Author's Note: Sorry about the wait, guys. I ended up scrapping the entire chapter several times before getting something that worked. Please let me know if this is acceptable.
I really wanted to get this in before the new year too, but certain RL things have been interfering as well.
Enjoy.
A third attempt to open the temporal gate in the same place was all but guaranteed to fail, so England tried directing the spell somewhere else. Remembering back to his very first attempt back in London, he poured all of his energy and focus into recreating what had happened there.
He scarcely paid attention to the words of his chant. His concentration had narrowed the world to just him, the incantation circle, and his destination. Each syllable in the incantation flowed out of his mouth with his barely being aware of it, while in his mind's eye, he carefully constructed the scene he had seen back in London. As soon as the picture was complete, he stopped chanting, and opened his eyes.
Already something had clearly gone wrong. The picture did not match exactly. It was definitely the same room he remembered seeing back in London, but there were obvious changes to the scenario that he had not anticipated.
For some reason, the spell had recreated the scene such that he appeared to be facing the opposite direction from last time. Now he faced the room's door, and he saw a man his height, with his hair, and wearing strange clothes standing next to it. England turned around, quickly taking note of the empty chair in front of the desk. There was no one else in the room.
Canada and America were here last time, England thought. I know I saw and heard both of them…
His thinking was disrupted by the sound of the doorknob turning. England turned around just in time to see his older self leave the room.
England stood still. The spell would follow wherever his older self went, allowing England to observe without having to move.
Or so he thought.
The door slammed shut, leaving England alone in the room. Nonplussed, England glanced down at his spellbook.
My older self is the focus, why didn't it follow him?
England took a few steps forward, until he was close enough to the door that he could reach it. Continuing to hold the spellbook open in one hand, he reached for the door with the other.
His hand closed around the knob, pressing the flesh of his palm and fingers against the smooth, metallic surface. He quickly withdrew his hand, as if the cool metal had actually been very hot.
Oh God… did I cross the temporal gate by accident?
The sound of the older England's footsteps gradually faded, and it grew unnervingly quiet in the room. For a minute, England just stood there, glancing at the open pages of his spellbook, and at his surroundings, wondering what to do.
I still don't know where or when this is, he thought.
Closing the spellbook and setting it on the bed, England walked over to the window. He drew the curtains back and looked outside. Nothing could have prepared him for the bizarre sight that greeted him.
Strangely shaped carriages of all kinds of colors raced by on a grayish black street. Even stranger, none of these carriages had any horses drawing them. Tall buildings, also of unusual design, lined the sides of the streets. At each intersection, some kind of contraption hung over the street, constantly cycling through green, yellow and red lights. Signs written in English denoted what England guessed were likely street names, addresses, or businesses.
Is this one of my cities, in the future?
Turning away from the window, England went to explore the room. Somewhere, there had to be something that would tell him where and when he was.
He went to the desk. After giving the single-legged, wheeled chair a doubtful look, he scanned the desk's surface. A set of keys sat in one corner, and even these didn't look quite normal.
England went to the bureau by the bed, picking up the various items one by one, trying to figure out what they even were. He picked up a thin rectangular object, and when he touched a finger to its dark, reflective surface, it lit up.
"What the –"
He almost dropped it. However, after looking at it again, he saw the message "slide to unlock" on the now brightly lit surface.
Slide what?
After staring at it for a few seconds, the England put it back on the bureau, and while he examined a long, thin cord with metal prongs on one end, the light on the other object turned off. Putting the cord back, England looked at the black box with the red numbers on it sitting on the edge nearest the wall. It took him a while to guess what the numbers actually meant.
Is this a clock? England picked it up as well. What do these symbols on the top mean?
England's inspection was interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps. Immediately going into a panic, he set the clock back on the bureau and cast about for somewhere to hide. He seized his spellbook and went over to the closet door by the desk.
His heart nearly stopped at the sound of the doorknob turning and the door swinging open. He froze, one hand still on the closet door handle, afraid to turn around.
