String of Time

by WinterWrites23

In 1997, while visiting Scotland, Northern Ireland travels back in time and finds himself in 1743, in the middle of the Jacobite Rising. He meets Scotland but realizes he's not the same brother he knows. Now, North has to find a way to go back to the present all the while hiding his identity as a nation, but most of all, hide his identity as the younger brother. Outlander AU.

10. The Liar's Spring

Hey everyone! This chapter is a bit longer than usual. Every time I tell myself to stop adding more scenes but I end up writing more lol. Also, for those who watched the show, this chapter is a mashup of episode 5 and 6 so if you recognize some dialogues, that's why. Get ready for more North being done with the world. He can't catch a break the poor guy lol

Also, many thanks to my dear friend Flove for beta reading and helping me with the last scene 3

Enjoy!

Edit (12/03/2022): Made a few changes for Andrew's character!

Warnings: swearing, historical inaccuracies, mild description of a burned corpse, inaccurate panic attack, one indecent joke (I think?), reference to the Belfast Blitz,

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Chapter 9

The Liar's Spring

On the road, October 1st, 1743

They were using him.

Northern Ireland was furious.

They were using him and they didn't bother to tell him why or for what cause.

He was beyond furious and yet, he was helpless. He couldn't do anything. How can he when they kept their mouth shut on the matter?

They had been travelling for almost two weeks now, and all North could do was sit by and watch whatever was happening before him.

It became a cycle. Another routine he was forced to live through.

They would arrive at a village and proceed to collect the rent and supplies as intended. They would then catch up with the news and in the evening, when they gathered at the tavern, Callum would tell his speech. The same speech where he would mention North's name, making people give money that wasn't part of the rent. Money that was hidden in a small pouch, secretly tucked away in Callum's pocket.

But why?

North tried to get some answers. Believe him, he really did. Those meetings screamed 'Look at me, I'm suspicious' all over them. That knot he felt in his stomach hadn't loosened ever since. Something was going on.

He had first asked Andrew about it the second they entered their rented room upstairs on that night. North had all but jumped on the youngest member of the clan for answers. However, Andrew firmly stated he won't say anything, that it was clan business.

Which North called bullshit because he heard his freaking name, therefore it was his business.

But Andrew was fiercely loyal and North doubted he would dare go against Callum's authority.

So, North turned to Hamish and Ian to pester them day and night with questions. He even tried to approach Malcolm, for heaven's sake. But the arseholes kept their mouth shut, or as Malcolm kindly told him—to get lost and threatening to cut his tongue off.

But North persisted. He was stubborn, damn it. It ran in the family. If he could win an argument with his brothers, he could easily argue his way to obtain answers. And obtain answers he did.

If he couldn't ask questions directly, then he would need to be sneaky about it and channel his inner Wales.

Did he feel bad for the methods he used to get the answers he wanted?

No. Well… kinda. Yeah, a little bit.

But was it worth it?

Abso-fecking-lutely.

You see, whenever you wrong Wales, he wouldn't outright scream at you. He would listen to your reasoning first, then would accept your apology before saying it was all water under the bridge.

But not without holding the biggest and longest-lasting grudge. That man could stay bitter for decades— hell, even centuries if he wanted to— and for the littlest of things. You forgot to water his plant and it died? Hard feelings. You ate the last of the cookies he saved for later? Resentment. You accidentally broke his favourite mug? Unfathomable enmity.

His brother may not be one to retaliate with violence, but he sure made you feel like shit for a mistake you made with one single look. He could be petty and everyone knew it. That was what made him terrifying during prank wars. His pranks could happen months after they ended and no one would expect it.

North was pretty sure Wales passed on his passive-aggressive nature to Canada and New Zealand when they were children because those three were experts at throwing veiled insults and poking the spots that hurt the most. He heard rumours his cousins were one of the few able to make America and Australia cry.

Just with the small demeaning comments matched with annoyed eye rolls, you could sense the spite rolling off them. It was hilarious to watch, as long as you weren't their target. So that was what North did. He took a page out of his brother's book.

And it worked.

Andrew cracked on the fifth day.

Now, North wasn't cruel to Andrew. Of course not. The guy didn't deserve that, he was only doing what he was told, even if it sucked. But that didn't stop North from making discreet, small jabs or throwing pebbles at the young man whenever the others weren't looking. Or how he would salt his drink and watch him splutter all over Hamish.

It was more annoying than harmful. And Andrew's patience was wearing thin quickly. It had sort of become a silent war of glares and it being any other situation, North would have found it amusing—but he was a man on a mission.

And it paid off.

On the evening of the fifth day of the interminable torment, while collecting firewood for the camp, Andrew finally snapped.

"For God's sake, Seán, can you just let it go?" He scowled at the boy as he picked up another branch.

North shrugged, his own stack of firewood tucked under his arm, as he said, "I will if you tell me what's going on. I want to know why Callum is using my name in his speeches."

Andrew pinched the bridge of his nose, exasperated of hearing the same question repeatedly for the past week.

One thing North quickly found out was that most of Andrew's threats were mostly empty. The glares were scary, yes, and the punches on the arm did hurt, but at least he wasn't getting a walloping.

And now, he could tell he was still in the safe zone.

"Come on, Andrew. I'll keep it secret, promise. I just want to know what's happening." The boy groaned, approaching the young man with a matching scowl as he poked his arm with a twig. "I'm sick of getting weird looks from the villagers. It's creepy! I want to know why."

Andrew swatted the twig away, green eyes narrowing into a glare when he noticed North pulling out a pebble from his pocket. He scoffed. "Are you seriously stashing pebbles in your trousers? I swear I found a bunch of them in my sleeping mat and we don't even share a tent!"

"Are you still avoiding the question?" North shot back, rolling the pebble between his fingers in warning.

Andrew sighed heavily, rubbing his face as he cursed under his breath. He glanced over his shoulder to where the camp was before looking back at North, his face serious. "If I tell you, you swear you'll stop asking."

North shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled it inside out, dozens of pebbles spilling around his feet.

Andrew rolled his eyes, fighting off a laugh at the sight as he glared at him, though it held no bite. "You're maddening, Killough. You really are."

"It's a gift." The boy shrugged with a grin.

The young clansman looked back at the camp, hearing the faint chatter in the distance, and sighed again. He rolled his shoulders and adjusted the pile of firewood in his arms. He looked back at North and pursed his lips. "Callum has been using your arrival as an example for his speech."

Of all the things North imagined, he didn't expect that, nor did he understand it in the first place. "What?"

Andrew shrugged, looking around in search of more firewood. "You said you were assaulted by an English captain when they rescued you, aye? Well, that was what he talked about."

North stared in confusion because it didn't clarify shit. "Why would he tell people that? For what purpose?"

"I answered your question and you swore you'll stop," the young man said. "I did my part. You do yours."

"Technically, I didn't give you my word," North grumbled, groaning at the pointed look of Andrew. "Oh come on, that doesn't explain why he would be using me as an example. And worse, I didn't give my consent for him to share my experience!"

What the hell was the point to tell people about Creepy Captain Crunch anyway? To insert fear? To gather sympathy?

Scrunching his nose in disgust at the idea, North pressed on. "If he's doing that, then why is there money going under the table, huh? Why would he keep a pouch of money separated from the rent money?"

"Observant, are you?"

"I wasn't born yesterday! I may not understand Scottish Gaelic but I have eyes." North scoffed as he kicked a rock. "Why are you hoarding money in secret? Why are you using me to win people over? Are you guys stealing from them? Manipulating them for your gain?"

"Don't judge what you don't understand." Andrew snapped, anger flashing in his eyes.

North backpedalled, sensing he was crossing the line. He put the stack of sticks between them as a way to placate him. And protecting him in case Andrew decided to throw his stack at him. "I'm just curious!"

Andrew clenched his jaw for a moment before exhaling. He ran a hand through his hair. "Look, I wish I could tell you, but I can't. Just stay out of it until we get back to Castle Kaerndal. Got it?"

North pursed his lips, pushing his anger down as he stared at the ground. Andrew may have not given him the best answer but he did give him a better picture of what was happening.

Perhaps he didn't jump to conclusions after all. What North witnessed the first time was really what he thought.

The clan was gathering money in secret by using him to gain the people's sympathy for unclear reasons.

