, shaking the dust off. Once satisfied, she draped it over her shoulders. She looked at her little brother with narrowed eyes.

“Don’t touch my things or else I will claim the sword as mine.”

Keith gasped out loud, hazel eyes wide as saucer plates. “You’ll never find it!”

He ran out of the room before she could say anything else, probably going to hide his wooden sword in another place. Mairead would guess the pantry.

She rolled her eyes before turning to her mother. “I’m visiting granny today. Is there something to bring up?”

“Ah yes, I just finished fixing Aileen’s corset. Moira didn’t have time to take it.” Her mother pushed the blanket to the side and slowly stood up, hands clutching the armrests. There was a twitch of pain on her face but she pushed it through.

“She must be quite busy.” Mairead followed her mother to her room, watching as the older woman opened the wardrobe. She pulled out a dark green corset alongside a small sheet of cloth.

“Aye, the Gathering is fast approaching and people seem to realize they all need their dresses and coats to be fixed.” Her mother spread the sheet on her bed and proceeded to wrap the corset with it.

“Always last minute.” Mairead sighed, shaking her head.

Her mother hummed, tying the package with a ribbon. “That reminds me, that Irish boy, Seámus was it?”

“His name is Seán, ma.”

“Will he be attending the Gathering?”

Mairead cocked her head in thought. “I’m not sure. He’s still waiting for news about his brother, I think.”

She hadn’t gotten the chance to talk to Seán since he came back from the rent collecting. Normally, she went to the castle at least twice a week for errands and to visit her grandmother. And in those times, she would spot Seán helping in the kitchen or having a meal in the Great Hall.

In the few times they talked, she quickly found out that Seán Killough was quite strange yet she came to enjoy his company. From his awkwardness at maintaining a conversation to his selfless act to help her out on that eventful night that still astounded her to this day.

He wasn’t like the other boys in the village, brash and loud, always causing trouble or trying to impress the lassies with ridiculous schemes. Instead, Seán was quiet in crowds yet could be quite vocal and witty when alone. He preferred the company of adults and being surrounded by books to spending time with boys his age.

She had an inkling Seán led a rather solitary life before he came here, even more so considering the circumstances of his arrival. To be brought to a place far away from his family must have been hard and quite lonely. It was one of the reasons she decided to befriend him, even if their first interaction was awkward at best.

She still groaned in embarrassment just thinking of how she bobbed the basket like an idiot, waiting for him to take it even though a fence separated them and they were several feet apart.

Sadly, Mairead had been quite busy this past week helping her mother prepare her next batch of jams. She only heard from Andrew when he came to visit the other day but he was vague about the trip. So today, she hoped she would get to see Seán today.

Her mother handed her the package. “Well, just to be sure, I’m going to ask around for an outfit for him. He shouldn’t look like a hallboy on the day of the Gathering.”

From the long rant that Seán had spent explaining why balls were a waste of time in one of her visits to the castle, she doubted he would be thrilled about the news.

“Also, your uncle asked for you to pass by the forge. He has something for you.”

Mairead held back a wince. “I’ll get to it, then.”

Ever since the confrontation in the Great Hall, she had been careful around her uncle, making sure to not anger him more than usual or get in his way. He was a difficult man to predict, even when he was sober.

Her mother smiled wanly, her eyes knowing but said nothing on the matter. After all, what can you say to the man they were depending on for their sole income? It had been difficult to maintain their home after her father passed away. Her mother tried to provide for the family by making blends and jams with the occasional sewing work on the side but it wasn’t enough, especially after Keith started school.

It was mostly desperation that forced her mother to ask her estranged brother for help, especially knowing Uncle Donnell’s drinking problems. It wasn’t the nicest family reunion, to say the least, but they managed to strike a deal.

He would help them financially in exchange for having a place to stay. Mairead had to give up her room for that, though she wondered what was the point of it all when her uncle spent most of his time passed out in the tavern.

In other words, despite his prickly personality and half-drunken stupor, a part of her was grateful for his help.

“Say hi to the girls for me,” her mother said.

“I will. See you later.” Kissing her mother’s cheek, Mairead grabbed the basket from the kitchen and put the package inside, nudging another bundle aside that was already in the basket. She then adjusted the shawl on her shoulders and headed for the front door.

“Take your brother with you.” Her mother said as she sat back on the armchair.

Mairead refused to admit she whined. “Mum…”

“It’s a nice day outside. I’m sure the other children are playing in the field.”

“And you promise I’ll get a biscuit!” Keith called out from somewhere in the house before bursting into the room. He made his eyes as wide as he could, pouting his bottom lip. “You promised Ree!”

The cheek of that little devil. He only used that nickname for exactly this kind of thing.

Sending a look to her mother in the hope she would have mercy on her, sadly she didn’t get any, Mairead turned back to her little brother. She put her hands on her hips and leaned down with a scowl. “No running off, is that clear?”

Keith bobbed his head, bouncing on his feet eagerly.

“Go fetch your jacket, then.”

With a whoop, her little brother ran to their room and ran back out to give a kiss to their mother before barreling out of the house with another laugh. Already Mairead knew he would not follow the rule.

She waved her mother goodbye before joining her brother outside. She looked up at the bright sunny sky, closing her eyes with a smile at the warmth on her face. It almost felt like they were in spring.

Mairead kept her promise and took Keith to the baker to get his biscuit, grabbing another one for herself once she realized they just came out of the oven. As her little brother chatted about how it would be impossible for her to find his sword, she led them through the marketplace until they reached the edge of the village.

There, just near the creek, stood the forge where her uncle Donnell Kendrick worked. She could hear the familiar clanging of metal against metal and the roaring of fire. She made Keith wait outside by the door before stepping inside.

Even with the windows wide open, the heat wafted over her like a heavy blanket. She found her uncle by the fire, face sweaty as the man raised the hammer to strike the rod of metal he was holding with tongs on the anvil.

He was sober then. Probably.

“Good morning uncle. I brought you breakfast.” She greeted between clangs as she pulled out the bundle from the basket and set it on the nearest table. She unfolded it to reveal a fresh loaf of bread with dried meats and cheese.

He acknowledged her with a grunt but kept his eyes focused on his work. He examined the metal carefully before plunging it into the barrel filled with water. Immediately, steam whooshed around him, cooling the metal down.

“Mum said you have something for me?” she asked, keeping her distance. She knew better than getting close to the flying spark when her uncle worked.

Her uncle gestured to the table by the entrance with his hammer. “Take this to Mr. Russel.”

With a nod, she grabbed the item, which turned out to be a bridle. She fumbled with it for a moment before slinging it over her basket. Once it was secured, she looked up. “Is that–”

She tensed at finding her uncle right in front of her, his dark eyes boring into hers with a heavy brow. She didn’t hear him coming closer. She lowered her gaze and waited, focusing on calming her pounding heart. 

Her uncle stayed quiet for a minute, calm and still but his stare pressed her down like a boulder. After what felt like hours, he spoke, his voice low and raspy. “I saw you speak to that runt the other day at the Hall.”

Mairead kept herself from flinching.

The animosity her uncle held for Seán was nothing new, his dislike was known even before they saw him the first time. She had thought it was a matter of pride, to be called out by a child in front of a crowd, but it was more than that. She couldn’t tell what or why, just that the hostility in her uncle’s voice was worrying.   

“He cannae be trusted,” her uncle started with a sneer. “He’s nothing but full of lies and trouble. You better remember that, lass. Stay away from him from now on, you hear me?”

She nodded, staring at the ground only to gasp when rough fingers grabbed her chin and forced her to look up. 

“Do you hear me?” The man leaned close with narrowed dark eyes.

“Yes, uncle,” she whispered.

He let her go and turned back to his work without another word. She stood there, heart pounding and clutching the basket in a white-knuckle grip. 

Metal striking against metal soon filled the air and Mairead took it as a cue to leave. She bid her uncle goodbye, turned and left. 

When she stepped outside and felt the sun warm her face, she let out a shuddering breath. She looked to the side and found Keith crouching a few feet away, squiggling in the dirt with a stick in one hand, the other holding his biscuit.

Composing herself, she approached her little brother and ruffled his hair in greeting. 

“Hey!” Keith protested as he batted her hand away, crumbs stuck to his cheeks.

“Let’s go, Keith.” She smiled at him. “Granny is waiting for us.”

The two of them walked back through the marketplace, stopping at the bakery after Keith made a sound argument about sharing another one. As they passed their house, Mairead saw Andrew stepping out of his house.

Before she could call out to him, Keith sprinted towards him waving his half-eaten biscuit above his head. “ANDY!”

Andrew turned around with a smile only to stumble back with an audible wheeze when Keith slammed into him.

“Why do you always do that?” the young man gasped as he regained his step.

Keith looked up at him with a grin, arms wrapped around his legs. “Because it’s fun!”

Andrew rolled his eyes and flicked the boy’s forehead with his forefinger and thumb, causing Keith to jump back with a squawk. Keith rubbed his forehead with a glare for a moment before grinning again, shoving his hand up.

“You want the rest of my biscuit?”

Andrew eyed the half-eaten biscuit, mostly covered by saliva. “No, thank you.”

With a shrug, the boy shoved the rest of the biscuit into his mouth in one go, making his cheeks bulge.

Mairead caught up with them, drawing Andrew’s attention. His smile softened, green eyes sparkling as he tipped his head. “M’lady.”

Huffing, she slapped his arm good-naturedly. She took note of his loose shirt with his leather bracers and the sword strapped to the belt of his worn trousers. “Training day?”

“It’s a nice day and my uncle thought it would be best to make the best of it. I’m meeting him at the courtyard.” Andrew slipped the bracers on, batting Keith’s hand away when he tried to pull at the scabbard. “Where are you two heading?”

“Same as you. I have a few errands to do.” She gestured to the basket in her arms. “My mum finished fixing something of Aileen’s. I think she’ll be adjusting Mr. Cormac’s coat next.”

Her friend ran a hand through his tousled hair, sighing in relief. “You have no idea how much it means to my ma. She’s been living under a pile of dresses for the past few weeks. I think I heard my father mentioning he found a pin cushion in their bed the other day.”

Moira Findlay was the seamstress of the village and she was well sought-after for her work, even in neighbouring villages. With the upcoming Gathering next month, it was no wonder she was flooded with commissions.

She was also a close family friend. She and her mother grew up together in the same neighbouring village. Moira had been a huge help when Mairead was little, taking care of her whenever her mother’s health forced her to bed for days, earning her the nickname ‘Auntie Mory’.

Mairead would be forever grateful to Andrew and his family for being in their life, especially in the past few years.

“So how did it go?” She asked Andrew as she watched him tie the leather bracers with deft fingers. “You didn’t tell me much the other day.”

“The collecting in general was good. It didn’t rain for long so the road was easy to ride.” Andrew said, his forearms flexing to test his range of movement. Satisfied, he looked at her. “We visited only nine villages before heading back.”

“Just nine? Normally it takes at least three weeks to make the whole round.”

There were over a dozen villages the clan passed through to collect the rent and even with good weather it could take up to a month. She had been surprised when she saw Andrew after only two weeks and a half. Not to mention the tense look on his face.

