Chapter 7: First Blood

"The little bastards burned it!"

India nods as Bill continued angrily about the vandals who had damaged his wall a month ago. At first glance Bill screamed 'pub owner', and then screamed it on the second and third glances just to make sure you had got the message. He was big, pinky-white, and bald as the proverbial egg. He was only five foot two, but made up for it in tattoos. "If you see them again send them straight to me and I'll sort them out."

India nods along and quietly strokes his fingers against the chilly surface of a beer. Non-alcoholic. England scowled at his orange juice. It wasn't really adorable that the child expected to be served alcoholic drinks, but he was medieval in his outlook. Literally. Bill gives the boy a funny look.

"He just wants to drink what I do." India takes a sip. It tasted more or less like the real thing.

Bill chuckles. "Chancer."

The pub was very English. The Dog and Duck had sat on the same site since Tudor times - and looked it. Heavy, dark wood paneling gave it a closed in feeling, and the furniture was so old that even years after the ban, it still smelled of cigarette smoke. The drinks had been somewhat updated, but still tended towards dark stouts and tooth rotting, brain-smashing ciders. As a concession to the times, it also served a spirits and a strawberry daiquiri that might have, if you were lucky, seen a strawberry at some point in its creation.

India takes another sip of his not-beer. "Can I have a look?"

Bill shrugs. "Sure, bring your beer and we'll have a look now if you like."

Just as they were getting up, a small hand grabs his sleeve. Suddenly, he remembers that England needs a translator.

"We're going to see the damage, you can wait here or come with." England hops off the stool and follows him, grabbing his juice as he does, and they leave through the small passage to the back of the pub.

"What happened?" he says, clearly bored.

"I'm not sure yet, older you marked that the owner had a problem with vandals. Fire, goats, property damage, similar to the last people we saw." Many things about the Thakurs experience still bugged him, from Arthur's convenient arrival to the sudden change in spell effect. Perhaps Norway was right and it really was a transformation. He took a glance at England, and his shocked look as he sips the orange juice. He suddenly took a large gulp of the sweet liquid, and India suppresses a small smile. Stunning work, if it was. One of a kind, probably.

The thought didn't sit easily.

"Here we go!" Bill threw open the door to the bin area and shoves the recycling skip out of the way. Behind it was a four pointed star array. Again. India gives a low hiss.

"I know right?" Bill plants his hands on his hips with a big sigh. "No idea what they used- welding torches maybe? But blow me I don't know any welding torches that could do that to solid bloody brick."

Indeed, the star-shaped array wasn't burnt onto the wall but melted straight into it. India walks up to it and (carefully) sticks his finger inside. It is narrow, so he has to wiggle a little, but he hit the back when his finger was in halfway. He turns to look at his young assistant, who shrugs.

"It's a high magic area?" England suggests. "Like the other house?"

"Hmm." India rubs the soot on his fingers. The four pointed star and the concentric circles were crisp and graceful- whoever had done this hadn't struggled at all. But what kind of welding torch could do that?

"So what do you think? There can't be that many people with the kit for this can there?" Bill had rolled up his sleeves, revealing the small black semi-colon on the inside of his wrist. "The CCTV's on the blink- useless hunk of junk- so I don't have any video or anything."

Just as India was about to answer, his phone buzzes.

When did you give your sister my number?

India blinks

For that matter when did she learn to use a phone?

Tell her I don't speak Bengali

I can't even google translate it ffs. Her dialect is too different

A small 'typing' icon bobs irritably at the bottom of the screen. India heads it off.

Send it to me?

Please?

It takes a moment, then a series of long paragraphs fill the screen, typed out in profoundly misspelled Bengali. Or rather, misspelled modern Bengali- but the worst was the sentence structure, which had fallen apart under the pressure of sleep deprivation. India tried to read it fast, but large chunks were incomprehensible. She'd found something in one of the Thakurs pictures, something they'd overlooked- the blanket was burned, a spontaneous array rather than one laid down and triggered, and -

And-

India felt his stomach drop and his heart race, face developing the funny tingling nearly pins and needles of a panic attack. His hands shake. He tries to suppress it, throw up his face of normality- eyes like this, mouth like that -

"Hey are you alright-?"