His stomach churned at the thought.

The question was whether Scotland was aware of this or not? And why were they collecting money in the first place?

"Alright." North acquiesced, catching the young man by surprise. It made sense, Andrew expected him to annoy him longer on the matter, but North knew when to back down. He picked up on some clues and that counted as progress.

It was time to go back to 'shut up and listen' mode.

"But I still don't like it," North couldn't help but add.

"I don't doubt it." Andrew rolled his eyes with a huff. He then gestured to the pile of firewood in his arms. "Let's finish this before Hamish comes hammering on us."

Together, they walked around the clusters of trees for more firewood until their arms were full. The sea of stars above gave them enough light to weave between the trees safely, a sight North was always mesmerized. The light pollution in modern cities made it hard to enjoy a starry sky unless you go to the countryside.

Since they had been travelling, North made sure to arrange the tarp on the cart so he could have a peek at the sky. He would stare at it for what felt like hours, eyes jumping from blinking stars to the next.

Whenever he had trouble sleeping or the clan was being loud, he would think of the times he went stargazing with Ireland when he was younger, back when life was simpler. He didn't remember much of the stories his brother told him about the constellations, but he did find comfort in trying to spot them now.

It reminded him that he wasn't as alone because those were the same stars he shared with his family.

A nudge on his shoulder brought him back from his rather sappy sentiment as he looked at Andrew, fighting back a flush of embarrassment. "Yes?"

"I've been meaning to ask," the young man said as he nodded at the satchel North was carrying. "That book you always have with you, what is it about?"

"Oh," North looked at his satchel, where the book was carefully stashed inside. "Dr. Graham lent it to me before leaving. It's a book on medicinal plants and flowers."

Andrew hummed as if reminded of something. "I heard Mrs. Gibs mention it when the bard came to visit. You're in training to become a healer?"

"Not really. I'll help in blending and preparing the ingredients." The young nation shrugged, catching a twig that almost fell off his grasp. "He wants me to familiarize myself with the local flora."

"I went to Dr. Graham's workstation once, when I cut myself with a knife after a bad slip and I have to say–" Andrew shook his head in disbelief, "I have no idea how he can tell one flask to another. He has so many of them! And he plucks the correct one without even looking."

"Well, you get used to it." North snorted. "Mine are colour-coded. Makes everything easier."

"What do you mean?" Andrew cocked an eyebrow. "You have your own collection of medicinal ingredients?"

North faltered in his step, mentally cursing himself for the slip up. He completely forgot who he was talking to. "Um… remember my brother William? The one who assists the surgeon?"

Aka, his sort of made-up brother.

"Aye, you told me a wee bit about him." Andrew nodded with a frown. Travelling for hours doing nothing gave them very little to pass the time. Swapping stories was inevitable.

"Well, he once brought me to his workplace and showed me all the equipment," North explained, mind trying to come up with a reasonable story. "He told me he had trouble differentiating the bottles, so I suggested using a colour system. I guess the habit stuck because I use that method back home when I'm helping cooking with my aunt."

He clearly didn't refer to the time, in one of his science experiments, he mistook Sodium chloride with Sodium hypochlorite because a dirt smudge hid the O in NaClO. Fortunately, his fire extinguisher was within arm's reach, so the damage wasn't so bad, but he did lose an eyebrow in the process. Good times.

"I can see the appeal in using colours. Sounds easier to navigate than reading strange names."

"Ha, yeah, tell me about it." He learned from his mistake, thank you very much.

They reached the camp and found the clan sitting around the fire. The tents were already up and ready for the night. Angus was stocking the fire with one hand holding a stick, the other stirring something in a pot. He looked up at the sight of them and nodded his usual silent greeting.

North schooled his expression and nodded back. He may have backed away from questioning Andrew, but North was still keeping an eye out for anything suspicious.

He dropped the firewood beside where Andrew deposited his and went to sit on his usual spot: in the farthest log available, far away from everyone. Andrew had tried to make him sit closer with them a few times, but North didn't budge. Just because he'd been travelling with them for over a week didn't mean he was comfortable enough to spend time together.

However, before he could sit, Angus held up his stick and pointed at the seat beside Andrew with a stern look. North fought off a scowl but did as asked as he plopped down on the rock with a sigh. He was at their mercy, after all.

The man surprised him further by scooping a ladle of whatever he was cooking into a bowl and handing it to him. "Eat," he said gruffly.

North blinked at the order and accepted the bowl. He glanced at Andrew, but the young man only shrugged in response. Angus never interacted with him until now. The last time he even acknowledged his existence was when he pulled that stunt on Andrew or the time he caught him smirking at his stand-off with Malcolm.

Glancing at the silent man for a second, North looked down at the bowl he was handed. It was a sort of broth with boiled carrots and potatoes diced into bits. Seeing there was no spoon, he brought the bowl to his lips and took a sip.

The broth lacked a bit of taste, but it was still good for a meal made with the bare essentials. It also warmed his cool hands, sending a wave of warmth when he took another sip. More bowls were distributed between the group as they all sat around the campfire and enjoyed the meal after a long day of travelling.

Callum arrived a bit later with the other travelling men. He glanced at North for a moment, a heavy frown on his face before looking at Angus to say something in Gaelic. With a huff, North turned back to his meal, forcing the spark of anger down.

It was the first time North was sitting with them instead of sitting far away from them. Of course, Callum would say something on the matter.

One day, North would uncover what the man was hiding. If he so much found Callum was putting his brother in danger with his dealings, there would be hell to pay. Past Scotland may be an arsehole, but he was still his brother.

Andrew interrupted his brooding by handing him a piece of bread. "Before they go stale."

"Thanks," North said with a strained smile. As he expected, the food Mrs. Gibs gave him didn't last for long so he was now bound to accept their food to avoid suspicion about his hunger frequency. Surprisingly, the meals he had weren't as bad as he imagined nor as big.

Except for that one cooked rabbit. That thing will haunt his dreams.

The clansmen soon started to chat, passing around a bottle of whisky and easily falling into their usual banter. North kept his head down as he nibbled on the bread. He had to keep his face from scrunching in disgust when Malcolm started telling another raunchy story.

If Wales was here, he would probably gasp and try to cover North's ears to preserve his innocence. He could easily imagine England looking at Malcolm scandalized before attempting to shut him up. He doubted Scotland would be phased by it, hell he might add his own two cents. As for Ireland, the catholic in him would make him all flustered as he tried to drag North away. For someone as old as dirt, Ireland sure got awkward with anything indecent.

The group of men burst out laughing, saying something about an 'old Granny Mary' asking her husband a question and North tuned it out. He didn't find the humour behind those kinds of jokes and really, by how many he was forced to listen to them, they grew tiresome fast.

He spent the rest of dinner unbothered, other than when Andrew asked if he wanted a second serving of broth. Then, a lull filled the camp as one by one, the clansmen went to their respective tent for the night. Malcolm and Ian stayed by the fire to keep the first watch and North took that as a cue to get ready to go to bed.

The young nation walked towards the cart where he kept his belongings and grabbed his satchel and blankets. He made the mistake to leave his stuff on the cart the first time it rained during the night. It was pure luck the book wasn't damaged, but he did spend the next night with somewhat damp blankets.

He headed for the second tent and peeked inside. Hamish was already bundled up on his side of the tiny tent and didn't bother to leave him a space to leave his stuff. With a sigh, stepped around the man and kneeled on his spot. He rolled up a blanket and put it between them as a makeshift barrier and took off his coat to fold it into a pillow. After a bit of wiggling and making sure his satchel was safe from any rain, North laid down with a sigh.

He stared at the grey tarp above him, listening to the hushed chatter outside, the crackling of the fire, the wind rustling the trees and the beginning of a snore from Hamish.

North closed his eyes, once again pretending he was with his brothers before sleep slowly took him away.

---

He was dreaming again.

Northern Ireland looked at the sunny sky as he walked through the colourful autumn forest. He jumped over a fallen log, arms out to keep balance before jumping off. He landed with a crunching thud from the dying leaves.

He was dreaming because he found a fireplace in the distance and it was burning, despite not seeing any smoke coming out of the chimney. It was a dream because the fireplace was also fused into a tree.