Andrew glanced at Keith, who was ahead of them playing pretend with a branch he found, before looking back at Mairead. He lowered his voice, making sure her little brother wouldn’t hear. “Something came up concerning the Laird. Callum decided we had to return as soon as possible.”

“That bad?”

“It sounded important. Ian was vague about it.”

Mairead blinked. If Ian, one of the most gossiping men in all of the Highlands, was keeping quiet then it was serious business.

“And how was Seán? Did he like the trip?” Mairead asked eagerly. She always wanted to accompany the clan for the rent collecting, itching to explore the world beyond the village but strolling around on a horse wasn’t lady-like according to her grandmother. Besides, she couldn’t leave her mother for long.

If she was honest, she had been a bit miffed when she learned Seán would be tagging along with the clan. He had been living here for less than two months and already he got the chance to do the one thing she dreamed of for years.

“He complained about everything the moment Callum turned his back,” Andrew said with a roll of his eyes.

Mairead snickered, recalling all the witty remarks Seán would make over dinner in the Great Hall.

“Aye, sometimes I would mistake him for Hamish with how much he grumbles about everything.” Her friend smiled wryly before it faded into a frown. “Although…”

“What?”

“Something happened during the trip…” The young man looked conflicted for a moment, glancing at Keith before leaning closer. “I think he lost someone in a fire recently.”

“What makes you say that?” Mairead asked worriedly.

“We found two bodies near a community that was burned down by the Watch,” Andrew said solemnly, making her gasp. “We were passing through and it was the strangest thing, Mairead. One moment Seán was fine and the next he was hysterical, begging to save them and that ‘the airstrikes’ were coming.”

“What’s an airstrike?”

“No idea, but he wouldn’t stop shouting until Callum dragged him away from the scene. And when they came back…” Andrew sighed as he shook his head. “He was quiet, more than usual. The others tried to ask but he clamped up really fast. Whatever happened to him must have been painful.”

Sadness and sympathy filled Mairead’s chest. She knew how grief could take hold of you when a loved one passed. But to lose someone in such a tragic way? She couldn’t imagine the pain Seán must have gone through.

“Maybe you could cheer him up,” Andrew suggested nonchalantly, fiddling with the strap of his right bracer. “He seems like a lonely kid. I think he’s been hiding in Dr. Graham’s workshop since we got back.”

Mairead narrowed her eyes. “What made you change your tune? I distinctly remember you grumbling when I told you about Seán. You always make a face whenever we’re together.”

She hadn’t paid mind the first time it happened. After all, Andrew had been more concerned and filled with righteous anger on her behalf than hearing about the strange boy who took the punishment in her stead.

Andrew could be a tad overprotective of her and most of the time, she didn’t mind it. In fact, she found it endearing and always filled her chest with fondness for her friend, but sometimes, like right now, made her contemplate giving him a swat upside the head.

“I don’t make a face,” Andrew objected with a frown.

“Yes, you do. You always squint your eyes like you’re trying to read someone’s soul.” Mairead squinted her eyes to demonstrate, pursing her lips into a straight line. “It only happens when you don’t like someone.”

Andrew looked away with a cough.

“Ha, I’m right!” Mairead pointed out when the tips of her friend’s ears turned adorably pink.

“Alright, he may have grown on me.” Andrew batted her hand away with a grumble. “He can be a little bastard when he wants to, especially when he has pebbles with him, but he has a good heart.”

Mairead was confused about the pebbles part but decided to let it slide.

Sometime later, the trio reached the cobbled path that led to Castle Kaerndal.

Keith ran back to them, waving his stick with a wide grin. “Can I play with them, Mairead? Please?”

Mairead looked towards the fields where a group of men were in the middle of a game of shinty while others were watching on the sidelines. She could easily spot the giant figure of Ian looming over a villager, his belly laugh echoing in the air as he waved his stick.

A little farther, running along the castle’s outer walls were five children, heading for the courtyard with their own wooden sticks.

Mairead relented, knowing better than to keep her brother still.

“Alright, but don’t wander off. Stay where I can—” She turned around only to find her little brother already with the other kids. “— see you.”

“You go ahead,” Andrew chuckled. “I’ll keep an eye on him.”

“Thanks,” she smiled, grateful. “See you later.”

They parted ways, Andrew joining his uncle in the field and her entering the gates of Kaerndal Castle. She greeted the two post guards and walked across the courtyard, adjusting the basket in her hands.

Mairead usually took the side entrance to visit her grandmother; a little path that rounded the left side of the castle towards the well and the back garden. It was where all employees got in and where they received the food deliveries.

However, it was just past breakfast time and she knew her granny and the girls would be busy cleaning up the place for the preparation of the next meal. She knew better than to disturb the routine of the castle cook.

So she used the front door. She stepped onto the threshold, walking past the displays of armours and paintings, her footsteps muted by the carpet.

One would think that someone like her shouldn’t be allowed to enter a castle by the main entrance, the owners not wanting to have their appearance smudged by her presence but it was different here in Kaerndal Castle.

According to her mother, for generations, every Laird of this castle had followed a code that stated that everyone would be welcome into their threshold, no matter their status or class. As long as the gates remained open, then anyone had the right to enter.

Laird Campbell was adamant about that rule shortly after he took over, even pushing it by opening the Great Hall to offer meals for everyone who needed them or sought shelter. It had been quite the announcement when he gave his first speech.

Her ten-year-old self was in awe when she saw their new laird for the first time. Not only was it shocking to learn Mr. Dougall was stepping down as chief but introducing such a young man almost sent the whole village into chaos.

Oh, how she recalled that night. Clear as if it was yesterday. She was on her father’s shoulders, curious to see who the mysterious man was. She remembered the confusion and shock from the villagers, the open disgruntlement by his sudden appearance, the judgement of his lack of experience for being so young.

But when he spoke, when Laird Campbell spoke, he took the breath of everyone in a second. She couldn’t fathom what it was, but there was something in the way Allen Logan Campbell spoke that caught everyone’s attention. The natural confidence without sounding arrogant, the wisdom in his gaze despite his age, the steady and strong set of his shoulders.

He held himself like the heir any lord dreamed to have.

And she had felt in that moment, five years ago, deep down in her soul, that they would be in good hands. She had known since that day that their new Laird would bring them good.

“Kaerndal Castle has been a beacon for this clan for generations and as your new Laird, it is an honour to have it under my care because this here, is your home just as it is mine,” Laird Campbell had said, grey piercing eyes surveying the crowd, his voice carrying across the room. “And it shall remain open for everyone who seeks it. Whether it be shelter or food, you are under my protection without judgment or repayment. That is a promise.”

And he did bring good fortune. It took time for the doubts from the villagers to melt away, but he had kept his word to this day. Last year’s winter was an example of that, where most of the village took refuge in the Great Hall to wait for the harsh snowstorm to pass through.

All to say, Mairead never once felt unwelcome here.

She headed for the double doors under the staircase that led to the Great Hall. She walked down the hallway, the murmurs of chatter reaching her ears as she got closer.

She peaked around the room, looking for a specific ginger-haired boy only to realize the Hall was mostly empty.

The voices she heard came from three figures standing over the large table on the dais. It was Laird Campbell, Mr. Dougall and the advisor from Clan MacKintosh, Mr. Reid. They were in the middle of a discussion, documents spread on the table in a chaotic mess.

Mairead attempted to lean back to avoid detection but her foot caught a fold of the carpet, making her stumble into the room with a yelp. Her basket fell from her grasp with an echoing thud.

She flushed bright red when she caught the men’s attention. “G-Good morning, sirs.”

Laird Campbell set down a letter on the table. “Miss McRae, good morning. Do you require something?”

Shaking her head too many times, she quickly picked up the basket, fumbling with the bridle that managed to slip out. “I’m just passing through, sir. I thought I would find—”

“McRae? Daughter of Alec McRae?” Mr. Reid asked in obvious surprise as he turned around. A hand flew to his chest when he saw her. “Is that truly her? Oh, how much you have grown. Come, come closer, please.”

Mairead stood frozen for a moment before ducking her head as she walked towards them.

Mr. Reid rounded the table to step down the dais, his cane clicking on the floor. He approached her, scanning her up and down with piercing blue eyes. A wide smile split his plump face. “You bloomed into a beautiful woman, my dear.”

She forced a smile, stopping herself from squirming at the attention. Mr. Reid was a good-natured person, but he could be quite extravagant and intense. Five years hadn’t changed that.

“How’s your father?” Mr. Reid asked brightly. “He wanted to open his own masonry business the last time I spoke to him. How is it going?”

Her smile wavered as a flash of pain and grief hit her chest at the reminder of her father. Three years felt either too long or too soon. But one thing was for sure, the gaping hole in their little family was still present.

Mr. Dougall saved her from answering. “Alec passed away a few years ago from illness.”

Mr. Reid gasped as he grabbed Mairead’s hand with both of his, his lively demeanour gentling into sympathy. “My deepest condolences, Miss McRae.”

He patted the back of her hand, his thumb brushing her knuckles. “He was a great man and we shall honour his memory for the Gathering, you have my word.”

“T-thank you, sir.” Mairead tipped her head, subtly trying to free her hand.

“If we can resume our business, Mr. Reid,” the war chief of Laird Campbell said bluntly, a hint of annoyance on his face.

“We have much to discuss,” Laird Campbell added in a flat, almost bored tone, but Mairead noticed a sudden sharpness of his eyes as he stared at the advisor.

“Right, right!” Mr. Reid let go, his wide smile back into place as he stepped onto the dais once more. “It was a pleasure to meet you again, Miss McRae.”

“Likewise, sir.” Mairead smiled politely.

Laird Campbell turned to her, his serious face softening ever so slightly. He nodded towards the door to the side. “Your grandmother should be finished by now.”

With poorly kept relief, she thanked him and bid them goodbye before making her way to the door without looking like she was running away. Once she turned into the hallway leading to the kitchen, she let out a long exhale, bringing the basket to her face.

“Should have gone to the back,” she muttered to herself with a scowl.

Taking a moment to calm herself, Mairead stepped into the kitchen in time to see Lily and Blair drying the last pots. Aileen was in the middle of wiping one of the tables, being her chatty self.

“So I told him I couldn’t go to the lake that day because it was getting late and quite frankly, it looked like it was about to rain,” the young scullery maid said, scrubbing the table with more force than necessary. “But then he looked at me with those bonnie eyes of his and oh, all my thoughts flew away like a breeze!”

“So you’re going today?” Lily asked with a growing grin.

Aileen swirled around with wide eyes, the hand towel almost flying off her grip. “YES! But I dinnea have my corset with me and it’s my only good one. I don’t know what to do!”

“Good thing my ma finished it just in time,” Mairead held up her basket, catching everyone’s attention.

Aileen gasped loudly, dropping the hand towel with an audible splat. “Truly?”

Mairead pulled the package out and presented it to her. “One freshly corset for Miss Aileen.”

A high-pitched squeal erupted from Aileen as she rounded the table. “Oh, thank the good Lord and your ma! I am saved!”

She took the package, threw her arms around Mairead for a big hug before leaving the room in a blur all the while thanking her profusely.

“You’re welcome…” Mairead blinked a few times.

“Peace at last,” Blair droned from her seat.

Lily snorted, shaking her head as she picked up the hand towel. “She’s been talking about it nonstop for days.”

“Who is she meeting?” Mairead cocked an eyebrow.