India's eyes snap back to the pub owner - whose face is much nearer than before. Bill reaches out to hold his arm- then yelps as England kicks his shins.

"England!" It comes out harsher than he meant, and Arthur jumps. He tries to soften his voice, but it is ruined by him panting like he's run a marathon. "Stop it!."

Both boy and man look visibly worried as they frog march him back into the pub and pour him into booth.

His head is spinning- being in close proximity to the kid isn't helping. He's swamped by feelings he thought long buried - piercing fear, uncertainty, and on its heels, acutely aware of where and when he was - guilt. His hearing muffles and his vision blurs. Then a glass of water is shoved into his narrow circle of vision.

It's odd, he doesn't remember putting his beer down.

"Drink some of that, ok? Take your time." Bill says, and he wraps India's hand around the glass. The cold hits his fuzzy head like a hammer, providing an anchor into reality and a focus point. He takes a gulp that makes his teeth hurt and feels the cold slink down into his stomach, livening up his deadened nerves all the way through.

"Hey! Sip it! You could choke- take your time!" A little hand shoves him aggressively in the arm. He barely represses a flinch. A sharp reproach in English. A confused murmur, then a clear voice. "Come on snap out of it! What's wrong?" The childish-ness of the voice itself is a relief in many ways.

Bill cuts him off. "Just sit quietly, take your time, ok? I'll bring you another water." His voice is firm and sounds reassuringly in control. Somehow Bill's discourage England from bothering him, impressive, considering they don't speak the same boy doesn't try to push him again. Instead, they let India come out of it on his own, hearing re-engaging, tunnel vision de-activating, and his heart rate slowly settling back to normal. He became aware that Bill was sitting across from him, and that England was perched on the edge of the sofa. They looked worried. Especially England.

"Sorry." He mutters, feeling guilty. Bill shrugs it off.

"I'll bring you more water. Stay here as long as you like mate." India nods, then turns to his phone.

"Could you get us some chips, please?" He wouldn't feel right till he'd dealt with the problem, and that might take a while. He is too light headed to drive anyways. Bill gives him a thumbs up. He didn't look at England. Instead he turned to the text, and begins to translate.

Hello Norway, ally and friend.

I need your knowledge about the magical curse upon me, england and your children. your friend and me have looked at magic happenings. we have identified fires and vandalisms that match in lots of ways the one on us.

One switched a man and a goat, and made a fire. the array was spontaneous. adult england's books suggest this is impossible, from your knowledge - how (if) can you power this?

On the second note, england was employed by victims to investigate and help. to you and my brother (your friend) he is a suspect.

With respect to your knowledge - this is not in the evidence. england looked at these curses - tried to replicate them after they had been used. he couldn't succeed. this I must emphasise. additionally, he tried to help free of charge. when problems stayed he made protections for them. I think they worked, but I am a beginner looking at this- you can confirm. We must think again.

He was helping them.

India looks at his translation, fingers shaking. Corrects a few spelling mistakes.

Then hits send.

He barely managed the drive home. His head was in a fugue as bad as the ones he'd get in the 1920s, and his limbs felt like they were connected by puppet strings- never quite where they were supposed to be. It took all his focus to make the short drive back to the house. He pulled into the driveway to the grinding of gears as he fought with his arms to shift them.

He flops his head on the steering wheel, England's high voice hazy and distant. This was insane. He was insane. How could he feel so dissociative when they now knew England wasn't at fault. Wasn't sliding back (probably). Wasn't plotting (probably). Bitter, hard won suspicion battered away at his ribcage under the smothering smoke of dissociation and reason. In his mind's eye he could see the people he talked to, he could see the others who'd survived and escaped. The ones who thought he'd gotten over it. Bengals face front and center. In his mind's ear he could hear her voice.

Why are you upset? Isn't this good?

Is it? It was mad, perhaps to talk to yourself- but in the claws of the storm he couldn't care less. He had for the longest time- centuries- wanted England to change. He'd wanted the relationship without the exploitation, the hurt, the humiliation of disrespect. He'd wanted the biting humour and barely stifled passion. He hadn't wanted to be caged. He'd tried, and tried, and tried. It'd taken World War 1 for him to realise that nothing was ever going to change. It freed him as much as it hurt him.

Now I'm wrong.