North walked past a line of tents covered in Christmas light, weaving through the trees before he reached the fireplace. Two armchairs were facing it with a coffee table between them and in one of the armchairs was Wales.

His brother was reading a book, legs folded under him as he turned a page. He was dressed in his usual baggy sweater and soft sweatpants, hair tied behind in a messy bun.

He was the picture of comfort.

"Hey Dylan," North waved, going around the empty armchair and sitting down. "What are you reading?"

Wales looked up with a blink and smiled with that lopsided smile of his. "Hey, Norn. Would you believe it if I tell you I'm reading about the lifestyle of seahorses? It says they mate for life. Isn't that beautiful?"

"Sure…" the boy said with a strange look but shrugged it off. It was a dream, nothing made sense. Besides, his brother was a reader of many genres. Books on small aquatic creatures would be right on his alley.

They fell into a companionable silence, each enjoying the peace. North leaned into the armchair, looking around for anything unusual. On top of the mantel of the fireplace was a mini rollercoaster made of popsicle sticks he did a few years ago. He also spotted a disco ball hanging on a branch, glittering from the sunlight.

Yeah, that tracked.

"What are you doing, Seán?"

North turned to face his brother, finding Wales with the book on his lap and watching him with concerned hazel eyes.

"I-I don't know." A swirl of emotions hit his chest for no reason as the boy looked away. "I'm trying to… I'm trying to leave."

"Should you?"

"What do you mean?"

The sky slowly started to darken, the distant sound of thunder rolling over the forest as the trees shuddered from the wind.

Wales looked at the darkening sky with a frown. "You can't stay here, North. You need to go."

The boy followed his gaze, seeing the flash of lightning and the rain in the distance. He looked back to Wales, who was now standing in front of the fireplace, the flickering flames turning his eyes amber.

"It's time to tend your wounds."

North froze at the words, a chill running down his spine as his heart sped up. He heard those same words before, but he couldn't recall where.

A crack of thunder made him jolt, his vision going white for a second before his eyes focused on his brother only to jump to his feet in shock. Wales was doubling over in pain, clutching his side as he gasped for breath, face pale and eyes wide in fear and confusion.

"Dylan!" North reached out for him, but another flash of lightning blinded him once more. The whip of thunder made his ears ring and chest vibrate. He blinked again, crying out in worry when he found his brother gone. "Wales? Where are you?!"

"You need to go."

North swirled around, gasping in horror at the sudden appearance of Modern Scotland. His brother was dressed as his past self, but his clothes were dishevelled and dirty. Blood was soaking the front of his torn shirt as he stared at him.

"Hurry up, Seán," Scotland rasped, his hands drenched with blood, "before it's too late."

Rain poured down as cold-biting wind whipped his skin, lightning flashing on Scotland's ashen face before everything turned black.

North jolted awake with a choked gasp, heart thundering in his chest as he sat up. Cold sweat clung on his back as he looked around with wide eyes. His hand reached up for his necklace, clutching it like a lifeline as he took wavering breaths.

His eyes set on a snoring man-size lump beside him. He blinked once and twice.

The rent collecting.

He was travelling with the clan.

He was sharing a tent with Hamish for the trip.

It wasn't real.

The boy let out a heavy sigh, running a shaking hand through his tangled hair.

He was prone to nightmares, he knew that, but they never focused on watching his brother bleeding out before him. And those words.

It's time to tend your wounds.

Hurry up, Seán, before it's too late.

North shuddered at the words, focusing on running his thumb over the small carving of his necklace. He could have sworn he heard those words somewhere, but he couldn't remember where or when.

Just that it freaked him the hell out.

No, he shook his head. It was a dream. It wasn't real. It was just his brain making things up. They meant nothing. His brothers were safe. They had to.

He looked around the small tent, wondering what time it was. Dim light peeked between the tarp, indicating it was probably the wee hours of the morning. He heard the faint crackle of the fire, but other than that it was quiet in the camp.

Yeah, way early in the morning.

A full-body shudder made him wrap his arms around himself, reminding him of his damp shirt. Quietly, he rummaged through his satchel and pulled out a clean shirt. Making sure Hamish was still asleep, he quickly changed and wrapped a blanket around him to keep warm.

Taking a deep breath, he let go of the necklace and grabbed his satchel and coat. He might as well get up now and find some work. He had a feeling today was going to be shitty.

He stepped out of the tent, squinting a bit from the light and looked around the camp. There was no one present except Angus, who was in the middle of his watch as he sat by the dying fire, whittling a piece of wood with a knife. The man looked up at hearing the flap of the tent and raised an eyebrow at the sight of him. North tugged his coat close to fend off the crisp air and approached the man.

He sat on one of the logs and mumbled a greeting, shoving his hands into his pockets. Angus looked at him for a minute, silent as ever, before he focused back on the piece of wood he was carving.

North paid him no mind, taking comfort in the quiet moment as he shuffled closer to the small fire. He should have taken the blanket with him. The burrito technique would have been the perfect way to stay warm.

"Couldn't sleep?"

The boy jumped at the voice, looking up at the man chipping bits of the wood with his knife. The man wasn't looking at him, eyes focused on his work. North swallowed, internally grimacing at the sour taste in his mouth. How he wished he had toothpaste or even a proper toothbrush.

Turning his attention back to the fire, North shrugged. "Hamish kicks in his sleep."

The man hummed, whether he believed him or not he wasn't sure, and that was it. That was the whole conversation with the man. For having heard him just say single words in his vicinity, it was quite the achievement to hear him say two words.

Not that North minded the dismissal, he wasn't much in the mood to talk.

It took two other logs thrown into the fire before the rest of the clan woke up and by then, North shook off most of his nightmare. He still felt like shit, but at least he was awake enough to get the day started.

He didn't stay for the others to sit down to eat breakfast. Instead, he went back to the tent he shared with Hamish and started rolling up the furs to be brought back to the cart.

He was in the middle of tying the leather cloth that served as mats when he heard footsteps approaching the tent. Andrew peeked inside, cocking an eyebrow in askance. "So that's where you've been hiding. I didn't see you eat."

North looked over his shoulder before going back to tying the mat. "Not hungry."

If his voice sounded a bit flat, the young man didn't mention it.

"Okay, well, Callum said we'll be leaving in an hour, but I see you already started packing," Andrew said, holding the flap open for North to step out. He frowned at the sight of him. "Doing alright? You look a bit pale."

"I'm ginger, I'm always pale." Tan was nonexistent for gingers, it was a known fact.

Andrew rolled his eyes with a huffed laugh and handed him a small cloth. "Here, I've saved you some before the others ate it all. Should hold you up till we stop at the next village."

"So I can be ready to watch you lot steal from people again," North said bitingly, only to wince at the warning look on the young clansman's face. He sighed, rubbing his eyes with his free hand. "Yeah, yeah, not my business. Don't mind me. I didn't sleep well. Hamish snores like a monster truck."

He grabbed whatever Andrew was giving him and forced a smile. "Thanks for the food."

He walked past Andrew and headed for the cart, oblivious of the confusion on Andrew's face. Or the way Andrew muttered 'what's a monster truck?' to himself.

By the time the clan was ready to hit the road, North was fighting off the beginning of a headache. His sleep schedule was already a mess even before he stumbled into the past, so the nightmare didn't help at all. If the comment Andrew said earlier was anything to go by, he probably didn't look his normal self either.

"Let's go," Callum called out as the clan finished mounting their horses. He passed by the cart where North was sitting and sent him an indescribable expression before going to the front.

Huffing, the young nation pulled out his book and dived into reading, more than ready to ignore his surroundings. Or more importantly, avoid thinking about his dream.

Alas, as much as he stared at the flowery pages, he couldn't register the words. He tried reading the small notes scattered around the drawings of plants or even adding his own notes on a loose paper he found, but his mind kept coming back to his dream.

He was well aware that dreams were a product of your brain rummaging through your subconscious and smashing pieces together to sculpt weird things. He once read in a magazine that dreams could reflect the hardships and anxiety we live in life, and yeah, it made sense. That was basically the definition of a Nation. But most of his dreams didn't make a lick of a sense to begin with.

Sometimes, when his insomnia decided to have a party instead of sleeping, he had a habit of reading the dream journal he kept beside his bed. It held a collection of every strange dream he had: from good to bad. One of the best was the one he could parkour on top of roofs made of clouds.

