AN: Dosa: noun- A small Indian spiced pancake that the author has never made. Ill informed pastries ahead.
Family in Darkness- Chapter 5
Magicians and Their Magic Words
He turned the notebook over in his hands. It was plain, a floppy leather bound thing full of barely legible scribbles. Once he'd tucked himself up in a comfy bed it seemed basically harmless, but India recognised England's own handwriting when he'd briefly flipped it open.
Scruffy but meticulous entries marked all things magic related dating back around a year and a half, though the book itself was nearly complete almost half its contents had been written in the last six months. He yawned, jaw cracking, but focused on staving off sleep. He flicked through, landing on the middle of February. On it were six entries in close, spiderweb script :
05-02 - Four new targets this week. 2 translocations, 1 enchantment, 1 unexpected hailstorm, 30 unexpected frogs. Astonishing versatility, although all events are occuring within high magic areas. Re-assess relevance.
15 - 02 - Experiment 10. Achieved rain of one frog with modification 42e. Experimenter collapsed from exhaustion. Alarm protocol activated.
16- 02- Modification to alarm protocol, reassignment of emergency alarm to Wales, who is less of a prick.
20- 02- Experiment 11. Modification 42g failure. Frog guts glued to ceiling, alterations proposed-
His body gave out before his determination did- journal falling to the cream carpet with a soft whumph.
The phone seemed to ring for an age before Shaha picked it up.
"Hello? Ra'ana Jinnah speaking?"
"Hello?" Bengals mouth is dry and she runs her hand over the stretchy fabric of her new dress. The phone was made of a strange smooth material with no hard edges, but her grip made it dig in regardless. This feels so uncomfortable, and she's not really sure she should be doing this. Why call Shaha, face of the Delhi Sultanate in her own time? Why not someone nice and uncomplicated- like Bhutan? Why does she do this to herself?
"Bangladesh?" Shaha's voice sounds cautious and closed off- and her accent is also strange. She sounds unlike herself, none of her normal flamboyance or drama. It's so strange, that it takes her a moment to recognise her modern name. Maybe her modern self had Picked A Side? This was a mistake.
"Sorry, Shaha is this a bad time? I co-"
"No! No no no? Sorry I was just… surprised. I wasn't expecting… I'm just surprised." There's a deafening silence between them, it's awful. She feels guilty- she didn't know what had happened but even at their worst they'd had this… fun, sisterly back and forth. Well, mostly. It was illogical but her ignorance of this time felt like it sat between them like a great ugly carcass, poisoning the water of their conversation.
"Look, Shaha. I know.. I know you and India are fighting." She pauses, ready for an interruption that doesn't come. "But I don't care. I don't know what's going on, and I don't want to- not if it's going to drag me into the middle. I just want to be able to talk to you, ok?"
"Ok." Her voice sounds oddly reedy. "What do you want me to call you?"
She breathes a sigh of relief. "Bengal. It's my name, I might as well use it. You?"
"Ra'ani. Or Shaha. Whichever you prefer." It's an oddly cagey answer for her sister, but she doesn't press. Silence descends.
"How are you-" "Are you ok?"
They're words tumble out over each other and suddenly they burst out laughing. The crushing pressure lifts and Bengal slumps onto the sofa. "Sorry, I just haven't spoken to you in a bit."
"I'm fine." There's a small pause, then Shahas voice starts up again, as if she's not used to this. "I mean- things are going fairly well, politics is politics is politics but it's getting better- it's fairly stable so at least I don't feel sick all the time anymore-" Words flow like water, though Bengal can't help notice her sister doesn't blindside her with things she can't understand. It's nice, and for the first time all week she feels like she's talking to someone, rather than past them. She can follow the conversation easily, though that's also the language- she's good at Latin (better than her brother) but it feels very much like a second language. Slipping back into her native tongue is like slipping into a warm bath, and when she needs to respond her answere's come effortlessly.
But after exhausting all avenues of light gossip the conversation turns, inevitably, to her house mates. It starts innocuously,
"I'm glad we can talk. I missed you, while we were fighting." Bengal says. Far from her war and on the other side of the planet, there's no need to treat her sister like an enemy.
"Not our brother?"
She shrugs. "Him too. You know I'm surprised your fighting again- what happened?" Deafening silence, again. She can't seem to go ten minutes without putting her foot in it.
"It's..complicated." Her voice is carefully controlled and light and again Bengal is struck by the difference 700 years can make- in her time there would have been a sharp, casual dismissal or a wild deflection, and she's not sure what to make of this more closed off version of her. Shaha continues, with a biting dry tone. "How are you managing with England?"