The thought opens up a yawning terror inside him. The kind that had him scrubbing floors till three in the morning. The kind that made him change his kameez for a western suit and bite his tongue. A sharp pinch bought him back to reality just long enough to hear Arthurs childish voice.

"Do you want me to get Bengal?" His voice is soft, and unlike him. India had expected him too shout. Or maybe Arthur expected him to shout. It's an unhappy thought that doesn't quite bounce off his dissociated brain. He apologizes, he's not sure what for. The previous hour is a mess in his head.

The boy shakes his head, though India can't make sense of why, and hops out of the car. He stares after him a moment before resting his head back on the steering wheel and giving in to the panic attack.

The array glistened in the afternoon light- almost a week since it's discovery and only the edges had gone brown and flaky. Did the array store magic? Or was to blood itself magical? Moreover, what had England found out? What had he hoped to achieve, the night before that fateful meeting? Bengal makes a note on her paper.

Bengal stares at the note, and blinks. She then slowly, seriously, takes a sip of tea. She makes a face and spat the cold, clammy liquid back in the cup, swilling her saliva around to purge the remainder. She puts it with the others. Five in a cluster like a rejected little tribe, milk scum floating on top. Any more and she'd run out of mugs.

But who cared! She had a lead, a focus to direct her attention - she was jittery with sleep deprivation and excitement. They could move forward. Finally.

Now if only she could hold a train of thought for longer than a minute.

"Bengal!" A voice. Again she blinked, looking around for the source. "Bengaal!" Vaguely she wonders if she'd finally started hallucinating from tiredness.

Then England crashes through the door in a very un-hallucinogenic way. His yells were cut short as a cup skids away under his feet - spinning away and knocking the rest over. Tea spilled everywhere as he flailed, catching himself on the door handle with a yelp. She sighs and stands up before it could soak into her dress. For a horrible moment the world tipped sideways. She catches herself on the wall. She was fine.

England, heavy bags under worried eyes, stares at her in shock. Perhaps she shouldn't have worked through her nap.

"You ok?" he says. Vaguely she wonders if she should pat him again, get him used to taking comfort, because she wasn't that bad. She smiled at him. It didn't help.

"Yes." She says, eventually. "Are you?"

"India's sick- he's talking funny and can't get out the car! I can't pull him out on my own!" She rubs her ringing ears at his shrill voice. Panic oozed into her from somewhere beneath her navel.

"Show me."

Trying to walk down the stairs shows her that she is not fine. She hopes the kid doesn't notice but the world is tipping like a ship in a storm for her. He doesn't, and she makes her wobbly way into the sharp sunlight on the drive, pausing only to grab a scarf and quickly wrap it round her hair. Its barey decent, but it'll do. India is slumped over on one side, his hands white on the steering wheel. He almost looks like he's passed out.

He doesn't respond much when she gets there either, only raising his head when she shakes his shoulder. Far from being glazed over, his eyes are blown wide, irises pitch black and surrounded on all sides by white sclera. His eyes are terrified. And he's panting too- shallow and fast. However, unlike the seizures, she knows this. She's seen it too many times to count.

"Brother can you hear me?" He nods like a drunkard. Gently she places a hand on his back and rubs it. There's nothing to do but wait it out. "I'm going to take you inside - you understand?"

At first he shakes his head, but eventually she cajoles him out. It's hard because, although he's responding to her voice, she doesn't think he can hear her very well. She's not sure if the future has a better name for hysteria- but from her own experience she knows how it can deafen you. His limbs don't seem to be responding right either - when he stands he sways perilously. She leans him on her. England takes his other arm without question. Between them they get him out of the car, over the threshold, and sit him on the sofa. He immediately slumps sideways.

"C-" His breathing is so heavy his voice gets cut off before words can fully form. "Car...the keys.. inside. ." He makes an attempt to stand up. She puts a had on his shoulder, which he immediately pushes off. "The car's ...unlocked.. I need.. To go back."

Her knees have folded up under her from tiredness, but she understands enough to turn to England, who's also visibly swaying despite his stiff posture. "Go get the keys and lock the car please."

As he lurches off India tries to shout after him. "Its a button press!" But it's swallowed up by his breathing.

"He'll figure it out." She places a hand on his knee to reassure him. The look he gives her is wild.