Wales had suggested writing his dreams down when he was younger, back when North used to have nightmares every few nights instead of every few months. He remembered waking up screaming almost every night during the Second War. His brothers may have tried to keep him as far from the war as possible, but that didn't stop the Land from sending him flashes of the destruction his people were going through.

As far as he knew, this ability was normal in Nations since they were part of the Land, therefore could see what would happen if their home was in danger. But it still sucked for seven years old him to be plagued by constant nightmares. Even in the present, because of the conflict going on, he had gotten a few flashes when tensions were high or when there was an attack. Adding his wild imagination and you end up having even more horrible nightmares.

Hence, the dream journal.

And it did help. Writing down what he remembered from his dreams was like letting out the steam of a boiling pot. Wales had also recommended talking about it to someone, but North hesitated in speaking about it because most of his dreams were weird as hell.

And speaking about his nightmares sounded so lame and stupid, he didn't want to be teased about it. So he turned in writing them down. He finished five notebooks since he started all those decades ago.

Maybe writing everything down would put his mind at ease. The worse that could happen would be for someone to find and read it.

North blinked at the blank paper before him, the burnt twig that served as a makeshift pen pausing a millimetre away from the paper.

Yeah, no, that would be a terrible idea. Half the castle didn't trust him already, he wouldn't dare write the apparent demise of their Laird. Hell, Calum would probably stab him on the spot.

The boy sighed, closing the book. He didn't remember most of his dream anyway, other than the chilling dread.

He pulled out the small cloth Andrew gave him earlier and peeked inside. It was strips of dry meats. He munched on one half-heartedly. It was like chewing rubber, but it tasted good enough.

Hours later, Malcolm kicked the side of the cart, jostling North awake from his doze. "Wake up, boy, we're almost there."

North blinked his eyes open, sending him a glare as he righted himself. He hadn't meant to fall asleep, but he was glad most of his headache was gone. He stood up carefully, sidestepping the cage of Doc and Marty the chickens. He grabbed the edge of the cart to keep from toppling over and weaved between the crates and barrels. He peeked over Hamish's shoulder.

Soon enough, in the distance, he could see the village just down the hill.

He glanced over the clan, spotting Ian and Malcolm trading jokes, while Angus and Andrew rode just in front of the cart. The travelling villagers took the rear with the two other carts. A scowl formed on the boy's face as he set eyes on the man leading the group. Callum was speaking with one of the tagging villagers, an older man with a grey beard named Tobias Hewson.

Here we go again.

The cart lurched to the side, causing a few crates to slide against North and the chickens to freak out a bit. He grumbled as he pushed the crate away, looking back at the village.

Columns of smoke could be seen from the houses, the faint smell of burnt wood filling the air. The village was smaller than the others they have visited. It barely counted as one, with only a few scattered houses and from the look of it, it was poorly kept too.

A mix of sadness and anger filled his chest.

North was aware the people in the 18th century lived harsher lives in difficult conditions, even more so in remote regions like here. He knew some people weren't as fortunate as others; poverty was sadly still present in some places back home. The acknowledgement made him even angrier because these people were going to be taken advantage of. The scrap of money they struggled to gather will all go in Callum's pocket.

The clan was going in there with the intention of playing with the people's heartstrings for profit.

How desperate are you to go that low for money, he thought darkly.

As they approached the cluster of houses, the familiar knot of dread twisted in North's stomach. Though a strange chill ran down his back. He squinted at the closest house, trying to see if something was off, but nothing was amiss except the strangely empty streets. It wasn't that late; just the middle of the day, so it shouldn't be void of people.

Callum seemed to realize that too because he raised a hand. The group stopped and North climbed over a crate once he made sure the cart wasn't moving. He peeked over Hamish's shoulder once more. "What's going on?"

The man hushed him by batting a hand and listened to Callum as the war chief talked with Angus over something. Callum looked back at the group and called over Malcolm to follow him. The three men headed towards the houses, leaving the rest on the outskirts.

They waited for several minutes before Malcolm came back to fetch them, and the dread turned tenfold when North saw his grim face. He didn't need to ask what happened because the moment they entered the settlement, the answer was clear as day. There were broken windows and doors kicked down, wrecked crates and overturned carts all over the place.

The columns of smoke weren't coming from chimneys; they were coming from burnt houses.

"What caused this?" North asked in horror.

"It's the Watch," Hamish said as he guided the cart carefully through the debris. "Men you pay to protect your cattle."

They passed by what was left of a well; the stone wall crumbled to pebbles, with the wooden structure black with soot. The heavy smoke rose from the remaining walls of the houses, patches of burning coal visible through the debris.

"Why burn the houses down?" North shifted under the crate he was kneeling on, wringing his sleeves together as he stared eyes wide at the devastation. "Why would someone do that?"

"It's a warning." Ian stopped by them, tugging his horse close. "I heard talks in the last village. One of them is a sympathizer working for the Redcoats."

North's head snapped to gape at the blond man. "But that's just a rumour! That's no excuse for criminal behaviour. These people don't deserve this!"

"The Watch may be criminal, but they're Scots first," Ian said somberly. "They can't abide traitors who do the bidding of the British army."

Voices ahead of him forced North to tear his eyes off the wreckage as he spotted a man talking with Callum and Angus.

"―came by surprise three days ago during the night, the whole group." North heard the man say. "Asked us to pay the double we owe if we told them who was giving information. We dinnae have much and they didn't believe us."

"Can't we do something to help them?" North worried his bottom lip, frowning at the destruction around them.

"Best not to dwell in someone's else business."

The boy sputtered in disbelief at Hamish's words, righteous anger sparking in his chest. They have three carts loaded with goods, they could at least spare a bit for people who really needed it. Where the hell was the compassion?!

North then spotted a woman with two children by her side peeking over a broken window from the remnant of the house the man came out. Her brown hair was dishevelled and covered in soot. Despite her attempts to calm her children, the apprehension in her eyes was palpable.

Something tight constricted in North's chest as his breath hitched, the scarred skin under his shirt itching. He needed to get away from here, he can't stay here any longer. The fire, the burnt houses, the fear in their eyes… it looked too much like-

The cart lurched forward, and North almost tipped over but caught the railing just in time. He swallowed the knot forming in his throat as he passed Callum and the villager, his heart pounding when he locked gaze with one of the children.

Young. Maybe three or four years old. A mop of black hair and dirty clothes. And his eyes… even though he couldn't fully understand what was going on, North knew a part of that boy's innocence burned to ash that day.

The young nation looked away, clenching his hands from shaking too much. He can't stand like this and do nothing. There must be something they could do!

"Bloody bastards!" Malcolm cursed out loud, followed by Hamish.

"They've been out here at least a week, judging by the smell," Ian said angrily.

Ignoring the churning of his stomach, North leaned over the side to see what was happening ahead.

He choked back a gasp in horror; wishing with all his might it wasn't real.

Just on the outskirts of the group of houses, by the road leading to a small hill, stood two wooden posts. The posts were planted into the ground, rocks pilled around in a poor attempt to keep them steady. The fire had long died out, but the smell of smoke was still strong.

As well as the putrid smell of burnt flesh because attached to these posts were two men.

The clothes mostly burned off, the legs and arms were spread out like a sickening version of a crucifixion. But they weren't nailed, no, their wrists and ankles were roped tight, flesh burnt to blisters. What little skin we could see from their hands and faces were complete black beyond recognition. One couldn't even guess the age of these men other than barely making out the last expression they had before their gruesome demise.

And by their feet was a plank nailed to one of the beams with the word 'traitor' written in what appeared to be blood.

Northern Ireland couldn't take his eyes off the sight as his breath quickened.

He needed to leave. He needed to get out of here before his mind spiralled down. It looked like… it looked exactly like-

A sudden blast of black smoke from a burning cart nearby was all it took as he started coughing, tears watering his eyes. The rush of blood roared in his ears as his chest constricted, his heart pounding against his ribcage. Panic began running through him as voices rang around him and he suddenly found himself in the middle of a deserted street.

It was dead silent for two beats.