“Brian Boyle.”

“From the stables?” Mairead blinked though she wasn’t surprised. Objectively, he was a handsome lad and many fancied him in the village but… “Wasn’t he seeing Heather?”

“Not anymore, apparently.” Lily shrugged as she piled the clean pots under the table.

“I better not find her sobbing on the floor tomorrow.” Mrs. Gibson called out as she entered the room from the back door, drying her hands with her apron. “I have had enough of hearing her bumbling about that lad. She messed up last dinner’s chicken twice for being too distracted!”

“For the sake of our sanity, I hope all goes well for her,” Blair said, placing the mugs into a crate.

The cook huffed in exasperation before smiling at Mairead, her brown eyes crinkling in fondness. “How have you been, dear?”

“Alright, granny, we just finished a new batch yesterday. I brought a few.” Mairead set down three jars of wildberry jam on the table. “Ma is having the rest delivered tomorrow morning.”

“That will make a few people quite happy here. I can feel the laird’s patience growing thinner by the hour,” her grandmother said, picking one jar up to examine. She then looked over Mairead’s shoulder as if expecting to see someone else. “Where’s your brother?”

“Playing outside.” Mairead rolled her eyes. “I looked away one second and he was already running around with the other children.”

“Boys…” her grandmother chuckled with a fond smile. “I’ll make something for the weans to eat before they head back home.”

“Speaking of which, have you seen Seán?”

The cook frowned as she looked back at the staircase leading to the basement. “He went in this morning but hasn’t come up yet, even after Dr. Graham left for an errand an hour ago. I swear that boy spends more time down there than the doctor himself.”

“Maybe I can convince him to go outside.” Mairead shrugged. “The weather’s nice.”

“Please do, dear, Lord knows that boy needs to breathe fresh air rather than staying cooped up in that room for hours.” Her grandmother clicked her tongue but her eyes were creased in worry. “He’s been a bit more quiet since he got back.”

Recalling Andrew’s words, Mairead frowned. “Really?”

“Aye, he seems tired too. He must have caught something during the trip. Oh, I told Hamish to keep an eye on him.” Her grandmother scowled, getting worked up by the second. “That man was always bad at following the simplest of requests. Here, take this.”

She handed her a plate of food and pushed her toward the staircase. “If I see a single crumb left, I’ll give him a good wallop to the head.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Dutily, Mairead went downstairs with the plate in hand, smiling to herself. She wasn’t disobeying her uncle’s order. Her granny asked her to see Seán, it wasn’t Mairead’s idea by any means. 

Her footsteps echoed in the narrow hallway, the stone walls cool and humid as the temperature dropped ever so slightly.

She thought back to the conversation with Andrew, a frown forming on her face. Seán never talked much about his family or even about himself. In fact, if she recalled correctly, most of their talks were about life in the village but rarely about his home.

Well, that won’t stop Mairead from trying.

Soft humming reached her ears as she approached the basement. She paused at the door and cocked her head to the side to listen to the unique melody. The humming turned into words, followed by a rhythmic tap of a foot.

“Just a castaway, an island lost at sea, oh…”

She peeked around the corner, her eyes adjusting to the dull light in the room. In front of one of the tables, with jars and books scattered around stood Seán. He was snipping the stems of a pink-petal plant with a pair of scissors. He turned to a balance scale beside him and set the cut flowers on the right plate, making it tilt to one side. Opening a small box, he took a small bell-shaped weight and carefully set it on the left plate.

Mairead watched as the scale tipped over to the right before settling, but she could see it wasn’t equally balanced yet. Seán cut another stem of the flower and set it on the plate.

“Rescue me before I fall into despair, oh…” he sang, bobbing his head to the song as he waited for the scale to stabilize. Once the two plates were aligned, he reached over to grab a jar with one hand, the other tapping a beat on the table. He was entirely lost in his world.

It was the perfect opportunity. “What does Ess-Oh-Ess mean?”

Seán jumped a foot into the air with a loud curse. He swirled around with wide mismatched eyes, brandishing a metal spoon like a weapon.

She burst out laughing.

“Christ, Mairead, you scared the Bejesus outta me!” Seán gasped once he recognized her, his accent coming a little stronger than usual.

“I couldn’t help it.” She grinned as she stepped inside. “You were so focused, I had to take it.”

“Glad I could offer you a good show.” Seán huffed, setting the spoon down. “What are you doing here?”

She held out three fingers, ticking one after the other. “One: I came to say hello. Two: my granny wants you to eat that or else, her words, not mine. And three: I heard you haven’t left this room in years and you need to see the sun.”

Her friend’s face turned red as he crossed his arms, looking away. “I had breakfast and I don’t know what you mean. I only spent a few hours here.”

“Not according to Andrew.” She said airily.

Seán wrinkled his nose in annoyance, knowing he was caught. With a long weary sigh that was mostly for show, he made his way to her. He accepted the plate and nibbled on a piece of bread with what could only be described as a pout.

With him closer, she finally understood why her grandmother thought he was coming down with something. Seán had always been pale; it made his shock of ginger hair brighter, but he seemed a wee bit paler than usual. His freckles were more pronounced and he had bags under his eyes like he hadn’t gotten enough sleep.

Her curiosity was itching like crazy but she stayed silent. She wasn’t here to open old wounds, she was here to cheer him up. And from the look of it, he needed it.

“Even if I was hungry, that’s way too much.” Seán pointed out and she had to agree. Potatoes, slices of cheese and carrots, a side of beef and two buns of bread; all piled into a small plate.

It was a wonder Mairead didn’t drop anything on her way here.

“I’ll help you.” She waved a hand. “Now hurry up and let’s go.”

“Where are we going?” the boy asked over a bite of cheese.

Mairead gestured to the window above them, at the bright single beam of light entering the room. “It’s a nice day, we should enjoy it while we can.”

“Huh, weird.” Seán blinked at the window as if noticing for the first time there was a world outside of here. “Must be a bleeding miracle.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Alright.” With another exasperated sigh, Seán relented but the smile on his face said otherwise. “Let me just finish this and we’ll go.”

Shoving the last piece of cheese into his mouth, Seán quickly put the weight back into its box and poured the flower stems into the jar. He closed it and tied a paper tag around the lid before placing the jar into a crate.

“You seem at ease here,” she noted, munching on a strip of beef as she watched him clean the table.

“It’s a familiar environment.” Seán shrugged, pushing the scale to the side. “I used to help William when he was busy.”

“The surgeon assistant?” She guessed, trying not to sound too curious.

Her friend hummed as he brushed away the remains of the stems he cut. 

She took a chance. “What is he like?”

“Huh?” Seán looked up from the table he was wiping with a cloth. 

“Wiliam. What is he like?”

“Oh, well, you know…” he ducked his head, focusing back on wiping the table. “He’s kind of an arsehole sometimes and he could probably start a fight in an empty house, but somewhere behind all that, he’s just a big softie.”

Mairead laughed at the mental image. “Sounds like an interesting fella.” 

And strangely, the description was familiar but she couldn’t put her finger on it.

“That’s one way to put it.” Seán snorted as he wiped the rest of the table before stepping back. “All done, we can leave.”

“Grab the plate, we’ll make Andrew eat the rest.”

Seán grinned. “Great idea.”

As they walked upstairs, swapping the plate of food between them, Mairead was reminded of something.

“What did that mean, anyway?”

The boy cocked an eyebrow in question. “What did what mean?”

“What you were singing. You said Ess-Oh-Ess or something.” Mairead tripped over the word. “Does it mean anything?”

“Oh, it’s just a silly song I heard from somewhere. I didn’t pay much attention to the words.” He shrugged with an awkward laugh.

And if she were paying attention at that moment, she would have seen something flash across his face and his eyes dulled for a moment before it was gone.

The Seelie Court Palace, the Otherworld, time unknown.

“You will remain here until you are summoned,” the captain of the royal guards ordered as he led the two brothers into an antechamber. 

“No problem,” Ireland agreed with a nod. 

“By the way, could I have my Staff–” Wales turned around only for the door to shut, the sound echoing in the room. He sighed, shoulders slumping. “Well, perhaps later then.”

It was a good thing his Staff only reacted to him, so for the moment it would act like a plain normal staff. Unless you deliberately try to use it, then you’re in for a ‘shocking’ surprise.

“They won’t tamper with it, Wales,” Ireland reassured as if he read his mind.

“I know, it’s just leverage.” He still felt unnerved to be separated from it though. 

In an attempt to distract himself from the growing distance between him and his Staff, Wales took in his surroundings.

The room was rectangular and simple in design with vines snaking on the walls, flowers blooming here and there. There was a floral chandelier above them, crystal-like fungi dangling that emit a gentle blue glow. At the far wall were two large wooden doors that led to the throne room, filigrees carved into the dark wood.

A bench and a small table were set against the right wall, a pitcher of some sort resting on the table with two cups. The pitcher contained a pinkish liquid that quite honestly looked rather delicious. 

Travelling between realms could be tiring and Wales was feeling a bit parched. Alas, as tempting as it was, he wasn’t interested in being compelled to stay here after drinking it.

The doors to the throne room opened slowly and two guards stood before them, their armours shinier and sharper than the ones the brothers were escorted with. Their lances whistled through the air as they spun it one before slamming it on the ground, bringing their shield to their front in perfect sync. 

“Land Walker Éire and Land Walker Cymru of the human realm, Your Majesty.” The guard from the right announced before they stepped to the side. 

The two nations entered the room. 

The throne room was hexagonal in shape and immense with a high ceiling that curved to form a dome. A stone pillar stood in each corner that had vines and roots climbing heavenwards, twisting elegantly until it reached the ceiling. A tapestry of colourful flowers hung above them, sunbeams peeking between the vines yet there were no signs of windows. 

The walls were made of white polished marble, leaves carved in gold and silver to form artistic renditions of historical events of the Fae. Turquoise banners hung between the stone pillars, the silver crest of the Seelie Court glimmering in the gentle light.

On the far side of the room, atop a circular dais, stood the throne of the Seelie Court. It was simple in design, made out of the oldest wood found in the kingdom, rich in colour with elegant curves. Vines sprouted from the ground, snaking and curling around the throne until it fanned behind the back where vibrant flowers bloomed beautifully like the display of a peacock’s tail.

One step down from the dais were six seats for the members of the council, three on each side. They were smaller than the throne but still delicate looking.

And sitting on the throne amongst her council, dressed in a green iridescent long dress, was the Queen of the Seelie Court. Hazel curls tumbled over her shoulders, framing her delicate, sharp face. A thin silver circlet sat atop her head, gems glimmering in the soft light.

“Welcome, Land Walkers. I hope my guards didn’t give you much trouble,” she said, pupilless purple eyes watching the two nations approach.

The two brothers stopped and bowed to the waist, right hand to their chest as was the traditional greeting here. Wales held back a wince when he felt the umbrella clipped to his backpack swing to the side.

Why did he bring the umbrella again?

Ireland straightened up first. “Everything went alright, your Majesty, we’re aware you are currently occupied with the preparations for Samhain.”

Also known as Halloween back home. Where the boundary between the Otherworld and their world was thinner, allowing the Faes and magic to cross easily.