Bengal winces. It's a complete diversion, but she recognises a rebuke when she hears it. "Sorry, I didn't realise it was such a sore subject."
"It's just complicated." Shaha's voice softens, "You couldn't have known." Bengal waits for her to elaborate, but she doesn't. Rather than letting the conversation slip back into silence, she answers her older sisters other question.
"He's fine. Well. He's a brat- " A sharp intake of breath comes down the line. "-but nothing we can't handle. As long as you don't do anything too quickly around him he'll sit with you quite happily." A small disbelieving noise came down the phone.
"It's true! He's like an oversized alley cat, feed him and give him some space and he'll tolerate you." It's quite funny actually, watching Arthur slink into the kitchen a few minutes after her to collect his toast and tea with a sculpted look of disinterest. I'm not here for you, it says, you just happen to feed me. Bengal normally kind of avoids kids- she doesn't dislike them, per say, but they require a lot of attention and get sticky fingers all over her books. England is refreshingly low maintenance. "India hovers over him all the time though, and that makes him tense."
She'd expected her sister to agree, but her voice comes out very serious.
"At least one of you is, just keep your wits about you around him. He's obviously young, but with a man like him, it's better to be safe than sorry ok?"
"Ok?" Bengal says nonplussed. But just as she's about to ask why everyone's treating the kid like a smoking firework, Shaha interupts her.
"I've got to go ok? But Bengal?" Her voice is oddly intense and a little desperate. "If you need anything. Call me. Please."
Weightless, floating in the infinite blue sky, Mumbai sprawls out beneath him. It was wispy and small, winding alleys punctuated by grand walkways and palaces. People flowed over every nook and cranny, a riot of colour. Pink, blue, earth-dark orange and phosphorescent greens.
He flew closer, light winds blowing him from one rooftop to the next till he drifted to a stop resting on a minaret. A gentle breeze ruffles him as he watches the people dance and cartwheel, crashing into each other with flashes of green and blue light- it makes them take root and bloom. Lily, lotus, jasmine. And a towering rose bush twisting and pushing itself through the throng and up to the sky, blooming orange, white and green.
"Beautiful" says England.
The blond man is standing behind him. There are no steps but India knows he didn't fly. He could leave any time and England wouldn't be able to follow. England's red kameez flaps in the wind over white trousers. India is not afraid, he tells a joke. England laughs, bright and breezy.
India turns back to the rose choked streets as warm arms encircle him from behind. England's face is pressed between his shoulder blades. Wind ruffles his hair. It feels nice. He feels needed.
"I love you," says England.
"I know."
Eventually the riotous colour dims and storm clouds gather on the horizon ugly slabs of grey. "England, I need to go." He tries to disentangle himself but the arms around his middle cinch tight as a vice. "England!"
Suddenly, blood and pain. In his stomach. He looks down and sees a sword sticking from his belly. Blood gushes down his legs and coats the floor as Mumbai turns black then crumbles and the sky bleeds away leaving him in a black featureless nothing. England's nails turn to claws, gouging his flesh. Green eyes glowed in the dark. He fell, choking on blood. That voice rang in his ears- now in English.
Why did you think I would ever let you go?
India jerked awake, nauseous. The dawn was bright and cold, weak light sliding over the room. He was left panting and shivering in the bed when the shame and humiliation hit. It choked at his throat, along with that feeling of being watched. Of being clung onto so tight it crushed you but still found wanting and the blistering fear of the rages that followed….
It had been years.
And the dreams had been bought on not by living in England's reconstructed house, with a young England yowling at every little thing, but by a notebook. He glanced at it, lying on the floor it looked like little more than a scrap of leather - and it wasn't like it's innards were any more interesting. Instead they seemed totally banal. Utterly pedestrian. His response? Felt utterly stupid.
Unable to go back to sleep he went and washed himself, scrubbing himself almost brutally hard under the freezing cold water from the shower. His head chased itself in circles looking for why he'd dreamt that again after so many years. Decades even. Because he could have a conversation with child England - hell, he could have a conversation with adult England- and feel none the worse for wear. He could sleep in a near replica of the place he was imprisoned with minimal fuss. So why did the notebook a problem? Why couldn't his bastard head just keep it together after so damn long- or at least save it for when he wasn't caring for a pair of vulnerable children.