"How do you know?" She rubs his knee. She doesn't know, but saying that will only make it worse.

"He's a smart boy." India lets out a horse, bitter laugh that chokes itself off in a sob. He buries his head in his hands. Her stomach clenches and she rubs his shoulders with her hands, trying to comfort him. His muscles tremble under her finger tips.

"Its ok, it's alright, we're fine-" Bengal has never had a mother. The twins claim to remember her, claims she found her in the delta of the Ganges, but without memory it may as well not have happened. All she can draw on is the few times she's watched human women comfort children. Or men comfort young boys (and, occasionally, girls) on the battlefield. She always made herself scarce. Comforting was Nakulas job. So she can't be sure she's doing it right. She keeps it up. Slowly his sobs subside and are replaced by deliberately slow, deep breathes. Under his breath she can hear him muttering on the out flow-

"One, two, three, four." Then in for the same amount of time. It reminds her a little of meditation. She can't recall it being used like this. Gradually, his shaking subsides too. She hears the door shut and England stumble into the room. She take a glance at him. Somehow, he's grazed his face. The boy flushes under scrutiny, but she turns her attention immediately back to her brother before he can say anything.

"It's ok." He croaks. He's still breathing in fours. "I'm alright. Just check he's locked the car properly." She pauses, he doesn't look ok. He pulls his hands away from his face, his eyes are swollen. "Please. I'm ok, I just need a moment." He pulls a weak smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

Reluctantly, she takes her hand off and nods. She tries not to feel hurt that he's shutting her out again. She just has to try and trust him to do what's best for himself. A week ago she'd have had no qualms, but now?

"Call me if you need anything, all right? You understand, you big idiot?" Her voice is deadly serious. He nods.

She carefully stands up- its hard, and she stumbles before catching herself. She takes one last look at Nakula, whose face is buried back in his hands, before heading into the kitchen, boy on her heels. She puts the kettle on.

"What happened?"

England's face twists and he sighs. "I told you , one minute he was fine, then he's going grey and moping all over the shop."

"And nothing else happened" She hears a noncommittal grunt from behind her just as the kettle boils. She takes it off the heat. "By the way, have you had anything to eat?"

"No, maybe, I don't know!" She turns to look at him, he's looking at his feet but is very tense. He doesn't say anything else.

"And?"

He looks at her, face warped by stress. "And what?"

"Did you have anything to eat?"

"Oh." He blinks. "I'm fine, I had chips. India didn't eat any though." He bites his lip. She pours out the tea and puts it on the table for them before rooting out the ginger cake. It'd been one of India's experiments, seeing if they still liked the same things as their older selves. The results had been mixed, but the ginger cake had been a resounding success.

England sat and fidgeted as she cleared the table, moving her Quran and the pages of notes off to the side so there'd be room. His hands were shaking. He hid them under the table when he caught her looking.

They don't even sit for a minute before the dam bursts.

"I think I did something wrong. Me and the big man were both speaking to him at the same time, I think he wanted to know why the wall was so melted, and I wanted to know what he was saying but I don't think he could cope with the two languages at the same time cause he went grey and wobbly and started breathing heavy-" he took a deep breath, face flushed from distress, eyes shining, "-But he speaks two languages all the time so I don't know what I did wrong. But he apologised in the car and I don't know why! You've gotta help me!"

He's panting almost as hard as India now, and internally she steels herself, she hadn't been storing her energy to support them, and it takes a moment to process what he's said. And try to say something palatable.

"What did you say to him?" In her defence, she'd never claimed to be good at it. The boy pales sharpley.

"I don't know!" he wails. Whatever steely pride had been holding him up all week seems to crumble now as his head collapses into his hands, nails biting deep into his scalp. She freezes, every instinct trained by years with siblings tells her now is the time for a hug, but she knows the boy would fight to the death rather than accept. Instead she proffered the only thing likely to distract him.

"Cake?" She plonks a large, sticky slice of ginger cake next to him. He ignores it. She tries to think about what could have caused India's meltdown. Things like that, well. When she'd experienced them it had always been because she'd felt hopeless, like the future was going to crush her - grind her up like a bug and there was no escape. She didn't think anything the child could say could have caused that. She pauses. Well, almost anything.