"What the hell?"
England's hand slipped off the handle, and he nearly dropped his spellbook. That voice belonged to America.
Pivoting very slowly on his heel, England turned around to face the room entrance. Sure enough, there on the threshold stood his dead colony, very much alive.
"America?" England asked weakly.
"Dude," America said, his confused expression quickly morphing to one of annoyance. "Please tell me this is a prank."
"What?"
America's attention shifted from England's bright red uniform to the spellbook in England's left hand. America's face suddenly turned very pale.
"England?" he said, stealing a few apprehensive glances around the room as he spoke. "Where did you get that uniform? I'm pretty sure you didn't pack it with you when you left London…"
He's mistaking me for my older self, England thought. Maybe I can –
Not waiting for an answer, America abruptly turned around and went to the desk. He yanked the drawer open and pulled out a book.
"Oh, hell no," America said. "Not again."
Again? What does that mean?
America turned around, his earlier apprehensive expression now replaced with anger. Crossing the distance between the desk and England in just three strides, he halted right in front of England and held up the book he had taken from the desk. It looked exactly like England's spellbook.
"How did you get that?" America demanded, pointing at the spellbook in England's hand.
"It's mine," England said. "It came from my library in London."
America looked unimpressed.
"I highly doubt that," he said. "How did you get in here?"
England's eyes went wide with bewilderment.
"Sorry, what?"
America tossed the spellbook onto the bed, then walked over to the door – which had been left open since he came in – and closed it.
"Don't play dumb with me," he growled as he faced England again. "I can tell from that uniform you're not the England that I know. He hasn't worn anything like that in years, and definitely would not have brought a military uniform on a simple visit."
Visit to where? What is going on?
While England struggled to formulate a reply, America continued talking, apparently not wanting to wait for a reply.
"West Point," he said.
England blanched.
"What?" he said weakly.
"You're the England I saw at West Point, aren't you?"
England's throat closed, and he clutched his spellbook with both hands as his body began to break into a cold sweat. This was, in fact, the person England had seen kneeling beside America's body at the Battle of West Point. And yet, by all indication, this man was also America.
"How did you…?" England began.
"You're wearing the same uniform, holding the same spellbook," America interrupted, assuming he already knew what England's question was. "It makes sense. But what the hell are you doing here?"
"You were at West Point, along with my older self?" England asked. "You saw…?"
"Yeah, I saw," America said curtly. "I saw you shoot my other self. Watched him die right in front of me."
"But –" England gestured at America. "You're still alive!"
"I am," America said. "But you didn't shoot me."
England did a double take.
"But you're America, aren't you?" he protested. "You just said you watched yourself die!"
America gave an exasperated sigh. "Yeah, well…" he said. "Not quite. That America and I are not literally the same person. We're just different versions of the same person."
England shook his head, still confused. "What does that mean?"
"Well," America began. "England – not you, the one I know – said something about there being two timelines, and that they diverge at the Revolution."
"Two timelines," England muttered. He looked down at his spellbook, turning it over in his hand.
"In this timeline, I won," America continued. "In your timeline, I… that timeline's America died."
That explained why England had seen two Americas at West Point. It explained how this America had appeared to survive his own death; he hadn't died in the first place. And yet, for all the questions that had suddenly been answered, there was no relief to be found in those answers.
This wasn't his America. England closed his eyes, and his shoulders slumped as the realization weighed down on him. Though he had tried avoiding it for quite some time now, hoping that the time travel magic would show him how he could have America back; that he could somehow undo what he had done, England was once again confronted with the full weight of his actions. And this time, there really was no avoiding the truth.
He would never be able to have his America back. His blood would forever be on England's hands.
"So why are you here?"
England's head snapped up, jolted back to reality by America's voice. He locked gazes with this alternate America, inwardly wincing at the glare that met him. For a minute, England was totally lost for words.
After waiting impatiently for a minute without getting a reply, America heaved a very loud sigh.
"Whatever it is you want, you can't get it here," America said. "Go back to your world."