“Indeed. I admit I was curious when I got word from your little friend for a meeting on such short notice.” The Queen hummed, dainty fingers folding in her lap. “Am I to believe it is of dire importance?”

Wales cleared his throat and did his best to ignore the looks from the council members. He was well aware he and his brother stood out like sore thumbs with their civilian clothes.

“W-we were hoping you could shed us some light on an arcane finding we discovered not so long ago,” he explained as Ireland slung his satchel in front of him. “We’ve exhausted all our books we have but we came up empty. We couldn’t identify the origins.”

“What sort of arcane finding is it exactly?” she asked, waving a hand for a servant to come forward.

“An arcane circle with inklings of teleportation magic and something else.” Ireland was a flurry of movements as he pulled out a stack of pictures and other papers. He shoved them to the servant’s waiting arms before sticking his arm in the satchel once more to rummage through. “I recognize a few runes from Old Gaelic and a handful of other Celtic languages but I can't translate all of them.”

“Where does the teleportation circle lead to?” One of the members of the council asked as the servant handed the documents to the Queen. She took it with a nod and started leafing through it, pausing at one of the pictures Scotland had taken of the wagon’s inside walls with a disposable camera.

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Wales said, fumbling with a thick leather-bound book Ireland suddenly shoved into his arms. “It was hidden under the carpet and the paint of the walls. Although it was inactive at the time, we believe the circle was triggered for a specific target.”

“Who was the target?” the Queen frowned. 

At that, both nations froze and they shared a look. This would be the first time they would tell someone from the outside about North’s disappearance. They kept the matter on the down low as long as they could to assess the situation. By sheer dumb luck and pulling a lot of strings, the government didn’t have a clue of what was going on.

Yet.

It was only a matter of time until the brothers ran out of excuses on why their little brother had missed two compulsory meetings or had been avoiding calls from his government. Northern Ireland may not be as busy as the rest of them, but he still had a few duties to fill.

They were taking a chance at showing a few cards, mostly out of desperation but they had no other choice. They needed answers.

Ireland slid an even thicker book back into the satchel and Wales was reminded his brother’s satchel had an expansion charm to make it bigger on the inside. Knowing him, he put half a library in that thing.

His brother rolled his shoulders and took a breath before declaring. “Before we proceed, Your Majesty, I would ask for an oath that nothing will leave this room until we deem it safe.” 

The council members gasped as the air suddenly turned heavy and Wales held back a wince. It was one thing to ask help from the Seelie Court, but to ask for an oath of secrecy, to the Queen no less, was just calling for trouble.

It was a risky play he and his brothers talked about for hours but they had to make sure the information won’t fall into the wrong hands. And that was hoping said wrong hands weren’t in this room to begin with.  

To her credit, the Queen didn’t react, just regarded Ireland with a long look. Ireland stared right back, not backing down and Wales prayed they won’t be hexed on the spot.

After what felt like an eternity, the Queen tipped her head. “Very well, I accept your condition.”

A pulse of power washed over the room, a faint pressure forming in Wales’ chest before it was gone just as quickly. The council members shifted on their seats, having felt the same sensation. 

Ireland nodded, his tensed shoulders relaxing ever so slightly. His brother then cleared his throat and opened his mouth but no words came out. Several emotions flashed in his eyes as he swallowed audibly, going a little pale and Wales immediately stepped in.

“Northern Ireland vanished almost two human months ago and hasn’t been seen since,” Wales announced.

And his heart clenched tightly, leaving him breathless.

He was well aware of the situation, had been since that dreadful day when Ireland called for an emergency meeting. Worry and fear were a constant in his and his brothers’ minds.

But saying it out loud was different. Like acknowledging the truth no matter how much you try to deny it. To believe it wasn’t real, that it was all in your head. That his little brother wasn’t missing and was just on one of his little trips instead.

But he really was. Seán had disappeared and they had no idea where he was or why he was taken.

Confusion flashed on the Queen’s ethereal face as she glanced at Ireland for a moment before focusing on Wales. “Tuaisceart Éireann? The little one?”

Wales nodded, fidgeting with the buttons of his coat. “We’ve found evidence that showed he was stalked for a time and traces of old magic were found near his house.”

“So you assume it was the doings of one of our own?” A council member huffed with a wrinkle of their nose. “That’s rich coming from you knowing you were the one cutting us all ties to him.”

“And it will remain like this until I find it satisfactory,” Ireland snapped, eyes narrowed into slits and fists clenched tightly.

“Ireland…” Wales warned quietly as he put a hand on his brother’s shoulder only to grow alarmed at the heat he was emitting. A faint buzzing could be felt under his fingertips, the gathering of something.

The council members fell quiet at the sudden rise of temperature and the royal guards at the door tensed, weapons drawing but a hand stopped them.

“At ease, Éire, I assure you the agreement has not been breached on our end,” the Queen said in a gentle tone, lowering her hand as she looked at Ireland. “No subject of mine has crossed paths with the little one since the pact.”

The heavy tension slowly melted away as Ireland unclenched his hands and took a deep breath. Wales let out a shaky sigh of relief when he sensed the buzzing recede but worry twisted in his stomach.

The pact was a treaty the brothers made with the Seelie Court and the Unseelie Court several decades ago, shortly after a bodach tried to snatch North away in the middle of the night. Wales doubted his little brother even remembered that night, he was just a toddler when it happened, but it shook the brothers to the core. 

Especially once they realized North didn’t have magic to protect himself. 

But even by fortifying the house with wards and protective sigils, Ireland hadn’t believed it was enough. Hence, came the agreement which stated that until Northern Ireland showed signs of possessing magic or was deemed ready, no creatures of the Otherworld should deliberately make contact with him.

Wales had thought it was a bit over the top, even for a worrier like himself, but the terrified look on Ireland’s face when Wales opened the door the day after the attack stopped him from objecting. 

So although knowing the pact was still intact was good news, it did raise questions about who could target North. It could be someone unaffiliated with both Courts, the possibilities were endless. 

“What can you tell us?” The Queen steered the conversation back onto its tracks. “Have you tried to locate the little one with a scrying spell?”

It took another breath until Ireland was calm enough to say, “We’ve tried every resource we have. It was inconclusive. I can’t— We cannot Sense him, he’s cut off from all of us.”

“Perhaps he’s been concealed by magic,” one council member suggested.

Wales shook his head. “You misunderstand. He vanished entirely, there’s not a single trace of him. Normally, we can Sense our kind within our Lands even if it is muffled. But now, i-it’s like he was never there to begin with.”

Like the patched quilt of their family was suddenly missing a piece.

“But we know he’s alive.” Ireland insisted.

The Queen stared at Ireland unblinkingly for a moment, a faint furrow on her face. “How can you be so sure? If you say the little one is nowhere to be found, then maybe he Fad—”

“He didn’t Fade!” Ireland jolted, green eyes widening in horror at the mere notion. “I know he’s alive. The Land… the Land has made no indication of it. I w-would– We would know…”

Wales watched his brother’s hand twitch as if wanting to reach for his chest but clenched it instead to his side.

“Northern Ireland didn’t Fade,” Ireland said tightly with a firm shake of his head. “He’s somewhere we can’t reach.”

If the Queen doubted his words, she didn’t show it as she hummed. She looked at her council. “What do you think?”

“It is most confusing, Your Majesty.” A stout council member with an impressive beard mused as he hunched over the pictures. “The teleportation elements were modified in a bizarre way. It is intricate and meticulous but there’s an experimental touch in the spellwork. I would need to go there for a closer look.”

“No need, we have it here.” Ireland pulled out a five-foot-long scroll from the satchel and without a care for decorum, he plopped to the ground to unfurl the large scroll to reveal an exact replica of the arcane circle, from runes down to the colour of the ink used.

All the council members leaned forward to look at the scroll, eyes wide in awe.

Wales preened at the reaction. He was proud of his handiwork. It took him days to recreate the circle from the notes Ireland gave him. It was strenuous and he ended up with several hand cramps, but the smooth strokes of the pen across the paper had calmed his tumultuous mind at the time. 

He was snapped of his thoughts when the Queen rose to her feet. The chatters of the council felt silent as they watched the Seelie Queen walk down the steps, her flowing iridescent dress trailing behind her like a river.

She stopped in front of Ireland, cocking her head to the side as her eyes roamed over the scroll. Delicate eyebrows furrowed in thought until they flew up in shock.

And for the first time since the brothers got here, she looked troubled, almost frightened for a second as she looked up at them. “It appears your conundrum may be bigger than we thought.”

“What do you mean?” Wales asked in worry, sharing a look with his brother.

“Whoever targeted the little one was also responsible for an incursion into my palace.” The Queen pursed her lips, the troubled expression quickly replaced by the steely determination of a fierce ruler. “We have much to discuss, Land Walkers.”

Well, things just got even more complicated.

What in the world did North get tangled with?

Outside of Castle Kaerndal, October 22nd, 1743

North felt off.

He couldn’t really explain it but in the last few days, he felt like he was waiting for something to happen.

Like when you put two slices of bread into a toaster, waiting in anticipation as time ticked by, but no matter how much you stare at the toaster you still get startled when the toast pops out.

North was feeling like that. There was a metaphorical toaster going on, ready to ding any second now, except he didn’t know what the hell was toasting in there.

It was starting to get annoying.

He squinted at the bright sunny sky, almost blinding himself in the process.

Maybe it was the weather that made him restless. It was unusually warm today and this far in October, it was suspicious.

But like every single person living in the gloomiest, rainiest and cloudiest pile of rocks that was called the British Isles, he would make the most of it.

And hopefully distracting him from that weird looming dread.

“Aren’t you too warm with that jacket?” Mairead asked over a slice of cheese from the plate of food he was holding.

North plucked at the sleeve of the baggy woollen brown jacket, the coarse texture softened by years of use. “You never know when the weather goes to shit. Besides, your grandmother went to great lengths in finding me clothes that fit… kind of.”

He never paid much attention to his fashion sense and honestly, he didn’t care at all — as long as he was comfortable and didn’t make his skin itch, he was fine. However, he quickly found that here in the 18th century, standard clothing sizes were practically nonexistent.

Either you adjust your clothes over the years or you wear bigger clothes that you will eventually grow into. And for kids his age, it was generally the latter.

So North was unfortunately floating most of the time in the clothes Mrs. Gibs gave him and as grateful as he was, he really missed his normal clothes.

Mairead watched him pat the front of the jacket as if it would make it shrink. “I could ask my ma to have it fitted to you. She wouldn’t mind.”

North shook his head with a smile. “It’s fine, really. All that air between me and the jacket will create the perfect insulation in case it gets colder. It’s just a manner of slowing down the conductive heat transfer, y’know?”

He internally winced once he registered what he said, wishing the ground to swallow him. He knew he was terrible at having normal conversations with people, especially among people his age.

Latest trend in fashion? Gossip about boys and girls? The cool kids versus the nerdy kids? The supposed misery of not being able to go to a party? All of this was a big nope for him. It all goes over his head.

But now? It was even worse because now, he couldn’t just talk about the movie Men in Black that came out in the summer or show off the latest album of U2 he managed to grab after waiting hours in line.

Hell, he can’t even say that pineapple on pizza was a gift from the gods.

So add that and his total lack of context and historical cues from the 18th century, North was surprised he hadn’t been found out.