But England would have noticed. She glances at him, curled up in on himself- he doesn't look like he's lying. It must be something else.

Then, horribly, an idea strikes her.

"Give me a moment." He looks up at her, puffy eyed as she sneaks into the next room.

Just in time to see India heading out the door.

"Where do you think you're going?" It comes out angrier than she meant it. He looks at her as he pulls on a light brown jacket, one half of him bathed in sunlight.

"For a walk," He still doesn't look quite right. "I just need some time to myself."

She opens her mouth. "I'll be alright." He says, and holds up his phone. "You remember how to take calls right? I won't be long."

She shuts it, it's not like she can force him to do anything. He gives her a thin smile, and walks out the door. It clicks shut just as she hears a yelp from the kitchen. She runs back in to see England halfway across the room cradling his hand to his chest, boiling hot tea all over the table.

There's a moment of panic when she tries to pull him over to the tap, fails, and has to try and persuade the scalded teanager to tend to himself. "It'll heal in a moment! I'm fine" is not really what she wants to hear. But she can't make him move, so all she can do is hand him a towel to mop up the burning liquid as the boy resolutely ignores his red, shiny burn. She glances at her notes.

Because whatever he says, this is not fine.

The sun beats down on his back shockingly hot as he walks around the neighborhood. He likes to walk, he finds it freeing, and it normally takes him away from his paperwork. It's like that now, not so much walking towards as away. Giving himself some breathing room. Because something had to give, and if he wasn't careful, it'd be him.

How can you run away- they need-

He blots the thought out there. Bengal was a grown adult, not a little lost lamb. If she wanted him to trust her… He shook his head and changed direction once, twice, letting himself get lost in a way that was physically impossible on home turf. His thoughts chased themselves, fragments of memory, and flashbacks, and thoughts blending together into a confusing, conflicting soup. He walked quicker, barely avoiding bumping into others in his haste to get away from himself.

He walked until he was too hot to continue. He wasn't tired, nations were tough as oxen, and such a short walk meant nothing to him. But that didn't stop respiration. He was soaking in sweat- in his defence the coat had seemed like a good idea. An extra layer between himself and the world. The UK was normally cold enough to accommodate. No wonder England was so fond of them.

He sighs, and stops dead in his tracks outside a coffee shop. Because this was what it came down to. Again. He pushes the door in and joins the que, barely conscious of his surroundings, only just remembering to hold the door for an old lady with a green jewel on her finger.

England. What was the phrase? Can't live with them, can't live without them? Except normally that meant you had the desire to be with them, not desiring to chuck them to the other side of the galaxy. Being free, being on the other side of the world, seeing him only at public meetings, was enough. Was the compromise he could survive. Could thrive on, even. He was a living reminder that India would never settle for less, ever again. He orders a chai and feels himself slump.

Because he couldn't cope with this. It'd barely been two weeks and he could feel his head slip away from him. It wasn't even as if it was like he was dealing with England proper.

How does Ireland even cope?

By bitching at you. And drinking. His brain supplies. It didn't help. Especially since guilt had joined the anger and deep ingrained fear in his stomach. He sighs again, unable to stifle it. The barrister, a bouncy young woman in her twenties, flounces up.

"Here you go sir! Sorry for the wait!" and she presents him with his… coffee?

"I ordered a chai?" he says, staring confusedly at the frothy top. It had a fern painted in it.

"Yes, a chai latte?" Her beatific smile crinkles uncomfortably around the edges. "Is there a problem?"

"No, no! Thanks." He walks away, unwilling to cause a fuss- then cursed himself as he sat down. He wasn't meek, or cowed, or too stifled to speak up and explain what he actually wanted. And then he felt awful. She was only doing her best. And according to Bengal he'd never cowered. So why did it even matter?

Because that's not how I remember it.

And then he was back in the spiral. Old and new memories overlapping, guilt and anger and fear digging and clawing into his stomach until he felt he was going to be sick-

"Excuse me," says a soft, confident Marathi voice, "May I sit with you?"

He looks up, but was so out of it he didn't respond for a second.

"Or perhaps not? Would you be better with this?" Her voice trembles with nerves for a moment as she transitions to slightly accented Bengali.

