Author's Note: I try to make my research reasonably thorough, but there's probably still inaccuracies in here. I don't think it's anything too egregious, fortunately. And I'll be taking some artistic/historical license with this fic anyway, so... yeah.
I own nothing.
Several hours later, England found himself at the British camp. However, instead of being put with the other prisoners of war, England was sent directly to his younger self's tent, with an armed escort to prevent him from trying anything. As he entered the tent, the men escorting him stood right in front of the entrance while England stood closer to the center of the room.
Oddly enough, England's other self was not actually there when England first entered the tent. He stood and waited in uncomfortable silence while he waited for his other self to show up.
A few minutes later, and the tent flap opened. England's younger self was holding it open with one hand, and his other hand rested at his side. He appeared to be exchanging a few final words with General Cornwallis. Cornwallis said something, nodded to his country, and then left. The younger England then stepped inside his tent, making his way around the other soldiers to stand in front of his older self.
England's younger self rested his hands on the small table that stood in between himself and the older England. He dismissed his men, then narrowed his eyes at the older England, as if carefully scrutinizing him.
"What is your name?" the younger England demanded. Before England had a chance to reply, he added, "I have a feeling I already know, but I want to hear it from you."
I'm so glad I can recognize myself, England mused sarcastically. Well, America's already told his younger self what happens… how much more damage will I do if do the same thing with my younger self?
"My name is Arthur, sir," England said.
The younger England looked unimpressed. "What is your last name, Arthur?" he asked.
If he already knows the answer, there's very little point in not telling him, England thought.
"Kirkland."
The younger England took his hands off the table and stood at his full height. He did not look the least bit shocked or surprised at England's answer. He did, however, look a little confused.
"You are me," he concluded. "But, how is that possible?"
Come on, me, you've fiddled with enough black magic in your lifetime to know that bizarre things like this can happen, England thought.
The younger England furrowed his brow, examining his older self's appearance a second time.
"I've never seen clothes like what you're wearing, either," the younger England said. "I don't think they're foreign, yet they don't look like anything I've seen in my own country…"
He paused to think, staring intently at the floor.
"There's only one explanation I can think of," the younger England said, returning his attention to the older England. "But it involves magic…"
Good God, my younger self is almost as smart as America, England thought, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.
"A spell going awry, perhaps?" the younger England asked.
England raised an eyebrow. "It's possible," he said.
His younger self let out an exasperated sigh and shot England a death glare.
"Your identity notwithstanding, you are my prisoner," the younger England warned. "And if you don't cooperate, then I will do whatever I deem necessary to make you cooperate. Is that understood?"
Knowing all too well what that threat entailed, England nodded. At that, the younger England relaxed somewhat, and went to the back corner of the tent to retrieve something. A few seconds later, he returned to the table with England's spellbook in hand. Setting the book down, he then opened it to a random page and looked pointedly at England.
"This was the only book you had on you when my men captured you, so I think it's safe to assume that, whichever spell it was, it was out of this book," the younger England said. "So, tell me, of the spells contained in this book, which one was it?"
England took a deep breath as his mind raced. Showing his younger self the spell was tantamount to telling him that he had come from the future; but at the same time, he couldn't not show him. And, punishments and torture aside, the younger England would probably figure out which one it was anyway. Biting his lip, England reached for the book.
Wait, I ended up using more than one spell to bring America and myself here, England realized. I think I can get away with showing only one of them.
After thinking about it for a few seconds, England flipped several pages, eventually stopping on one of the spells he had used. His younger self leaned in close and looked at the spell, furrowing his brow as he did so. The tent was silent for over a minute before the younger England finished looking at the spellbook.
"I'm afraid that doesn't explain much," the younger England said. "Unless the spell went horribly wrong…"
England nodded quickly.
The younger England looked contemplative for a moment, but then shook his head vigorously.
"Tell me what happened," the younger England demanded. "Every detail."
"That teleportation spell," England began, gesturing at the spellbook. "If any of the sigils are incorrectly drawn, or the incantation is recited improperly, then a teleportation paradox can result. I think you already know this."
"Yes, I am aware of the risks of spells going wrong," the younger England said with a tinge of annoyance. "But you're not doing what I told you. Explain what happened."
"I don't know what there is to explain," England said. "One of us attempted to cast this spell, and something went wrong, and accidentally copied himself exactly, right down to the memories."