To his relief, Mairead only looked a bit puzzled before she shrugged it off, probably adding another thing to her list of ‘strange things that Irish lad had said’. At least she didn’t act like those judgemental twats in secondary school who would scoff or look at him weirdly for everything he would say. 

The two of them crossed the castle’s gates and headed for the fields where a group of people were in the middle of a game. From the shape of the sticks the players were holding and the frenzied chase for a small ball, North gathered it was a game of hurley. 

“Have you ever played shinty before?” Mairead asked, watching in amusement as Hamish tackled Malcolm to take the ball from him.

Ah, yes, he forgot that here in Scotland, it was called shinty. Technically, shinty and hurley were two different sports with their own set of rules, but for North, they were basically the same. He made the mistake of saying that in the presence of Ireland and Scotland once and the twin scandalized expressions on their faces were something to be immortalized.

“Not really.” North winced when Ian dogpiled both Hamish and Malcolm. 

England once enrolled him on a football team when he was about 9. North had been reluctant at first, worried he would kick the ball too hard and hurt one of his teammates, but he had a lot of fun in the end. Sometimes his brothers would come to watch, Wales being the embarrassing one by being a literal ‘soccer mom’ with the finger foam, face paint and everything. 

He played for about three seasons until that one match that forever changed his opinion on football. He still couldn’t understand why the kid from the opposite team had to kick the ball so damn hard when North was literally two feet away from him. But getting the ball straight to his stomach had caused all his air to leave him and left him breathless and gasping in panic for what felt like an eternity. He quit the same day, too rattled from that experience. He still practiced sometimes at home when he was bored but he never bothered enrolling again.

“Truly?” Mairead’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “You would be the first. It’s very popular with the other boys.”

North shrugged. “I prefer watching than risk becoming a pancake.”

“A what?”

“Um… it’s a…” he floundered a bit, cursing himself for the slip. “It’s a kind of bread but it’s flat and sweet, the size of a plate. You can eat it alone but it can be a wee bit bland so you add fruits or syrup for flavour.”

“It sounds delicious!” Mairead grinned. “Is it a dessert?”

“Sometimes, but it’s normally for breakfast,” North said, really hoping he didn’t just destroy the whole fecking galaxy by revealing the concept of pancakes before its due time.

Luckily they were interrupted by a small blur of movement zipping between them. Mairead yelped before scowling as she turned around. “Keith Maxwell McRae, watch where you’re going!”

All they got was a giggle as Mairead’s little brother ran deeper into the field, quickly followed by a gaggle of children; two girls and three other boys. They seemed to be close in age, from the youngest being Keith to a ten-year-old girl.

The first time North met Keith, he was caught off guard by the little boy’s exuberant personality. Not only would he speak at lightning speed but he wasn't shy in voicing his thoughts. North had a taste of such an experience when he was having a chat with Mairead during dinner in the Great Hall.  

Keith appeared out of nowhere by the table, about to ask something to his sister but then he took notice of North. Brown eyes grew in size like dinner plates as Keith stared at North with his mouth agape. Before North could ask what was wrong while internally freaking out, Keith gasped out loud and leaned over the table on his tippy toes.

“Can you see two different things at the same time?!” Keith exclaimed, causing several people to look curiously their way.

“What?” North blinked in confusion, hunching his shoulders at the sudden attention.

“Your eyes! They’re not the same colour.” Keith pointed at his face, almost poking North in the eye. “Can you see through walls?!”

North flushed a bit, fighting the urge to look away. “Um no, I see just like you.”

“Oh…” Keith looked disappointed for a second before gasping, excitement back in full force. “Can I change my eye colour too?”

“I don’t think so. I was born with it.”

If it was possible, the boy’s eyes got even wider before declaring with the confidence of a king. “I like you!”

And then Keith spun around and ran down the Great Hall, vanishing into the crowd.

That had been perhaps one of the weirdest conversations North had ever had with someone about his heterochromatic eyes, but the innocent curiosity was refreshing. It was miles better than the more snide remarks other people made in the past. 

And seeing Mairead fumbling to apologize for her little brother’s manners made the situation even more hilarious.

“I swear that boy cannot stay still for even a minute.” Mairead huffed as she watched Keith run between the crowd of villagers watching the game. 

“At least he’ll sleep like a rock tonight,” North agreed with a snort.

“I really hope so.”

They got closer to the crowd where several benches and crates were placed to watch the game. Every now and then, North would wince at the players tackling each other like it was a game of rugby. Hamish was particularly vicious at tripping the opposite team with his stick while Malcolm was a blur of movements. Who knew the short surly man could run like hell. 

North pitied the men who dared come in between Ian and the ball as he watched two men attempting to block the giant of the man but Ian just laughed and shoved them away with his meaty hand as if they were flies.

It was comforting to see full-grown battle-wearied men play in almost childlike glee over a game of shinty. A glimpse of normalcy amidst the turmoil that was growing across the lands. The danger was still out there, but they found time to focus on the little things.

“Finally out of your cave, I see.” 

North looked over his shoulder and saw Andrew approaching them, clothes dishevelled and dirt on his sweaty face. He wondered why the young clansman looked like he fought in a dumpster but then he noticed the leather bracers he wore whenever he trained. 

“I wasn’t always at the workstation. I got out sometimes,” North grumbled.

“Aye, when you need to go to the outhouse.” 

North ignored the way his face grew hot and the laugh from Mairead. 

Okay, so he may or may not have deliberately spent most of his time in the basement since he got back. The past few weeks were a cluster fuck, to say the least, and he needed something familiar to center himself. Besides, Dr. Graham needed his help and North had been more than happy to provide even if it meant scrubbing jars for hours. 

That was all. He wasn’t hiding like Andrew claimed he was — really he wasn’t — he just wasn’t in the mood to talk to people.

It wasn’t because he kept seeing the burnt corpses nailed to those posts whenever he closed his eyes or waiting with bated breath for the metaphorical toaster that kept him awake most nights to pop. 

Nope, it wasn’t that.

He just didn’t feel like socializing much. He was an introvert for Christ’s sake. 

“Here, thought you would be hungry.” North was brought out of his thoughts as Mairead grabbed the plate of food North still had in his hands and shoved it at Andrew. The young man fumbled for a bit before realizing what he was holding.

It seemed Andrew was used to Mairead’s antics because he just shrugged before picking a piece of potato to pop into his mouth.

“Who’s winning?” Mairead wondered, eyes following the match closely.

“Mr. Hewson is keeping tab.” Andrew nodded at the old man sitting on a bench, sharing a flask with another villager. “But from the looks of it, I’ll say Ian’s team.” 

She turned to him, a serious look on her face as she raised a finger to point at him. “You better not lose, Andrew Findlay, we cannot let the other clan win again for the Gathering.”

“The fate of the entirety of clan Campbell rests on your shoulders now,” North joined in just as solemnly, but broke character when Mairead couldn’t keep her face straight. 

“You two are a menace,” Andrew rolled his eyes but cracked a smile nonetheless. 

A sharp whistle made the young clansman look behind them. North followed and saw Angus looking at them, face stoic as ever but it appeared it meant something because Andrew sighed.

“Break’s over. Thanks for the food, m’lady.” Andrew winked at Mairead, easily dodging a swat from her. He set the empty plate on one of the benches and saluted North goodbye before leaving to join his uncle.

North waited until Andrew was out of earshot before asking. “M’lady?”

Mairead grew flustered and sent him a look. “Don’t you dare.”

North raised his hands in surrender though he couldn’t stop the snicker escaping his mouth. “I’m just curious.” 

“It’s a silly game we used to play when we were kids,” she said, shuffling on her feet. “Shortly after Keith was born, I pretended he was a dragon with how loud he was crying. And Andrew decided to save the day by putting a bucket on top of Keith to ‘defeat’ the dragon.”

“He did what?!” North burst out laughing at the sheer absurdity.

“Obviously it didn’t work, Keith cried even louder. My ma gave us quite the scolding that day.” Rolling her eyes, Mairead shook her head in exasperation but the fond smile betrayed the sentiment. “Since then, it kind of… stuck.” 

“It could have been worse.” He shrugged with a wry smile. “My brothers have a whole collection of nicknames for me. Pretty sure it’s because they forgot my name.”  

Especially Scotland. That man had a talent for finding the most ridiculous, unoriginal nicknames to refer to someone. Woolly the Sheep, Bookboy, Twiggy, Pricky the Cactus; the list went on.

Norn was the one North hated the most yet was the one everyone agreed on. Just because some of his people have a strong accent that made it sound like they were saying ‘Norn Iron’ didn’t mean his brothers got to call him that.

“Seán! Seán!” 

North looked behind him and saw Keith running toward them with a wide smile on his face. He skidded to a stop, almost face-planting in the process which made Mairead jolt forward in worry.

“Hey, Keith,” North said. “What’s going on?”

“Can you play with us?” The little boy rolled on the back of his heel eagerly, tugging on his jacket sleeve. “We’re playing hide and seek!”

He pointed at the group of children gathered in the middle of the field.

“Um, I’m not…” North looked at Keith, then at the kids before looking back at Keith, completely out of his depth. 

“Please?” Keith jutted his bottom lip out and North finally understood the power of puppy eyes. Jaysus, no wonder his brothers always caved whenever he pulled that trick.

North glanced at Mairead, silently asking for help but she just shrugged.

“It could be fun,” she said, eyes sparkling in mischief and North glared at her half-heartedly. 

He looked back at her little brother and sighed. “Sure, why not–”

He yelped when Keith tugged his arm in his excitement, almost making him stumble and before North could say anything, Keith all but dragged him toward the group. 

North knew it was just a simple game that kids played all the time, yet his socially anxious self couldn’t stop the nervous flutter in his chest. Which was stupid of him because these kids were basically babies compared to his real age. And honestly, he couldn’t remember the last time he played hide and seek.

Okay… that sounded a bit pathetic.

Keith let go of North’s sleeve once they joined the group. He then pointed at North before declaring in the firmest voice a five-year-old could muster. “This is Seán and he has two different eyes but don’t worry, he can see like us!”

North turned beet red, wishing to be launched to the stratosphere to save himself. 

At once, all five children looked at North, blinking in unison. If they say ‘come play with us’ like the creepy twins in The Shining, North was going to leg it. To hell with their game.

Behind him, Mairead snickered because she was a heartless and horrible friend.  

To make matters worse, the kids shuffled closer like he was the strangest specimen they’d ever encountered. At least, the universe took pity on him because they didn’t show any sign of malice, just open curiosity.

Especially the little girl with blonde hair and green eyes who was looking at him like she was reading his very soul.

After several minutes of answering questions, one being if he was from the Wee Folk of all things, the kids deemed his answers satisfactory because they eagerly tugged him toward the end of the field where the forest was. Children were so easy to accept.

A wooden tower stood by the edge of the forest, where a guard was posted on the platform with a musket in his arms. He nodded at the group, keeping an eye on his surroundings though he kept glancing at the shinty game.

“Remember the rules, everyone,” Mairead said as they entered the forest. “We don’t go beyond the rock. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Mairead!” the children chorused.

“What rock?” North furrowed his brows in confusion.

“It’s a boundary marker to help navigate during the night” Mairead pointed to a tall, angular rock in the distance. It was clean-cut and stuck out like a sore thumb with its pale colour amongst the mossy vegetation like it was purposely placed there. “It’s also the line of visibility for the guards at the watchtower. You can find a couple of them near the treeline.”