Then, a high pitch sound came from the dark crimson sky. A whistle-like noise came from afar and slowly got closer. Before he had time to look up, the earth shook underneath him as explosions and screams filled the hot air. North blinked, choking at the sight of dismembered bodies scattered on the street and buildings crumbling apart as families ran for cover.

Airstrikes.

Fire roared like a hurricane, the snapping flames trapping the unfortunate people inside the buildings as suffocating black smoke took over the street like a sentient being. He coughed harshly, gasping for air as he tried to get up, but another explosion sent him to the ground. He clutched his chest, clawing at the burning scars as he tried to stand up again.

He needed to get them out. They were in danger. They were dying. His Land. His Heart. His people.

North clamped his hands to his ears as another high pitch sound came raining down, drowning the sirens blaring across the city and the roaring of engines in the skies. He felt hands grabbing his shoulders, pulling him away from a burning building, and he struggled to get free.

"No! Let me go!" He cried out as he reached a hand out, watching in horror as a building collapsed on a family trying to escape their home. A car suddenly exploded, engulfing the people running for safety. Shots came raining down on the people, the air horn ringing across the burning city. "They're dying! They need help! Let me go!"

He couldn't abandon them. Not now. They needed him! They were dying.

Hands grabbed his shoulders again as they hauled him up, tightening in a painful grip until he heard a distant voice calling him. It was barely recognizable, the voice muffled by the horrors and chaos around him making it impossible to locate.

Someone was suddenly in front of him and the boy blinked, making out the blurry face of a man. He was talking rapidly; fear and worry clear as day in familiar green eyes.

A sharp pain stung his right cheek and he stumbled back.

He blinked again.

The green eyes turned icy blue as the face of Callum took the other man's place, the sounds of screaming and the smell of burning flesh dimming into an echo. The roar of engines in the sky and the cries of terrified people vanishing to faint whispers.

"Get a hold of yourself already!"

North heaved as he finally focused on the man, body trembling and blinking rapidly.

"W-what…" he went into another coughing fit, his throat dry as sandpaper and hands clenching the dirt underneath him. It took several tries but with great effort, the boy managed to get his breathing under control.

Blinking back the black spots in his vision, North looked around, realizing he wasn't near the settlement anymore or even on the cart, but instead on the ground near a stream. He looked back at Callum in confusion, noticing the man was standing beside him with his arms crossed, staring at him with an unreadable expression.

North frowned before his mismatched eyes widened in mortification as the dots finally connected. God, did he just experience a full panic attack in front of the whole clan? Did he do something? Did he say something? Oh my God-

He ducked his head, averting his eyes and face burning red in embarrassment and shame. Great, he just made a fool of himself in front of his brother's right-hand man just because he smelled freaking smoke… and… and he saw the two-

"⎼stand up?"

"Uh?" North looked up.

"Can you stand up?" Callum repeated in a strange, tight voice.

Licking his dry lips, the boy nodded and with shaking limbs, he stood up. He blinked when the man handed him a wooden ladle and gestured at the stream.

"Drink this. It's a natural source."

The boy didn't hear the last part as he scooped water like a dying man. He probably was, his throat felt as if he swallowed a bucket of sand.

After takings several much-needed gulps, North leaned back and blinked rapidly, feeling light-headed all of a sudden. He took a ragged breath as a warmth spread from his chest, making his fingers tingle and ears buzz.

"Feeling better?" Callum asked from behind, but his voice sounded muffled and distorted as if North was underwater.

North frowned and shook the feeling off, growing confused as the dizziness as well as the warmth disappeared completely as if it never happened. Though, the headache from this morning was coming back with a vengeance.

He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt. "Yeah, sorry, the smoke caught me off guard."

Understatement of the fecking century.

"That was one of the punishments for disobeying the British army," the man said instead of questioning his poor attempt of an excuse as he leaned against a rock wall. "They show no mercy when facing deviancy."

"Soldiers did that?!" North rasped out in shock. He thought it was done by the hands of the Watch. Why the hell would soldiers do such a thing?

"Aye, they love to make a show about it. Always proud to show their exploits."

A shiver ran down the boy's back, forcing the image of the two dead men away as he stood up. He knew life here was harsher than the present, but he never realized how brutal and intense it was. You could easily end up dead just by some rumours for Christ's sake.

"C-couldn't they have a trial or go to prison instead of… that? Why kill them in such a way?" They couldn't be that ruthless, could they? Then again, it wasn't so different back home. People in authority could easily abuse their power. He saw plenty of it in his lifetime.

Different time, same beliefs.

Callum chuckled humourlessly, a smirk forming on his face, but the anger was bright in his eyes. "Where's the justice when one claims they're always right, no matter what the other says? What can these people do when the army that is supposed to protect them leave them to rot? The world is not as black and white, boy. Those two men you saw were playing with fate itself by dealing with both sides."

Something made North stiffen at the words. It was meant to be said in sympathy, but North detected the double meaning all too well. Clenching his fists with barely contained anger, he snapped. "Is that why I'm here, then? To see the real world so I can speak? For me to be so afraid and traumatized I'll blurt out all the secrets you desperately want to hear?"

The man said nothing, though North caught the barest hint of surprise before it was hidden behind a blank face. So Callum wasn't expecting a child to figure out his ulterior motives.

Hmpf, typical.

"How do you think Laird Campbell will feel about you stealing money from him to line your own pockets and using me to do it?" North hissed coldly.

"Aren't you the canny lad?" Callum cocked an eyebrow, face impassive.

"Just wondering how it works." The boy huffed as he crossed his arms. "A penny for the laird, a pound for your own pocket. Are there two sets of books as well, one for each?"

"Seems that you've got it all sorted out."

"Doesn't take a genius to figure it out." North gritted out with a glare. "What I want to know is why you're telling everyone about my encounter with the English captain. Mr. Campbell said I was his guest, not a twisted sympathy gainer working for you."

At least, he hoped so, if his brother didn't know anything about this.

"And he said you have secrets." Callum sneered, eyes narrowing. "You haven't been forthright since you got here, boy."

Said the man who steals people's money with his tales!

"Haven't I proved myself already by playing Cinderella these past two weeks?! Why don't you trust me? Why did I do?!" North pressed on with clenched fists. "Why are you so adamant about me being a spy for the English?"

He had enough of the accusations and dirty looks whenever he walked out of his room. Enough of Hamish following him like a shadow to watch his every move. Enough of Malcolm treating him like dirt. Enough of constantly looking over his shoulder. He was so done.

"Yer Irish."

"Excuse me?!" North sputtered incredulously, not sure whether to be outraged at his hypocrisy or just straight on kick the man between the legs. "What kind of shitty excuse is that?"

"My point still stands, boy, you have secrets." Callum crossed his arms, a dark glint in his pale blue eyes as he scowled. "It's not every day we find an Irish boy lost in the Highlands all by himself."

"Then what do you want me to do to prove it? Go to the bloody Que-King himself and ask-" North did an exaggerated bow, tipping an invisible hat in the air. With an almost perfect posh accent, he said, "Do you know me, my good sire? No? Oh, excuse my ignorance, for I wasn't even aware I was working for you myself! So sorry for the visit, cheerio!"

Though his face didn't show a twitch of a reaction, the old man did cocked an eyebrow at the vivid demonstration. "Are you or are you not a spy?"

North wanted to scream to the sky and pull his hair out of his scalp. God, he was so infuriating! How many times was he asked the same bloody question?!

Mustering his biggest glare, he gritted out, "No, I am not a spy."

"Is your name truly Seán Killough?"

The boy faltered, caught off guard by the question as his heart skipped a bit. He recovered quickly though as he spitted out, "Yes, my name is Seán Killough and I do come from a small village in County Down, but now, I live with my aunt and brothers near Edinburgh. Is that clear enough, sir?"

To hell with respect for authority, he had enough. He had a splitting headache because of earlier and now this. He didn't have the energy for-

North stumbled backwards with a yelp when Callum suddenly pressed a dagger to his chest. The boy held his breath, his heart pounding wildly as the man glared down at him coldly. His back hit a rock wall, flinching at the clenching of the man's jaw, but he stood his ground as he glared back.

He hoped he looked as threatening as the man right now because he was on the edge of passing out.

After what felt like an eternity, Callum leaned back.

"This place is called the St Ninian's Spring."