"No it's fine!" He replies in Marathi. "I was just surprised, is all."

The lady sits down in a flurry of bright clothes, a small thump into the chair at the end suggesting a leg injury- or perhaps at her age, arthritis. She was a handsome woman, with grey shot through her black hair, and wrinkles around her serious, watchful eyes. She rests a pink walking stick against the table as a waiter brings her tea and biscuits. She looks familiar.

"Could you get a cup, please," she turns and says to the girl in English. "For my friend."

She pours him a cup.

"Chai tea," she says with a smirk. "You have to specify here." She pauses for a moment, looking suddenly uncertain. "You don't mind if we continue in Marathi do you, only my English isn't so-"

"No! No! Marathi's better for me- whatever suits you." She breathes out in noticeable relief and waves her hand in a way that says to him, well you know. A green ring glints on her finger.

"Wait, you aren't Mrs Thakur are you?" She nods.

"And you're they young man who visited my sons." It's not a question. "Vithala?"

"Vihaan." They sit in silence. "I should thank you for the cake, you're husband must be a happy man."

She snorts derisively. "I hope not, he's dead." India's face flushes with shock and embarrassment as he tries to backpedal, but she waves him off like an annoying fly.

"Don't apologize child, it was the best day of my life. It's why I refuse to wear white, you know." She gestures down at her garish gown, bright green and covered in sequined patterns. "If there's any justice in the world he'll have been reincarnated as a slime mould." She takes a dignified sip of tea.

"I'm sorry to hear about your friend." India's mouth dries up.

"Coworker." She gives him a long look. He squirms.

"Sorry, I just assumed you were still close." India's stomach flips over as he takes a large mouthful of scalding tea. "Since he left you holding the baby- how do your kind even reproduce anyway?"

He chokes. He splutters. He snorts boiling tea out his nose. "Well, I believe- garrg - that you get a surrogate-

"Not that you silly boy, I have sons, I'm old, not backwards." She gives him a stern look."I meant as a nation? Avatar?"

He gets the sensation of falling. His stomach flips itself back over and lodges itself somewhere in his throat. He becomes acutely aware of the bright lights and busy tables, and of how he's on a sofa against the wall. No way to leave.

"That's a state secret Thakur." His voice croaks - for good reason. Humans got a bit funny about personifications of their communities. At best they just measured everything you did and ate, augers haunting your every step like vultures. At worst...well, there were good reasons why they'd allowed themselves to fade into myth centuries ago.

To her credit, Mrs Thakur winces. "I know, I'm sorry- my father was a civil servant before he joined the marches. He recognised you immediately. Don't worry, I don't think anyone would believe me if I told them."

She continues. "You exactly the same."

He smiles a little. "Immortality will do that for you."

"I suppose so." She takes a little sip of tea, then purses her lips into a grimace. "But I meant that you look like you did in Arthurs pictures.." She sees the look on his face. "He has them on his mantle piece, that's why I thought you were still close. I'm sorry."

"I suppose it's going to seem a bit silly but I only realised who you were when you walked through the door the other day. It's your voice, I think." Her eyes take on the far off look of the old when recalling something very far away. Extremely far. If her father had recognised him during the independence marches or even the salt marches, she must have seen him when she was just a little girl.

He doesn't say anything.

She looks sad. "I suppose that must mean that Arthur is the same type as you. Who is he then, really, Britain?"

"England."

"Oh." She has a far off look on her face. "No wonder my boys were so trusting of him."

He feels his brow crease. "You weren't?" Generally people who immigrated where as much a part of the nation as anyone else, though they never lost that thread to their first home. Being around England should have been as natural as breathing.

She gives a sharp toothed smile. "A he fights his family constantly, he even told me that he'd driven everyone away. Even the man he loved." She shrugs. "I can read between the lines."

India's voice catches in his throat- it takes him a moment to regain composure.

"Did he really help your boys without asking for anything?"

She gives him a serious look. "Yes."

He gropes around for another explanation. "And did you ever get the feeling that he had some other interest, a plan- or just something he wasn't telling you?"

"Other than being the immortal embodiment of England?" she says, one eyebrow raised. He purses his lips at her.

"No." She says. Her voice was firm. "I have a good sense of people and he goes to my crochet club. And I knew he could be erratic from Ishaan. He never did anything untoward."