“So we’re not allowed to go beyond those?” 

“You can but the ground gets uneven and the trees are denser the deeper you go. Easy to get lost, you ken. That’s why we don’t let the little ones go that far.”

“Mairead, can you count?” Keith tugged his sister’s skirt, eyes wide in pleading. “Please?”

“Alright, alright.” The young girl rolled her eyes but agreed nonetheless as she turned around to face the field. “Starting now. 20… 19… 18…”

Like dispersing ants, the children vanished amongst the shrubs, trees and rocks, leaving North standing there like an idiot, flabbergasted at their speed.

“You’re supposed to hide, Seán,” Mairead teased, keeping her eyes closed.

“I know how to play!”

“Why are you still here then?”

“Uh…”

“12…11…” she said in emphasis and North took it as a cue to skedaddle out of there. As quietly as he could, which wasn’t much what with the dead leaves crunching on every step, he weaved between the trees to find a spot.

The first hidden place, a large shrub, was taken by Keith, who quickly waved him away with a giggle. The next one was a sort of dirt cave by a tree where the oldest girl was huddled under it, shaking her head frantically when she saw him approach. She pointed to the side, mouthing ‘Find another spot!’

Damn, he sucked at this game.

In the distance, he heard Mairead say, “Here I come!”

Cursing, North dropped to a crouch and quickly scanned his surroundings. He found a moss-covered fallen tree a couple of feet to his right and made his way over there. Luckily, no one was there. 

He shuffled close to the trunk and for the hell of it, he pulled a branch over his head for cover. 

Now, the waiting game. 

It would be a lie to say North didn’t feel a childish thrill at hearing Mairead getting closer and talking out loud as she tried to find them. There was a giddiness that took him off guard, a gleeful grin growing on his face, as he waited in mounting anticipation. 

So really, he couldn’t be blamed for not paying attention to the branch he pulled over his head. Or more specifically, to the spider slowly descending on its web.

North was so focused on keeping his ears on for Mairead that he didn’t see the spider until it was right at his face.

He reacted like any sane person would do. By yelping and bolting out of there in a flurry of limbs. 

Mairead, who was a dozen feet away from him looking over a tree, jerked back in surprise with a squeak.

“Good Lord, Seán, I almost felt my soul leaving me!” she gasped as she clutched her chest. 

North could only pat himself in a frenzy as he wheezed out. “There was a spider.”

“A spider?” She blinked twice before she threw her head back with a bright laugh. 

North glared at her but had no effect on her with how red his face turned. “It was the size of a fecking apple!”

Okay, maybe it was the size of a coin but it startled him the hell out anyway. Bugs with more than six legs should not exist in his honest opinion. 

Mairead kept on cackling, her face slowly getting redder as she leaned against a tree for support. Really, why did North bother to make a friend if they were just going to laugh at him after experiencing such a harrowing ordeal?

“Did you find anyone yet?” North asked in an attempt to make her stop, though her laughing streak was starting to affect him too as he felt a grin tugging at his lips. 

It took several tries to regain her composure but once she did, she shook her head. “You’re the first.”

His smile fell off. “Oh…” 

That sent her into another fit of giggles and North could only roll his eyes. 

Once she was calm, again, they set off to find the children. North knew the spots of two of them but he pretended to help Mairead by going in the opposite direction, much to her amusement. 

Not that his efforts helped because they could hear muffled giggles whenever they got close to one of the kids, but he tried anyway.

The first round was won by the oldest of the boys, a 9-year-old with a front tooth missing named Charlie, who cleverly used his jacket to blend in with the trunk of a tree. The next few rounds were a blur, each taking turns to be the seeker and by then, North was enjoying himself. 

He felt lighter for the first time since he got back and it was done by playing a silly little game of hide and seek.

North walked around the leaves-covered ground, keeping an eye out for the group. He was the seeker this time and Mairead had bet him he couldn’t find her in the next two minutes so he was even more eager to find her first.

He heard a snap of a branch a few feet to his left and the rustling of leaves. He followed the sound as swiftly as he could, feeling a burst of triumph when he spotted the tip of a shoe poking out behind a tree. 

“Where could you be?” He mused out loud. The shoe disappeared in a flash followed by a snicker.

He peeked around the tree and there, wedged between a large root and a rock, was Tommy, the seven-year-old with auburn hair. 

“Not fair! I thought I had it this time,” Tommy whined as he crawled out of his spot.

“I saw your shoe,” North said as he bopped his head, earning a grumble from the boy. “Come on, I heard Mairead say it would be impossible to find her.”

That seemed to cheer up the little boy because he shot off like a rocket. “I’ll find her!”

With a huffed laugh, North followed at his own pace. He stepped over a root and was about to call out a taunt when he heard a scream that made his blood freeze.

Because it wasn’t one of those happy screams kids tend to make when playing, it was piercing with a tinge of fear.

He whirled around in time to see Úna, the oldest girl, stumbling into sight while dragging one of the youngest boys behind her in a hurry. 

“What’s wrong?” North asked, taking in the frightened expression on her face.

“We saw a boar!” She stammered as she pointed into the distance, her red hair frazzled.

“Oh. That’s it?” North slumped his shoulders in relief. God, talk about almost having a heart attack. “Thought you saw a corpse or something.”

He wouldn’t be surprised if it was the case.

“They’re dangerous! We need to warn the guards,” Úna said urgently, clutching the little boy close to her.

“Alright, alright. No need to panic,” North assured her, though he was mostly humouring her. A boar, really? “Tommy went that way.” 

Just as he said that they spotted Tommy heading their way with Mairead close at his heels.

“Is everything okay?” She asked with a frown.

North snorted as he gestured behind him. “They saw a boar over there.”

His humour fell short when he saw the colour drain from Mairead’s face. He grew a tad worried when she turned to face Úna. “Where was it?”

The red-haired girl shook her head. “It was roaming in the distance by the tall rock. I didn’t get a close look, I just grabbed Davie and left.” 

“You did good,” Mairead patted her arm before looking at North with a grim expression. “We need to find the others. Quickly.”

“Is it that bad? It’s just a boar.” North huffed with an incredulous look. “A glorified pig, really.”

“They’re extremely territorial, Seán, and their tusks can be lethal,” she said gravely before calling out the rest of the kids.

It didn’t take long for Charlie and the little blonde girl to join the group, but after a minute of waiting, there was no sign of the last member of the group.

“Has anyone seen Keith?” Mairead asked as she looked at their surroundings with a frown. “Keith? You can come out, now. The game is over!”

The other kids joined in but Keith never came. 

The prickling dread North managed to ignore in the last hour returned with a vengeance.

“KEITH!” Mairead was growing frantic.

“Did anyone see him when the game started?” North asked the children. They all shook their head except one.

“I saw him go beyond the rock.” The little blonde girl chirped.

Mairead spun around with wide eyes. “What?!”

The little girl cocked her head as she pointed to her right, her green eyes bright. “He went that way.”

“Oh, when I find him…” Mairead said angrily, but the waver in her voice betrayed the sentiment. She ran a shaky hand through her hair, pulling a few strands from her once neat braid.

“I’ll go find him,” North volunteered. “You take the kids back to the castle.”

“But what about–”

“Don’t worry, I’ll find Keith, I promise. He couldn’t have gone that far.” North reassured with a smile before shrugging. “Besides, how big a boar can be?”

“Seán–”

“I’ll be back in a bit!” North called over his shoulder as he jogged towards the boundary marker.

“Good luck!” said the blonde little girl cheerfully.

Weird kid. North thought with a huff.

He reached the tall rock and looked around before cupping his hands around his mouth. “Keith?”

He waited a moment before going further into the forest. He quickly found out what Mairead meant by ‘uneven’ ground. There were roots everywhere and the dirt was looser in some places with slippery rocks and muddy slopes. The thick layer of dead leaves didn’t help at all.

“Keith?” He called out again as he jumped over a rock. “Can you hear me?”

His only answer was the chirping of birds and the wind rustling the trees. It was still sunny — will wonders never cease? — so it was easy to see in the distance but the vegetation was getting denser.

Keith couldn’t have gone this far with his size. North himself was having trouble navigating through here.

A faint rustle made him stop. He waited a moment and he heard it again, but it wasn’t a rustle exactly. It sounded more like a sniffle. 

He walked closer to the sound coming from behind a fallen tree. “Keith?”

Another sniffle, followed by a small whimper.

North climbed over the tree and there, huddled under with tears streaking down his face was Keith. The little boy looked up at him with teary brown eyes.

“There you are, Keith,” North said as he jumped down to join him. “We’ve been looking for you. Why didn’t you answer?”

Keith rubbed his eye with a fist, letting out a small hiccup as he said, “I-I fell.”

That was when North noticed the scratch on the boy’s left knee and the smear of blood around it. Luckily, it was superficial as far he could tell, nothing a good cleaning could fix. 

North looked at Keith's hands and other than dirt and skin irritation on the palms, they looked fine. “Why are you all the way here? Your sister told you to not go beyond the rock.”

“T-There was a spot really, really close by but then– but then I heard a scary noise. I wanted to go back but I got lost and then I fell and– and–” Fresh tears were forming in his eyes again and North quickly went to comfort him.

“It’s alright, Keith. You did well to find somewhere to hide if you didn’t feel safe,” North smiled as he ruffled his hair. “Now, let’s get you back to your sister, aye? She’s really worried. Come on.”

The little boy nodded and attempted to climb on his feet only to cry out in pain and stumble. North scrambled to catch him, holding him by his shoulders. “What’s wrong?”

Keith was crying again, face blotchy red as he whimpered. “My foot.”

He was holding his right foot up, small hands clutching North’s arm. With a frown, North crouched and gently prodded his foot. “Can you move it?”

“It hurts!”

“I know, but we need to make sure.” With careful fingers, North pulled off his boot and rolled down his wollen sock. The skin was swollen around the ankle. He touched the foot and slowly moved it from one side to the other. Keith whimpered when his foot went too far to the right.

Sprained ankle, North thought to himself as he gently rolled the sock back to the boy’s foot. He looked up at Keith with a smile. “The good news is that it’s not broken. You’ll be fine, Keith.” 

“Really?” Keith sniffled, a big fat tear sliding down his cheek. 

“Yeah!” North wiped his tears with the sleeve of his coat. “A few days of rest and you’ll be back running around.”

North checked his pockets and found one of the rags he used to clean the jars in Dr. Graham’s workstation. 

It wasn’t a sterile bandage, but it will do for now. 

He brushed the dirt and other residues off the bloody gash before tying the rag around the knee. “There, all set.”

He stood back up and thought for a moment. 

Making Keith walk was out of the question even if he had a stick as a makeshift crutch. A sprained ankle was a pain in the arse on a good day and forcing the little boy would be just plain cruel. North could carry him with no problem but that would mean it would take them longer to reach the castle since he would need to be extra careful when navigating the rough terrain. 

He glanced at the little boy who was poking the bandage curiously, looking much calmer than a few minutes ago.

As Wales would say: better safe than sorry.

North crouched again in front of the little boy and smiled at him. “Let’s get out of here, okay? I’ll give you a ride.”

