Hello everyone! This is a follow-up of the cliffhanger of last chapter (sorry not sorry haha). For those who watched the show, you'll recognize the location right away. I didn't want to made up a whole location for one scene lol. Let's see how North is dealing with that shock of a revelation. The poor bean is just confused.

Enjoy!

Warnings: swearing, sight of blood (nothing explicit), slight violence

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 left 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, Seán, 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 face 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.

Same North, I would have been beyond confused if I were in your place. But hey, you get to see an actual castle with people living in it xD And can I say Scotland can be quite the badass when he wants to.

Scottish Gaelic:

"A h-uile duine, sgaoileadh" = Everyone, disperse!

"mo charaid" = My friend

"Cha robh mi a 'cadal!" = I'm not sleeping

Have a great day/night!

Winter