Hello everyone. Good news, school is finally over! I can finally write in peace without stressing myself out with projects lol. For those who don't know, I sometimes draw scenes of this story (or just the UK+Ireland bros in general) on my tumblr. With that said, let's see how North is dealing with all of this.
Enjoy!
Warnings: swearing, mention of scars from burns,
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 handle 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.
Ahh North, your day keeps getting weirder and weirder, but hey, at least you know when you are now :D Next step is to pretend to be a normal kid. How hard could it be?
Have a great day/night!
Winter