It took a bit of shuffling but eventually, North had Keith piggyback style. 

“Ready?” North asked as he handed him his right boot.

Small arms looped around his neck as he felt Keith nod.

With a grunt, North climbed onto his feet, keeping his hands securely under Keith’s legs. He adjusted a bit, making the little boy giggle at the jostling.

With that, they made their way back to the castle. It took them a while, what with North doing small detours to avoid slippery rocks or ducking under branches to keep Keith safe from them.  

So it was a relief when Keith spotted the boundary marker.

North squinted his eyes in the direction the boy was enthusiastically pointing and there in the far distance was the tall angular rock. Huh, they really do help with navigation.

“Good eye, Keith,” North panted with a grin. Keith wasn’t heavy per se but carrying a 40-pound boy on his back for what felt like an hour was starting to make him tired, nation strength or not. “We’re almost there.”

Which was the wrong thing to say because, at that moment, they heard the snap of a branch followed by a growl.

“It’s the scary sound!” Keith whimpered as he buried his face in the crook of North’s neck. 

“Scary sound?” North paused and looked around, trying to pinpoint where it came from. There was another snap of a branch and the rustle of leaves before a furry brown mass burst out of a bush about 30 feet ahead of them.

Three things flashed in North’s mind.

One: he completely forgot the whole reason he came looking for Keith in the first place was because there was supposedly a boar roaming about.

Two: said boar was massive. Like that-is-definitely-not-the-size-of-a-pig massive. And those tusks might as well be from a freaking elephant.

And three, the boar stood in between them and the way toward the castle.

Shit.

By some miracle, the boar didn’t seem to have noticed them, focusing instead on sniffing the ground with snorts and grunts. 

“Seán–”

North shushed Keith as he slowly stepped back, not taking his eyes off the wild boar. If they hide, there was a chance the boar will just go on its merry boar-y way.

They needed to get to higher grounds and quickly. He wasn’t sure if boars shared the same inability to directly look up as pigs, but it was better than being out in the open.

With that in mind, North quickly scanned the area until he found a gnarly-looking tree with branches low enough to climb but high enough to be, hopefully, safe from the boar.

Keeping the boar in his line of sight, North made his way toward the tree as quietly as he could. He leaned on a branch that reached just over his shoulders to test its sturdiness. Satisfied, North crouched and helped Keith slide down his back.

Keith opened his mouth to speak but North quickly put a finger to his lips. He pointed over the shoulder and shook his head. The little boy nodded and kept quiet.

North checked the branch one last time to make sure it would hold Keith’s weight before gesturing for the boy to lift his arms. 

North hefted the boy in one swift move, ignoring Keith’s noise of surprise, and helped him climb onto the branch. It creaked ominously but stayed strong as Keith sat on it with his arms clutching the branch above him.

For a hilarious fraction of a second, North was reminded of that one scene in The Lion King where Simba climbed onto the tree to escape the stampede.

Wait, that meant he was Mufasa in this situation which, on second thought, wasn’t as hilarious as he thought.

“You alright?” He mouthed to the boy. Keith nodded, eyes wide in worry but tried to keep a strong face nonetheless. 

Giving him a thumbs up, North stepped back to take a better look at the tree in the hope of finding another branch to climb on. He tested one of them, about the thickness of his leg and wondered if it would hold him up.

Alas, the universe decided to stop being nice and give him the middle finger instead because his foot stepped on the loudest twig of the entire goddamn forest as the snap echoed in the air like a bullet.

North froze, not daring to move another muscle.

But it was too late.

The boar whipped its head around and locked eyes with North, nostrils flaring wide. 

North held his breath.

Beady dark eyes stared at wide blue and green ones.

Maybe it can only detect movements? If he stayed still, maybe he can–

The boar let out a piercing squeal and charged. 

Keith screamed and North just reacted.

There was something Scotland, the Present one, told him a long time ago when he was teaching him self-defence. If you don’t have the strength or the size to defeat your opponent, then use your surroundings to your advantage. Throw dirt at their face, whack them with a book or use a garbage lid as a shield, anything to give you the upper hand for a split second was worth it.

Look around you, lad, you might find something that will save your life.  

North pulled the branch he was about to climb as hard as he could, the wood groaning at the strain. Gritting his teeth and ignoring the splinters digging into his hands, he gave another sharp tug.

“Seán, behind you!” Keith cried out over the approaching stomping hooves.

The branch snapped, almost making him lose his balance. Using the momentum, North swung the three-foot-long branch with all his strength just as the boar lunged at him.

A resonating crack rang in the air as the boar went flying before crashing into the ground with a yelp.

North heaved, adrenaline rushing in his veins, the branch in a white-knuckles grip as he stared at the boar.

The wild boar writhed on the ground, grunting and squealing until it rolled back on its hooves. It shook its head as if disoriented before looking up.

Blood was matted to the side of its face, and one of the tusks had broken off, leaving it shorter than the other but much, much sharper. Drool was dripping from its mouth, the breathing ragged and harsh.

If it looked angry before, now the boar was downright livid.

North looked down at the branch, noticing it was split in half and he cursed out loud. He dropped it and glanced over his shoulder.

“Keith, no matter what happens,” he said firmly, “stay there until they come to fetch you.”

“W-what? No, don’t leave–” 

“Stay there!” North looked back at the boar.

Its beady eyes held only murder and maybe it was the sunlight hitting it just right but for a second, they were almost glowing like burning coals.

Wait, glowing?

The boar charged once more.

North booked it, ignoring the cries from Keith as he ran deeper into the forest. Behind him, the boar gave chase, hooves stomping on the ground.

Jumping and weaving between trees and rocks, North ran and ran, his breathing loud and blood thumping in his ears. He didn’t know where he was heading, he just needed to keep the boar as far away from Keith.

He stopped after a while to catch his breath. He leaned against a tree with a wheeze, lungs and legs burning. He can already tell he would be sore as hell tomorrow.

North took in his new surroundings once he got his breath back, noticing the forest being darker with how tightly packed the trees were even if it was still sunny. It was as he was wiping the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve that North also realized how quiet the forest was.

There was no chirping of birds, no wind rustling the branches, no gentle creaking from the trees.

Just quiet.

Eerily quiet.

The very air felt heavy.

A snap of a twig made him whirl around but there was nothing there. A shifting of leaves from the right and another from the left but try as he might, he couldn’t pinpoint the location it came from. 

The sun dimmed as clouds took over the sky, cooling the air instantly and giving the forest a ghostly atmosphere. He turned in a circle, body growing tensed as fog slowly began to rise from the ground.

Okay, this was normal. This was Scotland after all, the weather changed as fast as a pendulum. 

“It’s fog, nothing creepy about it,” North muttered to himself, eyes flicking in every direction. “It’s just a visible aerosol made out of tiny water droplets suspended in th—”

A tingle ran down his spine just as something burst out from a bush behind, followed by a shrill squeal. North spun around, eyes widening at the sight of the boar barreling down towards him.

He twisted away like some kind of matador, or at least, he attempted to because something caught the back of his jacket and before he knew it, he was yanked to the side.

He crashed to the ground with a grunt, the back of his head slamming against a rock and the world went white. 

Everything was white, he didn’t know for how long. He couldn’t hear or feel anything. There was nothing but white.

Then a series of images flashed in his mind, so fast he couldn’t make sense of them. 

Piercing sky blue eyes, a golden thread tearing away, a raging storm, moonlight reflecting on a frozen lake, a pulsing warm light in the darkness. 

A violent pull brought him back with a gasp as he blinked his eyes open, his ears ringing and his vision blurring.

He stared at the dried leaves in front of his face, disoriented and confused.

Another yank jolted him to the side, sending his world spinning once more. Right. Getting rag-dolled by a wild boar was far worse than being tackled by Wales in a rugby match.

North tried to roll away but that made the boar angrier as it dug its tusks deeper into the jacket. He heard the rip of material, a tug by the neck followed by a faint snap before the boar paused to catch its breath and North took the chance. 

He twisted his body around, enough to slip his arms out from the sleeves of his jacket and the second he was free, he scrambled away.

The boar growled once it realized North was no longer in its grasp and lunged at him, however, the jacket got tangled with its tusks. It rubbed its head against the ground but that only caused the jacket to swing over its face, blocking its view entirely. The boar squealed as it jerked violently.

North scooted back until his back hit a tree. With shaking hands, he checked himself and was honestly surprised he had all his limbs intact. Even his shirt was in one piece. The tusks must have only pierced his jacket.

He will never complain about his oversized clothes ever again.

He touched the back of his head and hissed at the sharp pang of pain. Right, he hit his head when he fell. He looked down at his fingers and saw no trace of blood. 

That was good, that meant his brain hadn’t spilled out of his skull. Blood and brain should stay inside, not outside.

North looked back at the boar who was still busy trying to get the jacket off its face. 

He blinked.

Maybe he should take that opportunity to get out of there. Mairead said boars were dangerous.

They definitely weren’t glorified pigs. Their tusks were freaking huge. 

He blinked again.

“Concussion…” he muttered to himself. Aye, that was not good. He really needed to leave.

North patted his chest to make sure he really didn’t get impaled by murdery tusks only to freeze when his fingers failed to feel the usual bump near his sternum. He pulled the collar of his shirt away to look inside and his heart skipped a beat.

His necklace wasn’t there.

Panic set in as he scrambled to his feet, his vision swimming for a moment. He shook his head to chase the sensation away, leaning heavily against a tree.

Where was it?

Checking his shirt again and then his pockets, North’s breathing sped up, making the pounding in his head even worse but he didn’t care.

Where was it?

He dropped to his knees, desperately scanning the ground. Fingers dug into the ground as he racked the leaves for any sign of the necklace.

Wherewasitwherewasitwherewasitwherewasit–

North whipped his head toward where the boar was, frantic eyes checking the ground around it in an almost manic way. 

A metallic glint caught his attention just a few feet away from the boar, hidden amongst the leaves. 

It was the golden rim of the compass etched on the flat stone.

North didn’t think. Whether it be because of the concussion or the sheer relief at finding the necklace, he didn’t think.

He didn’t notice the boar had finally got rid of the jacket.

He didn’t see the way it set eyes on him once more and snarled, ready to attack.

North just went for the necklace.

What happened next could only be compared to an action movie sequence.

As he grabbed the necklace and tucked it into his chest, the boar rushed at him just as an ear-splitting bang filled the air.

The boar’s head snapped to the side, blood spraying in the air before it crashed into the ground. Its body jerked with squeals, trying to get back up until another shot went off. The boar stopped moving.

North stared at the blood trickling out of a hole in the boar’s forehead.

Dumbfounded, he looked at where the shot came from, finding Angus standing a dozen feet away with a musket raised, the smoke from the gunpowder obscuring his face.

A moment later, Hamish and Ian came into view, carrying a musket of their own as they approached the boar with caution. When Hamish saw North, he lowered his weapon and rushed to his side.

“You lucky bastard!” the man hissed as he hauled North to his feet. “Why the hell didn’t you run away when it was distracted?”

North blinked up at him, swaying for a bit. Hamish tightened the grip on his shoulder, the scowl changing into a pinched expression.

If it weren’t for his head feeling like a pinball machine, North would think Hamish was worried. Anxious even. 