"And your boys would never hide their worries from you, or lie to cover something up?" He couldn't deny, something had been off in that conversation.

"No!"

India feels the floor fall out from under him, his stomach shrivels and his palms sweat. There's no escaping it. He was wrong, Bengal was right. See, I told you he didn't do it.

Mrs Thakur takes a sip of tea. "If it helps, my husband was always lovely to people outside the family."

"Arthur wasn't." He replies flatly. "He coasted by on sarcasm and his political convenience." There was little more useful than the combined knowledge and determination of a loyal creature that cannot die and will not rebel.

A moment of silence opens up between them. The coffee cools untouched in a mug as India taps his fingers against his tea cup.

"I don't think he liked himself very much." India says slowly. An internal dam broke, and the words flowed out. "He used to get drunk- or high- a lot. He was arrogant, a tyrant when sober. But when he drank he'd sometimes be easier to handle. Gentler. He didn't dwell on things so much." Memories of sopping up vomit and blood, of hauling back a sobbing man and holding him till he stopped. His hand tightened involuntarily on his cup. "Or he'd be worse. Much worse."

He sends a desperate glance to Mrs Thakur. He doesn't want to explain this, but is scared he might not be able to stop. She nods in understanding.

"And he'd apologize sometimes. He'd be nearly normal. And I'd think- I can make this work. You know? Especially because he always tried to stick to his own rules." It'd been one of the things he'd genuinely admired- England barely gave a shit about what others thought of him, but he had his own code. India is, and always had been, a social butterfly. He'd admired that. They'd admired each other. It makes him feel sick to remember it. "Do you know what was so bad about this, really? It made him predictable - to me at least. And I could use that. Sometimes. And I could-"

"Protect the others." Mrs Thakurs eyes were as far away as India felt. He nods. It takes him a long time to forgive himself, that. It wasn't something he could pride himself on. After all it's not like he could have died.

"And he thought himself good. Because he'd only occasionally smack us about." His voice shakes with anger.

"They always think that." Mrs Thakurs voice is heavy with disdain. They lapse into silence.

"Mine liked to dance." Her voice is quiet, but strong. Unlike him, she sounds like this topic is well worn. He wonders if she saw a doctor. "I tried to find as many classes as I could. I had blisters on my feet for years." She shakes her head. "Can't stand it now."

"We'd watch Shakespear." He'd never grown sick of them though, they'd been an escape.

Again they lapse into silence, nursing their hurts. It took a weight off him, to talk to someone who knew how bad it could get. Bengal… Just wasn't Bangladesh. She hadn't lived through it. Yet. His heart clenched. She liked him.

India was tolerating him for the greater good.

"One thing I don't understand." Her voice is slow. "Is why you don't just take the child and run."

His mouth goes dry. "Mrs Thakur- "

"Padma." She gives a wan smile. "I think we're beyond formalities, don't you? What I mean is - you escaped. Arth- England - is not your problem anymore. I like living here, I even get like Arthur well enough. But, what's the phrase? He made his bed- let him lie in it. If he- if he has no one who wants to help- that's his own fault."

He looks at her, and tries to organise his feelings into something that makes sense. If anyone deserved to be left alone to suffer- he suppresses a shudder at the thought- it was England. The man never wanted help anyway. But that's not an image he can sustain. Instead his brain measures that horrible unpredictability next to him trying to help. This strange thing casting spells that should be impossible. Little England seizing, blood dripping from his face. And a wrinkled, thin man in a dhoti- fighting for freedom without ever firing a shot.

"Because it would be wrong." Padma's eyebrows shoot up, and he rushes to clarify. "For me anyway. I think he's in real danger- and I don't want that." He doesn't say, so is my sister, because he realises to him, that's not relevant. He could have left England behind. It's strangely painful to realise why he didn't. "I haven't wanted that for a long time."

Padma gives him a soft look. "Is that why you joined the non-cooperation movement?"

"No." India is a bad pacifist. He'd joined because, after a certain amount of time, England couldn't justify hitting someone who didn't fight back. Predictability. It had ruled his life.

"How about you?" Her eyes widen.

"Me?"

"Why didn't you take Arjun and run?"