North blinked, his body caught in between tensing for danger or slumping back in relief at the sudden change of topics. He was honestly expecting to be shanked, but in no way was he expecting that.

"The locals call it the Liar's spring because it smells like the fumes of hell itself." Callum turned around, looking at the moss-covered walls as if he didn't just threaten the life of a kid a second ago.

Legs shaking from the adrenaline rush, North clutched the wall to keep from crumbling to the ground. He took a wavering breath, heart pounding.

Jaysus, that man could be downright terrifying.

"Legend has it the water of this spring possesses magical properties."

Mismatched eyes widened in panic. Oh shite.

"Really?" North asked lightly, glad the man had his back turned because he lost all composure for a moment as he scrambled to his feet when his hands slipped from the wall. He swallowed the knot in his throat, forcing his voice to remain calm. "W-what kind of properties does the water has?"

"They say that if you lie, the water drunk will turn into a blazing fire, burning your insides out and melt your throat before you could scream for forgiveness, hence the name." The man said, tilting the dagger to catch the light in a bored manner as though talking about the weather.

North's stomach coiled as he stared at the water in horror, realization dawning onto him like a bucket of icy water dumped onto him. Did the man just use magic on him?

He forced out a laugh, though it sounded a tad hysterical in his ears and maybe an octave higher than normal. "That… that sounds mental! Do you believe that? Is that why you made me drink it?"

The man shrugged as he walked towards the entrance of a crevasse, sheathing the dagger back to its scabbard.

North eyed the weapon warily, keeping a wide berth from him. "Were you planning on using that on me as well?"

"I wouldn't have liked it if you have proven false," Callum said, not sounding apologetic at all. He stopped at the threshold of the crevasse and turned to face him. "But I ken you're telling the truth now."

"Because of a magic spring?" The boy stammered out.

"Surely you believe in the powers of magic?" Callum arched an eyebrow, eyes calculating. "You're aware of the nature of the Laird. In fact, you were quite acquainted with him when Hamish brought you in despite Allen having no knowledge of you."

North tensed, a different spark of anxiety running through him. In retrospect, it was a huge mistake of blurting out his brother's Nation name in front of humans, but he was scared shitless and threatened by a fecking sword. He wasn't thinking straight. Besides, it was a good thing he called him 'Scotland' instead of Alistair because he had no idea his brother was going by a different name.

"I'm well versed in myths and legends. The existence of personifications is one of my favourites," he said, hoping he sounded convincing. "My brothers told me many of them throughout my childhood."

Not so much of a lie. He may not have magic like his brothers, but they did share their knowledge on faes and what to do in case he stumbled upon one by accident.

Callum stared at him for a moment before turning back to climb the incline in the crevasse. "Get yer arse moving, we're leaving. The others are waiting for us."

The boy dusted off his trousers and looked at the stream one last time before following the man. As North reached the narrow path, the old man paused to look over his shoulder with a dark look.

"You may have told the truth of who you are, but don't believe for once second I trust you. Show that kind of disrespect again, I'll make sure you don't get back with us. Is that clear?"

North froze for a moment before nodding mutely.

Pale blue eyes narrowed into slits, a dangerous tone in his voice. "Do I make myself clear, boy?"

"Yes, sir." The boy muttered, forcing the spark of fear down.

As they climbed the incline in silence, North wondered how in the hell Callum managed to drag him all the way down there. Speaking of it, his mind went back racing with questions.

He didn't know if Callum was bluffing about the spring being magical, but the mere thought gave him goosebumps. The idea of almost having his insides burned into crisp was horrifying enough, but it was nothing compared to realizing the man knew what he was doing when he offered him to drink said water.

Was Callum really willing to let a kid die a horrifying death via a supposedly magic spring for answers?

Apparently, yes, the bastard!

His brothers were adamant in telling him that consent was crucial when using magic on or around others. One of the reasons was to avoid magical backlashes that could hurt both parties, but it was also just a matter of respect.

He was sure Callum was just following a superstition and wasn't, as far as he knew, a magic user, but seeing someone casually breaking one of the main rules of magic was just alarming.

Another chilling thought pierced his mind a second later.

Would… would Scotland have let him drink the water if he was here instead of Callum?

Would his brother have been willing to use magic on his little brother like that?

Once again, North was painfully reminded that this Scotland wasn't the same as the one in his time. He wasn't the same brother he could banter harmlessly with. The one who gave him noogies with that stupid grin of his whenever he wanted to. The one he watched horror movies with. This Scotland was different… a potentially dangerous different.

He glanced at the spring down below.

No, if Scotland was here, he wouldn't have done that. He was sure of it. None of his brothers would. His brothers may use hexes on each other as petty vengeance every now and then, but they followed rules religiously. They always voiced their intention first because intention was also one of the main rules of magic.

Past Scotland may be different, but North remembered his poor attempt of an apology when he invited him for the bard performance. Scotland liked putting a front of being indifferent and uncaring for others, but he knew his brother had a heart of gold behind that smirk. Was he an arsehole? Absolutely. Was he cruel? No, at least without reason, even less to a kid.

If Scotland wasn't behind all of this, he can bet his snow globes collection he would tell him what Callum was doing. North may have pissed himself in fear when the man pointed a dagger at him, but that sure as hell won't stop him from warning his brother.

Which meant…

North looked at Callum walking just a few steps ahead of him, narrowing his eyes in suspicion.

Which meant he couldn't leave just yet. He needed to get back to Kaerndal Castle.

Warn his brother first, gather resources and then skedaddle out of here.

An anxious knot soon twisted in his stomach.

He couldn't remember what he did during his panic attack, but he hoped he didn't give away anything that would blow his cover or worse reveal his real identity. He had enough trouble on his plate already.

Though even if North felt sick the more he thought about what could have happened if the water did have magical properties, a part of him couldn't help but feel a wee bit smug about it.

The hours spent practicing in his room with the handheld mirror did pay up in the end. He wasn't discovered by a dagger and a supposed magical spring. He should get a medal for that.

When they reached the top of the hill, his mood soured when he saw the clan, reminding him why he was brought to the spring in the first place. He rubbed his stinging cheek, sending a dirty look to Callum.

His face burned like a furnace when the group turned their attention to him. He did his best to ignore them as he stared at the ground with such intensity, he was pretty sure Scotland could feel it.

Great, everyone was looking, he thought with gritted teeth.

At least he thought so, because Malcolm was, of course, in the middle of telling another of his wild stories. He was well invested in telling it, not even noticing North's arrival for once.

"So there I am in bed, Harelip Chrissie on my left and Sweaty Netty, the butcher's daughter, on my right." The short man said with a snicker, holding his arms out as if imagining having the ladies by his side. "They get jealous of each other, start arguing about who I'm going to shag first. Can you believe it?"

North, running on fumes from earlier and honestly done with Malcolm's bawdy stories, walked past him and snarked without missing a beat. "I believe your left hand gets jealous of your right. That's about all I believe."

Stunned silence filled the air as the clan stared between North and Malcolm. North paused in the middle of climbing on the cart, nervousness skyrocketing at the attention, but then Ian burst out laughing, followed by the others.

"Aren't you a witty one!" Ian reached over to ruffle his hair with a meaty hand.

North squawked, ducking under the man's arm to jump into the cart. He ignored the chuckles of the others and the indignant grumbling of Malcolm as he sat down in his corner.

Andrew brought his horse by the cart and looked at him in confusion, though a bit of concern slipped in his voice. "What happened back there?"

"The smoke got into the wrong pipe. I'm fine." North put the satchel on his lap to pull out his book, averting his gaze.

He felt kind of bad about being short with Andrew, but he reached his social limit. One more confrontation and he might blow a fuse. He didn't have the energy to talk to anybody and there was no way he would talk about that.

Thankfully, Andrew got the message and left him be.

Moments later, the cart lurched forward and they hit the road once more.

North rolled out one of his blankets and wrapped it around himself, forming a warm cocoon. He then opened the leather book and leaned back against a crate.

It didn't take long to feel the looks sent his way every now and then, but North kept his eyes trained on the flowery texts about plants.

He was fine. Nothing was wrong.

North picked a paragraph at random and started reading, paying no mind to the white-knuckle grip he had on the book.

---

Later that evening...

"Stop brooding." Hamish huffed as he swatted the boy's head before sitting down on the bench with a mug of ale. "You'll glare a hole into the damn table."