He couldn’t help pointing it out. It was an astounding discovery after all. “Why, you worried?” 

The scowl was instantly back in place as Hamish huffed, grumbling about being tired of babysitting but the steady grip on North’s arm as he led him away from the dead boar told another story. 

Ha, it was always the grumpy ones.

Ian tilted the boar’s head to the side with the end of his musket, a low whistle on his lips. “That beast could have ripped you apart, lad. It’s a miracle you’re still standing.”

North forced a grin on his face. “Luck of the Irish.” 

“Oh good, yer humour is intact,” Hamish grumbled with a roll of his eyes.

Angus walked over to them and before North could say anything, the man grabbed his chin with one hand and the other went to the back of his head. 

“Hey–” North sputtered at the intrusion, ready to lean back only to flinch in pain when calloused fingers brushed over the swollen bump.

The quiet clansman tilted North’s head to the side, the scar over his right eye stretching by the heavy furrow of his brows. “Can you walk?”

“I’m fine.” Face warming when dark eyes looked at him, North added. “Just a headache.”

And probably a few bruises once the adrenaline wore off.

Angus let him go, whether he was convinced or not North couldn’t tell, and nodded to Hamish.

“Come along, boy. Let’s not wait until Mrs. Gibs comes marching down here herself. ” Hamish nudged him forward, keeping a steady hand on his shoulder. North was a bit miffed at having his personal bubble disturbed, but his vision was still blurring every now and then so perhaps it was for the best Hamish kept a hold of him. 

At the mention of the cook, North jolted and looked back at Angus. “Is Keith okay? Did you find him?”

“Aye, Andy found him up in a tree,” Ian said in his stead, circling around the boar to join them. “He’s back at the castle.” 

North sagged in relief, the last bit of tension he didn’t know he was holding leaving him. He didn’t mess things up. Good.

Angus stopped Ian with a look and gestured to the boar. 

For a six-foot-something giant of a man, with beefy arms and a thick beard, Ian looked like a kid that was told Christmas was cancelled as he all but slumped his shoulders.

“Can’t it wait?” Ian cast a quick glance around them nervously.

The other man just cocked an eyebrow and waited. North shouldn’t be surprised how effective Angus could be when he wanted something without saying a word, but he was still amazed to witness it.

Ian sighed and shuffled back to the boar, almost dragging his feet. 

“Is something wrong?” North asked, honestly baffled at seeing the usually boastful cheerful man so hesitant.

“Ian is just being a child.” Hamish tsked his tongue, yet the insistent tugging on North’s arm to hurry up revealed he was nervous too. What was the rush?

“I’m being reasonable,” Ian grumbled as he helped Angus roll the boar over to the side. At North’s confused look, he leaned over as if telling a secret, not caring they were several feet apart. “We’re near the faerie hill, lad, best not disturb them.”

“Oh…” North didn’t expect such an answer but then again, he shouldn’t be surprised. His people back home could be quite superstitious about things regarding the Fae. Sometimes they would go as far as building a road around a faerie tree for fear of disturbing it. 

And seeing how the villagers here claim the devil had gotten a child sick instead of thinking it was a simple cold, North was safe to assume people in the 18th century were even more superstitious. 

Hell, he swore he saw a lady honest to God cross herself when she saw his eyes the other day while eating dinner at the Great Hall. So yeah, Ian’s reaction wasn’t that surprising.  

North looked around and took notice of the chirping of birds and the rustling of leaves. The clouds had parted to let the sun back in, making the forest brighter and full of life. The air was light and fresh. Even the fog was gone as if it had never been there in the first place.

Did he imagine it all? Was it just a trick his mind played during his panic? Did he really see blue- no orange glowing eyes?

He glanced back at the boar, finding nothing but vacant dull eyes staring right back. Normal lifeless eyes. 

North looked away and swallowed. Better not dwell on it. 

He let Hamish stir him back to the way to the castle and as they walked quietly through the forest, North looked down at his left hand.

A knot in his chest loosened at the sight of the necklace. The flat stone showed no sign of damage, apart from the smudges of dirt that got into the grooves of the runes. The leather cord was snapped, however, near where the knot was but it was an easy fix. 

Everything was fine, it was safe. He didn’t lose it.

And for the first time, since he got here, since Northern Ireland stumbled 254 years into the past, he felt grounded. Sure, he was sore and his head was killing him, but right at this moment, he felt tethered. Like a lost ship finally finding the lighthouse through the heavy fog.

Ireland often said that there was a solution to everything if you looked hard enough. Most of the time, it was just Ireland being a stubborn idiot over an even more dumb situation, but North had to admit there was some wisdom in there. 

Perhaps he wasn’t looking in the correct places. He was only looking at what he had and not at what he had not. It was time to think outside the box.

North gripped the necklace tight and breathed out slowly.

An idea was forming in his mind.

It was crazy but it might work.

Maybe.

Wentwood forest, South of Wales, time unknown.

Wales stepped out of the Gate, causing his ears to pop and his vision to warp like a kaleidoscope for a moment before it went back to normal. He blinked a few times to shake the feeling off and looked around.

He found himself in front of the Archway of the Forest, the trees rustling by the crisp breeze of the evening. The sky was a painting of pink, orange and purple, with no clouds in sight.

He couldn’t tell what day it was, not until they went back to the car to check the dashboard but at least he could confirm that time had passed since they left. And from the weariness he felt in his body, he would guess a few days.  

Good thing he packed a few snacks in his backpack. 

There was a flash of light behind him and he turned in time to see Ireland stumble out of the Gate. His brother righted himself only to sway as he brought a hand to his head with a hiss. 

“You alright?” Wales frowned, quickly steadying his brother with a hand.

“Arcane jet lag,” Ireland grumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose with his eyes tight shut. 

While Wales would normally agree with his brother’s explanation, Ireland looked ready to drop like a sack of potatoes. He was even paler than usual too. Travelling to the Otherworld can be taxing on the body and it can take a few days to recover, but this was a bit worrying. 

As if reading his mind, Ireland flapped a hand as he cracked an eye open to look at him. “I’m fine, ye worrywart. Just a headache.”

Wales didn’t believe him one bit, not with Ireland squinting at him as if the setting sun was too bright. Not taking any chances, Wales pulled his backpack to his front and opened one of the side pockets. “I brought ibuprofen.”

“Of course you did.” Ireland snorted but accepted the plastic bottle nonetheless. He popped a handful of tablets that would have been worrisome if he were human. 

Wales then passed him a water bottle and waited until his brother finished drinking before he gave him a chocolate chip granola bar.

“I’m not about to drop dead.” Ireland rolled his eyes, though he did take the offered snack.

“I have peanut butter if you prefer.”

“Christ. Did you bring a tea set as well?

Wales focused on looking through his backpack for his flashlight. The sun was setting fast and they had quite a distance to go through.

His brother blinked at his silence, granola bar hanging off his mouth. “You didn’t.”

“I have a thermos,” Wales admitted with a sniff, feeling a tad defensive. So he liked warm drinks and comfort when being outdoors, sue him. 

But instead of mocking him, Ireland made grabby hands at him. “You’re my favourite brother, Dylan, the best of the best.”

It was Wales’ turn to roll his eyes as he passed him the stainless steel bottle. People have the misconception that England was the tea lover of the family, but the truth was that Ireland drank more tea than the brothers combined. The amount of mugs one could find around his house was downright worrying.  

They passed the thermos back and forth as they made their way back to the hiking trail. No birdsongs were heard, but there was the beginning of the hooting of an owl in the distance. The nightlife was starting to wake up.

“What do we do now?” Wales hated disrupting the peace, but they had to talk about it.

The meeting with the Seelie Queen was as eye-opening as it was distressing.

There had been a break-in to the royal library’s restricted section where they kept the most dangerous and rarest books and scrolls known to the Otherworld. Very few had access to it and you needed to get through several wards to even enter the hallway leading towards the room.

But somehow, someone managed to bypass through all of that without anyone noticing until it was already too late. Someone who was a master in illusions to deceive the guards and avoid triggering the arcane alarms. The scholars couldn’t tell what was taken from the restricted section since nothing was missing, except for one book that was misplaced. Left discarded on the ground by one of the shelves, probably having fallen when the intruder left in a rush.

The book in question was about old magic regarding dreams and their significance. It spoke of the power found in dreams and the possibility to control and travel through them. 

Dream Walking as one member of the council called it.

The concept by itself wasn’t a dangerous one, in fact, it could be useful when one was prone to prophetic dreams, but someone with malicious intent could easily twist it in their own wicked ways. Knowledge held power, it all depended on how one used it.

No one so far, could tell why this person would search for that specific book, but one thing for sure was that it was connected with the disappearance of Northern Ireland.

Because while the break-in only happened a few days ago in the Otherworld, a week at the most, here in the human world, it occurred around two months ago.

More specifically on September the first. 

On the day his little brother vanished without a trace.

It was also discovered that there was an arcane pulse that was felt through the ley lines on that day, but the Seelie Queen believed it was from the commotion at the palace. It was so unexpected, everyone went into a frenzy because no sane person would dare do such a thing. No one realized the pulse of energy they felt wasn’t, in fact, coming from the alarms but from the magic emitted from the arcane circle North stepped on.

It was all orchestrated, Wales was forced to admit, perfectly timed. Every step was painstakingly planned from top to bottom. The break-in was only a distraction, a way to turn the attention from the real target. 

The only comfort he could find, even if it was only a tiny drop, was that whoever was behind this wanted Northern Ireland alive. The arcane circle wasn’t meant to harm him, only to transport him to wherever he was now. 

But why? Why him?

And where did the circle send him?

Those were the questions they still couldn’t answer.

Perhaps Scotland and England held the other pieces of the puzzle.

They had to.

“I know someone who could help… maybe,” Ireland said, snapping Wales out of his thoughts.

Wales looked at him curiously. “Who?”

“An old acquaintance.” Ireland bit his lower lip as his fingers drummed against the thermos he was holding. Clink. Clink. Clink. “But first, we need to meet with the others. See what they found.”

Well, now Wales was even more curious than before but from the distant look on his brother’s face, the heavy set of his brows, he refrained from pressing. For now.

And as the two nations reached the entrance of Wentwood Forest’s national park, Wales was reminded of the parting words of the Seelie Queen just before they left the throne room.

Beware of the spark, Cymru. She had whispered in his mind as he accepted his Staff back from one of the guards.

Do not let it go out of control.

And just as quickly, the presence in his conscience was gone.

Telepathy was a type of magic Wales wasn’t particularly fond of, not only did it feel intrusive but without the adequate protection, you couldn’t avoid it. 

But the Queen’s words were more foreboding and ominous than having a sudden voice entering your mind. 

At the time, he couldn’t fathom why she had spoken to him directly and not out loud. He had even glanced at her in askance but all she did was look over his shoulder.

Looking at Ireland.

And it all clicked. 

Because in a way, she was right. 

Wales watched as his brother marched towards the car with purpose, jaw set and eyes brimming with renewed determination. 

Ireland always had a fire burning inside of him, it was what gave him the strength to keep going, to have hope, to keep fighting.

But while a simple spark can start a small fire to provide warmth it can also spiral out of control and turn into a wildfire.  

And Wales didn’t know which way Ireland was leaning towards. 

He could only hope it won’t come to that.