England's expression hardened. He wasn't ready to give up yet.
"What were you doing at West Point?"
"What?"
"If we're not from the same world, why were you there?" England demanded.
America looked away for a second, tapping his finger on the corner of the bed. When he returned his attention to England, however, his glare was no less diminished.
"Because the other America somehow got into this one," America said. "England tried to send him back, and accidentally sent all three of us. But maybe you can explain what magic you screwed up to create the… thing that brought the other America here."
"That was Canada's doing, not mine!" England blurted.
"Canada?"
America furrowed his brow thoughtfully. He took a step back, looking away again. The room fell silent.
"What did he do?" America asked finally.
England exhaled sharply and lowered his gaze, shaking his head.
"He stole the spellbook that the older me left," he said. "Whatever he did with it must have torn open some kind of magic portal connecting our worlds."
"He was probably trying to bring me back," America said grimly. "And you're saying that what he did ended up sending the other America to this world in the first place?"
Both England and America stared at each other in stunned silence for several seconds. England turned away from America, staring intently at the wall, biting down on his lip.
Canada tried to go back in time to prevent America's death, he thought. But something went wrong with the temporal portal… he failed…
"Damn it all…"
An uncomfortable silence fell on the room. England stared at the wall, still trying to process everything he had just learned. America waited quietly, shifting his feet and darting his gaze around the room.
"There's nothing we can do," America said quietly.
England opened his spellbook. With a trembling hand, he opened back to the page of the spell he had used earlier. As he traced a finger over the pattern of the incantation circle, his heart beat faster, and his mind raced.
"When will the other England return?"
(-)
Night fell on the rebel camp. Columbia had long since drifted off to sleep, but France remained by his brother's side. However, when a messenger came to the medical tent to inform him that General Hamilton had called for him, France immediately got up and followed the man to Hamilton's pavilion.
France stepped into the tent, and found the general standing over a table, holding a piece of paper. As soon as France had stepped inside, Hamilton waved him over and handed over the paper, and France began to read.
"Lafayette's couriers just delivered this today," Hamilton said.
It was a dispatch from Lafayette, up at West Point. And as France continued to read, he had increasing difficulty holding back his elation and relief. For the first time, some good news had come.
"French ships and Prussian guns," Hamilton said. "It seems news of our victory at West Point has finally earned some much-needed European support."
France flashed a brief smile.
"Yes," he said.
"Though I admit, our Prussian allies came as a surprise," Hamilton went on. "Did your friend have anything to do with that?"
France gave an unhelpful shrug.
"He's a respected officer in the Prussian military, but…" he said.
"He's more than that, isn't he?" Hamilton interrupted.
"What do you mean?"
"Relax," Hamilton said. "Matthew explained everything."
France nodded. So now he knows what we are, he thought. That may help…
"France?" Hamilton asked.
France nodded again. "And Monsieur Beilschmidt is the nation of Prussia," he said.
"Right."
Hamilton paced aimlessly for a minute, stroking his chin thoughtfully. The tent became awkwardly quiet, but then Hamilton came to an abrupt halt, focusing his attention on France once again.
"Your countrymen will be arriving soon," Hamilton said. "They will be needed in the fight to protect West Point."
"Yes."
"Lafayette already commands the garrison of Continental troops. I've entrusted the defense of that fort to him."
Hamilton rested his hands on the table. France shot him a quizzical look.
"What will you do?" Hamilton asked. "Join your men, or stay with your brother?"
France lowered his gaze, thinking. For a brief moment, he was torn.
As a nation, he was much better suited to fighting alongside his own people. And West Point was undoubtedly in dire need of help, as its strategic position would make it a deciding factor in this war. Its fall to British hands six years ago had already spelled out the death sentence of one nation; that could not be allowed to happen again. Yet at the same time, he couldn't bring himself to leave.
I can join Prussia and help protect West Point, or I can stay here and try to protect Mathieu, he thought.
"I will stay here," France said. For now…