North sent him said glare but stayed silent. He glanced at the meal before him where a warm plate of creamy fish broth with a piece of bread was waiting for him, but he just went back to reading.

They arrived at the next village at the end of the day and after going through the same process of rent collecting, they were now eating dinner at the local tavern.

Meaning the speech will start soon. Again.

Honestly, North just lost all fight in him. He just wanted to go to sleep and forget about the whole day.

The headache was far from gone and the scars on his chest were still itching. It always happened after a panic attack and normally North would use a poultice to soothe it away, but no such luck in this hellhole.

So yeah, he was cranky, but could you blame him? Today was a shitty day and it will only get worse in a few minutes. Give him a fecking break already.

"Oi, I'm talking to you," Hamish snapped a finger at him, a scowl forming on his face. "Don't go wasting the food we give you."

"Why do you care?" North muttered, eyes still staring at the book.

"Mrs. Gibs will have his hide if she finds out he let you starve!" Ian chipped in as he walked towards their table with a plate in his hands. Hamish hushed him, trying to slap his arm but the giant man swiftly moved away and sat down on the other side of the table.

North glanced up, blinking at the man before sighing heavily. He slid the book on the side and pulled the plate towards him. The broth was creamy with bits of potatoes, onions and smoked haddock. If he remembered correctly, Modern Scotland liked to cook Cullen Skink during winter. He said it kept someone warm and full for the day.

Grabbing the spoon, he stirred the broth and took a small bite. Not the same as his brother's but it will do.

"Best way to recover from a fit is to eat a hearty meal." Ian grinned, taking a huge bite of his bread.

North felt his stomach sink at the man's words, face flushing in both anger and embarrassment. He looked down at his plate, forcing his voice even. "It wasn't a fit."

Hamish pointed his spoon at him. "I once saw my great auntie have a fit when she saw a dead rat on her bed. Froth was coming out and everything. Dreadful, you ken."

"It wasn't a fit." The boy gritted his teeth, clenching the spoon.

"Seemed like one." The man shrugged. "You were yapping just like her."

"It was a fecking panic attack, you twat, not a fit." North snapped, mismatched eyes narrowed into slits.

Hamish leaned back, blinking in surprise at the heat of his words. "The hell's a panic attack?"

Ian barked out a laugh and went back to his meal. "Let the lad be, Hamish. He's as taut as a bow ready to snap. Keep poking him again and you'll find yourself flat on the floor like he did to Andy."

Huffing, Hamish rolled his eyes but didn't make another comment.

North ground his teeth and it took him several breaths to calm himself. Panic attacks were no laughing matter. You have no control over it and it took time to calm down from one. He knew he shouldn't feel ashamed of it, his brothers told him many times that it was something that could happen to anyone, but being mocked at and downgrading the episode pissed him off.

He wasn't there when the Blitz happened in Belfast back in 1941. To keep him safe and away from the war, England sent him to live with Ireland because his older brother was a neutral nation during the war. Of course, there were still tensions between his brothers, but it was the safest safe for seven years old him. At least, they thought so.

While North stayed in Dublin with his brother, he still felt the destruction caused by the Blitz. The scars on his chest were proof of that. He sensed the death and pain of each of the victims. And although the strain of the attacks forced him into a coma for a time, North still got flashes of the wreckage left by the airstrikes. That was the curse of being tied to the Land, you get visions of the dangers, no matter how horrific they are.

A part of him knew that ignorance played a major role in Hamish's response. Just a few decades ago, shortly after WW1, people called PTSD as being shell-shocked or suffering from a nervous shock. They even blamed the victims for being cowards and 'unmanly' because they were taken by fear. And while North lived in a world where it was more understanding and compassionate, he never experienced meeting someone who treated it as being in hysterics.

He took comfort in knowing the world of medicine and psychology would get much better in the future. Much better.

Sadly, as if Malcolm's sole mission was to make his life miserable, the man walked to the table with Angus and Andrew trailing behind. He sat down beside Ian and looked at North with a cocked eyebrow.

"Done with you flying off the handle over nothing like a wean?" He asked bluntly.

North bristled, really considering to square go with that arsehole once and for all, but kept his mouth shut.

Cool. Calm. Collected.

"Did you lose someone to a fire?" Malcolm pressed on with mocked sympathy, smirking at the murderous glare he got. "Explains why you wailed about wanting to save th-"

He squawked when something splashed all over him and he looked up to glare at Andrew.

"Sorry, Malcolm, I tripped!" The young clansman said with a shrug, his cup askew between the plate he was balancing.

The man gritted his teeth, ready to say something, but one sharp look from Angus made him change his mind. With a huff, he stood and mentioned going to search for a cloth before leaving the table.

North was still staring daggers at the man when Andrew sat in front of him. "Don't pay him no mind. He can be a real bastard." He frowned when he got no response. "Seán?"

Andrew recoiled a bit when frigid blue and green eyes snapped to him, but before he could say anything the boy went back glaring at his food.

It took North several minutes to stop seeing red and by then, he was beyond exhausted. He took another breath before unclenching the hand holding the spoon, only to curse under his breath when he noticed the dents.

Damn his Nation strength.

He set the spoon down and quickly slid the book closer, opening it to cover the bent utensil. He'll fix it once everyone was busy listening to the speech.

North was in the middle of reading a passage on the properties of valerian roots when a small plate entered his field of view. He blinked at the sight of a scone with a bit of jam on the side. He looked up at Andrew, but the young man was in the middle of a discussion with his uncle.

The boy looked back at the pastry, a wry smile on his face. He grabbed the scone and spread a bit of jam on it before taking a bite.

His mood dampened, however, when a hush rolled across the room as Callum walked to the middle of the tavern, the familiar pouch sitting neatly on the table beside him.

Here we go again.

North didn't bother looking up as the man started his speech nor did he pay mind to the glances from Andrew or the looks of sympathy he would soon get. Instead, he focused on the book Dr. Graham lent him and pushed down the spark of anger fluttering in his chest.

He was helpless, he couldn't do anything to stop it. He could just sit back and let it pass. Be used for Callum's plans. And say nothing on the matter.

The young nation huffed and hunched his shoulders in the hope to make himself small, not that it would do much once the villagers started to stare at him like he was a freaking exhibit.

So caught up in his simmering anger, he didn't notice the speech was coming to an end until his ears sparked to a name he heard somewhere before.

Long live the Stuart.

Each of his brothers made him go through a deep dive into their history by visiting museums and art galleries so he could be 'up to date'. Though, most of the time it ended with his brothers complaining about the inaccuracies of events and bashing historical figures with juicy drama. It was honestly more entertaining than educational, but he did learn a few things.

In one of his 'journeys of knowledge' as England liked to call it, Scotland took him to the National Museum of Scotland in Edinburgh. And while his brother was an amazing storyteller and funny as hell with his deadpan delivery, hearing the ridiculously long line of monarchs was tedious.

That was when he first heard of the Jacobite risings. Some say there were four uprisings. The first was in 1715 and the one in 1745 was the most famous because of one Bonnie Prince Charlie.

It was said that the Bonnie Prince was gathering Stuart sympathizers, called Jacobites, for a rebellion in the hope to restore a Catholic King after King James II was dethroned by the Protestants. And Charles Stuart used the Scottish Highlanders to raise money for a Jacobite army.

A lost cause written down in stone and blood.

North looked up in dawning realization, the dots finally connecting as he watched Callum speak.

The activities Callum and the clan were involved in weren't criminal.

They were political.

They were using his meeting with the English captain not to gain sympathies from the audience, but to stir outrage against the British.

Callum was raising money for a Jacobite army.

Mismatched eyes widened, seeing the man in a different light for the first time since he met him.

These men weren't criminals, but rebels. They were fighting for something they believed in with all their heart and might.

North's heart twisted in dread, a pang of sadness washing over him.

How he wished he could tell them they were on the losing side of history, that it was all a pipe dream.

The Stuarts would never unseat the Protestant King George II. How could he tell them that to these passionate men who lived and breathed for a flag of blue and white?

He remembered the wistful look that washed over his brother's face when he was looking at a painting depicting the Battle of Falkirk. The way he paused when he talked about the Battle of Culloden in 1746.