She looks sad. "Nowhere to run to, I suppose. And who would I be if I did- hah! Some unreliable' divorcee, immigrant, single mother. I barely even spoke Englinsh- he wouldn't let me learn you know. All the other ladies thought I was too proud. Or stupid." She looks at her teacup. "Even the Asians." She smiles forlornly. "I never was good at making friends."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be, he's long dead now." She shakes her head, looking pained. "Is that why you can bare to look for him? Because you escaped and I didn't?"

"I -" he closes his mouth, starts again, "-I don't think so. It's been longer for me." They live so long that, though he thinks they're very like their citizens, some solutions are just open to them that- aren't. To humans. But he's also stronger now, no longer fracturing at the edges, or willing to entertain dangerous men just to wrestle control out of chaos.

Vaguely, he is aware that most of the patrons have filtered out. Sunlight still streams through the windows- but it's noticeably lower in the sky. The waitstaff are packing up, mopping and cleaning tables. He takes a sip of tea and makes a face. It's gone cold.

"I don't know what to do." He says. "I don't know if it matters that he didn't ask for payment. His kid-" he pauses for a half-second at the lie, but stops himself from backtracking, "- his kid is showing signs of being like him."

"Oh." She winces. "I got lucky. Arjun's nothing like his father."

"I think my sister wants me to forgive him." He blurts it out. It's unfair, perhaps, but the fear is there. Padma sips some tea.

"Was your sister there?" she asks eventually.

He opens his mouth, closes it, then opts for honesty. "No."

"Then I don't think she gets a say, do you?" Her voice is firm, and allows no argument.

There's a gentle cough next to them.

"Sorry," says the bouncy barrister in English, "But we're closing soon.."

"No problem, we were just finishing." India replies. He feels wrung out and dry, but lighter too. Padma nods. He helps her to her feet, wincing at the audible click of her arthritic knees. Humans aged so painfully. They walk out the door together.

"See! There he is!" India turned in surprise. England was running up the street, rudely pointing right at him. He turns to yell at Bengal, who is following at a more sedate pace. "I told you he was around here!"

She rolls her eyes.

"That's what you said three streets ago!" As they get closer he can see they must have got a little sleep- their faces are flush with health and they're standing straight again. Doubtless that was why England could find him now. He feels a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. England also had a bandage on his right hand. He'd have to ask about that later.

He turns back to Padma. "Goodnight, thankyou for talking to me." He means it.

She gives him a long look, then smiles. "Likewise. Take care, India."

So I just want to clarify- you are under no obligation to contact, help, care for, or forgive someone who has abused you, and no-one has the right to ask you to. At the same time there are some people who do remain in contact, or make contact years later, or contemplate it. I have, and I know of others who do. Not everyone has the same responses, and as long as they keep themselves safe and free, it's an option. India's choices here are occuring in that context. Also nations live much longer than humans, and are basically immortal. I think that'll have a pretty big effect on how they relate to violence- also a nation that was violent is more likely to change than a human, just because of the time scales involved.

I've also chosen not to go into the gory details either of British violence in India or Arthurs violence against Vihaan. It's too easy for that kind of thing to become torture porn for my tastes, and honestly, it doesn't matter as much as the effects. If I think it's incharacter for them to talk about that then I will- but otherwise? It's not that sort of story. Again the emotional impact matters more to me.

Also, whilst a lot of panic attacks can be very low key (or even invisible), I have absolutely seen panic attacks on the scale India has here :( The dissociation can definitely affect it also, and unfortunately I've experienced dissociation so severe that it messes with your ability to stand.

From what I've read, the interwar years in India were where the independence movements (including Gandhi's non-cooperation movement) but this was also met with violence from the British administration. Protesters risked arrests and beatings- the worst being the 1919 Amritsar massacre. At the same time this was a long time before India gained independence. So I think this would have been a difficult time for India- as he was actively trying to escape but not free of England's control yet.

Trivia fact! Mindfulness, especially mindful breathing is useful for managing anxiety and was heavily inspired by controlled breathing in things like yoga and Buddhist meditation. So I think what India is doing here would probably remind her of it.

The Ganges is the holiest river in India and Bangladesh, and is in a lot of folktales. I headcanon that India, Pakistan and Bangladesh were all born in the Ganges.