"I don't remember attempting to cast this spell," the younger England growled. "Obviously not all of the memories remained intact."
England shook his head. "I never said the memories all remained intact; I said they were copied exactly," he said. "I don't remember this any more than you do. I only pointed out that spell in the spellbook because it's the only one that could possibly have resulted in this situation."
The younger England folded his arms, looking thoroughly unimpressed.
"Liar," he said. "You know exactly what happened."
England threw up his hands. "I swear, I'm telling the truth!" he lied. "I don't remember-"
"Don't think you can lie to your own self!" his younger self snapped.
At this point, he walked around the table and seized England by the collar. England's first instinct was to grab the other England's hand and try to force him to let go, but he immediately thought better of it. Instead, he just stood there and exchanged glares with his younger self.
"If you're really an exact copy of me; you have my memories and everything, then you should know what I'm willing and capable of," the younger England said, anger edging into his voice. "You probably have a good idea of what I'm thinking right now. With that in mind…"
He grabbed England's collar with both hands and tightened his grip. When England still said nothing, he lifted England about an inch or two off the ground. In a split second of panic, England reached for the younger England's hands and tried to force them open so he would let go.
The younger England's patience evaporated. In a lightning move, he hurled England over the table, and the elder nation landed in a crumpled heap, face down in the dirt. When England recovered, and was about to come to his feet, he found his younger self standing over him.
"The truth," the younger England demanded. "Now."
(-)
With some patience and effort, America managed to reach the British side of the battlefield undetected. By the time he got there, however, the battle was over; only the dead remained on the field. British cavalry had taken off in pursuit of the remainder of the American forces, and the rest of the British troops had left, most likely headed back to camp. America tried to follow their trail.
His pace was slowed by the still-healing wound in his back, and it wasn't long before America lost sight of the British troops altogether. However, America was reasonably certain of where they were headed, and continued walking in that direction.
When I do find the British camp, how am I going to get in there, find England and get us out without being seen? America thought. My clothes wouldn't exactly blend in very well.
Coming to a stop, America leaned against a tree to rest, and to inspect his wound. To his relief, the bleeding had stopped, and the wound was already starting to heal.
Maybe I could steal a British uniform, America thought. He took his jacket off and dropped both it and England's jacket – which he had been carrying on his shoulder during his walk – on the ground. Both jackets were rather heavily stained with blood.
America took his shirt off as well to see how badly stained it was. It was even worse than the jacket; most of the upper back part of it was thoroughly saturated.
Definitely going to have to steal a uniform…
Putting his shirt and jacket back on for the time being, America slung England's jacket back over his shoulder and resumed walking.
(-)
After a long and tiresome day, Norway retired to his bedroom and collapsed onto his bed. Grateful to finally have a chance to rest after going several days almost nonstop, the Nordic nation drifted off to sleep rather quickly. He did not stir until over an hour later.
Rousing himself slowly and gently, Norway eventually made it back to his feet. Feeling sufficiently rested for the time being, Norway headed to his study; he would return to bed later that evening for a full night of sleep.
Norway turned on the laptop that sat on the desk in the study, then took a seat at the desk. While he waited for the computer to finish booting up, Norway checked his phone for messages and missed calls. There turned out to be several.
There was one from Denmark, which Norway ignored. He'd already gone to Copenhagen to deal personally with the other Nordic nation, so that particular missed call was unimportant now. Another call was from Sweden; Norway decided to make a mental note of this one. He'd have to call Sweden back later and find out what he wanted because, for some reason, Sweden didn't like to leave messages.
Eventually, Norway found that he had a message from England.
England? Norway wondered. What does he want? Probably something to do with exports or trade…
Both of his guesses would turn out to be wrong. Norway pushed the button to play back England's message.
"Norway, this is England. I'm calling to request your assistance; America and I are conducting an investigation of some possibly magical activity going on in one of his states, and your expertise in the magical field may prove useful. If you are willing and able to assist us, please call back as soon as you can."
Norway's eyebrows went up.
"A magical disturbance in the United States…?" he mumbled. He leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling, thinking.
This call is from a couple of days ago, and he hasn't tried to call back, so it doesn't seem like it's urgent, Norway thought. I can probably afford to wait until tomorrow to call him back… I'll call him after I talk to Sweden.
Norway put the phone away and turned his attention to the computer. There were a few administrative things he needed to do on the computer before calling it a day.