The battle that ended all and caused the domino effect of decades of oppression known as the Highland Clearance. Where the clanship was nothing but destroyed, wearing tartan and carrying swords was banned and even the Gaelic language was oppressed.

In effect, Culloden marked the ends of the clans and the end of the Highlander way of life.

A battle three years from now.

The sadness turned to anguish as North looked at each member of the clan, heart sinking.

How many of them were doomed to die in that bloody field?

He may not like them, but he didn't wish their death, not even Malcolm. He didn't wish any of them to face a horrible demise. He couldn't bear the thought of imagining Andrew dying in battle from a musket or a mortar.

Should… should he do something? Should he say something?

Will he be willing to change the past to save them? Was he allowed to change their fate?

Or should he let history run its course as intended?

Would he be able to stay silent and live with the knowledge he could have helped them?

What about Scotland? Should he warn his brother about the upcoming pain and suffering his people will live? Should he spare his brother's pain?

What would happen if he irreversibly changed the past? What then?

He didn't know.

Northern Ireland swallowed the tight knot in his throat as he watched villagers throw coins into the pouch.

He didn't know.

And he feared the day he had to choose.

---

Talsworth stronghold, North East of Inverness, 1743

Captain Jeremiah Alexander Johnson was a boy with big dreams. And now, a straightforward man with matchless ambitions. He only needed himself and himself only to thrive in life. Yet, he wasn't foolish enough to neglect any resources available to achieve his goals.

Pulling strings on one side and whispering secrets to the other, he revelled in his influence over any situation.

He believed knowledge is power. Being two steps ahead of everyone at all times, monitoring every variable and knowing when to strike were the only ways to get beneficial results.

And relish in the favourable outcomes.

Was it an easy path to take? Of course not, it took patience and time, but that was what made it worth it.

Even when faced with drawbacks, he knew more than to let himself slip and lose his poise. After all, a hiccup could be easily changed as a perfect opportunity.

That was what happened when he was first sent to work up in Scotland. Aside from staying in a place of uncultured peasants in a dreadful environment, Johnson quickly saw the potential in his new post.

Being so far from civilization may have slowed a bit of his work, but it also gave him a new playground for his… effective interrogation methods.

After all, it was his duty to gather information and report them to his commanding officer. Besides, they were mere criminals and vagabonds. He was doing a service in putting them in their place.

Captain Johnson walked down the torch-lit hallway of Talsworth Castle, heading for the office at the far end. He passed by a window facing the shores of the Moray Firth, the setting sun painting the sky in reds and oranges.

He stopped in front of a large wooden door and checked himself for any wrinkles blemishing his uniform. He patted the front of his coat, making sure the reports were safely tucked inside.

He looked back at the door and pursed his lips.

While he had control over the situation, the person on the other side of this door had proved to be a bit of an obstacle ever since his recent transfer. Nothing worth being hasty about. Working in the shadows was child's play.

Taking a deep breath, the English captain raised his fist and knocked twice.

A moment of silence passed before a muffled voice resonated through the door. "Come in."

Straightening, the captain opened the door and stepped inside. The office was large with wall lamp oils lined up on the stone walls. At the far end of the room, in front of a large window, rested an imposing wooden desk with an intricate armchair. The desk was neatly organized with a stack of official papers on one corner and an inkpot and quill on the other.

On the left wall stood a wide bookshelf filled with tomes of all sizes. Beside it was a fireplace, the fire crackling and popping from the burning logs. Lastly, on the right wall, several maps hung with landmarks and city circles in ink, blocked from his view by his commanding officer, hands clasped behind his back.

Adorned in his pristine red uniform and white breeches, blond sandy hair tied into a low ponytail, the man was studying the maps intensely.

"Admiral, sir." Captain Johnson saluted the man.

Admiral Arthur Kirkland glanced away from the maps to look at the captain, a bushy eyebrow cocking ever so slightly. "Captain Johnson, back from patrol, I see. How did it go? Followed the correct route this time?"

Schooling his expression, Johnson deflected the jab by pulling out the reports from his coat and handing them to him. "My men reported sightings of the Campbell clan travelling three days South West of Inverness. According to locals, they're doing their rent collecting."

"Any sign of the Laird?" The admiral asked, green eyes scanning through the reports.

"I'm afraid not, sir, he hasn't been seen since last month," the captain said, hands clasped behind his back. "We asked a few villagers of his whereabouts, but none came with valuable answers."

He hoped the message he sent to the last one would make them think twice before wasting his time.

"Typical," his commanding officer tsked, frustration flashing on his rather young face. "The people here harbour great loyalty to him. They'd rather starve to death in this desolate place than give anything away. Bull-headed fools."

Johnson tilted his head, intrigued by the younger man's demeanour. He could admit he was rather vexed at the arrival of his commanding officer. Aside from being young, barely in his twenties, Admiral Kirkland was an enigma wrapped in a naive-looking shell.

His arrival put a hold on his plans, mostly due to the admiral's all-seeing eye, but also because Johnson couldn't get a sense of his person.

And it irked him.

Judging character came naturally to him. Digging for weaknesses could be done with one single glance.

So when the young man came to Talsworth stronghold a few months back,—someone from the royal navy of all places, and introduced himself as his new commanding officer, Johnson lost his footing for a quick moment.

There was a strange glint behind Admiral Kirkland he couldn't get through. A calculating glint that told him the admiral knew something he didn't and Johnson didn't like being out of his depths.

Admiral Kirkland showed a surprising level of perceptiveness with a difficult mask to crack despite his apparent short temper. His tight-lipped character was displeasing. He didn't explain the reason for his staying other than overseeing the hardworking troops stationed here. He didn't reveal much unless it was about Laird Campbell.

Johnson had to admit he didn't fully understand the admiral's hostility towards the elusive Laird the locals barely heard of. Nor the reason why he was desperate to capture him. The most confusing part was, behind the colourful rant and expressive tirades, the hint of worry in the young man's voice.

A childish display, in his opinion, for someone in such a high rank in the army. It was infuriating, really, to be ordered around by someone ten years his junior. But he needed to play his part if he wanted everything to work out.

The last thing he wanted was his commanding officer sniffing around his work. It was better to keep the admiral's attention on his futile search of the Laird.

"Rest assured, sir, we will keep searching until we find him," Captain Johnson said, watching the juvenile man pace back and forth in the room. He took pity on him. "In fact, one of my informants contacted me letting me know they will soon have access to Campbell's whereabouts and meeting points."

As expected, Admiral Kirkland paused his pacing, turning to face him with pursed lips. That same glint appeared in his eyes. "How soon?"

"In about a month's time, I believe."

The blond cursed under his breath, walking to his desk to search for something. "I'll be on the mainland by then. Send word to London for any progress." He signed something on a piece of paper and handed it to the captain. "Until then, keep searching for him or any members of the group. That should be our first priority."

"Of course, sir. I'll send another troop by dawn." Johnson nodded, taking the signed paper. "Would that be all?"

"Dismissed, Captain, thank you." Admiral Kirkland sat down on his chair, rubbing his temples as if fighting a headache.

Saluting his commanding officer, the English captain left the room, closing the door behind him. But not before hearing glass shattering. Once he was halfway down the hall, the captain let a smirk curl on his lips.

While he told the truth that his men had indeed reported no sighting of Laird Campbell, Johnson had known the man's location months ago. He knew Allen Campbell resided at Kaerndal Castle in the region of Strathpeffer.

He was just waiting for the best moment to strike.

After all, good things come to those who wait.

---

*Cue the classical evil music*

Well, a lot happened in this chapter, whew! We now know the real meaning of those meetings and the purpose of gathering money. North really can't catch a break, but worry not, it will get better... eventually. Finally, first appearance of Past England! He'll play a bigger role later in the story, but for now, you get a glimpse of his attempt at finding Past Scotland :O

If you want to know more about Nation headcanons like the danger visions North had during the Blitz or my Outlander AU, you can check my tumblr under the same username (Winterwrites23). I also draw scenes of the story, so go take a look :D Also, I changed the name of Captain Johnson to Jeremiah because I didn't want him to tarnish Canada's name xD Our maple-loving Canadian is too precious.

Anyway, thank you for the follows and comments! You guys are the best :D

Have a great day/evening!

Winter