He shut the shower off, panting hard, and he tried to settle his breathing back down, but his head was racing, tripping over itself and coiling around and around and around-
His thoughts chased him all the way downstairs, where they were interrupted at the kitchen door. His charges were up and sat at the table. Both looked like they'd been there awhile. Bengal was nursing a cup of tea while England was slumped over his arms, already looking half asleep. Deja vu hit him, and grounded him- 2018, the curse, small Arthur. Nations were tough, and healed quick, and he seemed none the worse for wear after his fit yesterday. It was a relief, on multiple levels- they were fine. For now.
It was still unsettling to see his sister up so early though. She was normally more of a three-in-the-afternoon kind of person. He knocked on the door.
They jumped. Bengal nearly slopped her tea down herself as she whipped around to look at him before settling right back into a slouch full of carefully affected calm. And Arthur. Snapped to attention like he was on a parade ground, back straight, shoulders back, puffy eyes set in a flower. India sighed and checked the time on the microwave.
6:30 am.
"Do you want some breakfast?" he said instead of swearing.
His charges nodded, one languid, the other sharp and mistrustful. He just busied himself with whipping up batter, making dosas for all three of them- though he left out the chilli and added more ginger to make up for it. The rhythmic motions calmed him. His head emptied out as he focused on seasoning the griddle pan, gradually building up the layers of oil and seasoning. And when he glanced behind him, he wondered if it was catching. Bengal watched him with a sleepy interest and England was slouching- though he snapped back to attention the moment he saw he was being watched. But he let it slide, returning his focus to the food. It didn't take long.
He plonked the dosas down in the middle of the table, still steaming from the pan and started dishing it onto their plates. Arthur looked at it, and then at him.
"Try it." he said, far to familiar with that particular look. Arthur took a bite and swallowed efor talking again.
"Thankyou." India blinked as the boy started shoveling it down, absentmindedly chewing on his own breakfast. Arthur slowed down quickly, to a crawl before glaring at India and stopping completely.
"What."
"Nothing."
"I can be polite!" Englands eye was twitching.
"Never said you couldn't." Just thought it, you know, in general. In the abstract. Don't expect it. Sure it was something that his adult self was scrupulous about now - but that was a recent development. For almost everyone.
Arthur gave him a narrow eyed stare. India looked away.
He really wasn't doing well this morning.
The rest of the meal passed in companionable silence. When mugs were drained, he refilled them. When plates were scraped clean, he piled them high with more food. He even cooked up a second batch when they finished the first. They would never have asked him to, but insomnia makes you ravenous, and seeing life return to their eyes was worth it.
"So what do you want to do now?" He said. There was still a pile of dosa on the table and he mentally filed them away as snacks for later.
"Well we've got those books we found last night. We should start there." Bengal said, looking determined. Honestly, to him she still looked half dead, and he'd hoped she'd take the high road and suggest sleep. Certainly there'd be no way Arthur would try and sleep with both of them up and awake.
"They'll still be there in a few hours," he said gently.
Bengal snorted.
"It's not like we'll be getting any sleep anyway, might as well make ourselves useful- you can have a look at that notebook while we go through those spell books-"
His stomach dropped like it was full of lead. "Actually, I'll join you with the books. Three will be faster than two."
"Huh?"
"I had a look at the notebook last night. It's full of experiments- without knowing what to look for, it won't be useful." And he wouldn't have to look at it. At least until he sorted out his head. The ensuing debate- because there was always going to be one- was short and one sided and ended with him herding both of them upstairs so all three of them could get started. Bengal chastises him for being bossy, but he directs them to start clearing places to sit in the bombsite that is the master bedroom. He's gratified to note that Arthur, at least, listens to him without argument.
That brief flame of triumph is snuffed out when he opens the book he's assigned himself. Spoken Latin from the second century AD is apparently not enough to cope with high level magic texts. Each word makes sense, or looks like it should, only by the end of the sentence he knows no more than when he started. It's like trying to dig a trench with a teaspoon.
He yielded and dug out a dictionary when hs focus started to give him a headache- ignoring Bengal's annoyed glances. Find a word he was unsure of. Check it. Find a word he was unsure of. Check it. Find a word he thought he knew but apparently didn't. Check it. Find that by the end of the sentence he'd forgotten the original translations he'd made and he had to go back to the beginning of the sentence. Fetch a notebook and pen, so he can make notes as he translates. Make a sentence and guess the meaning. Find a word he doesn't know. Repeat.
There two hours in when Bengal loses her patience.
"Look, just-"
"Let's go to the living room, hmm?" He says beatifically, face split from ear to ear with a plastic grin. "It'll be much more comfortable. I'll get some snacks."
Arthur's staring at him like he's grown a second head. India notes with frustration that although he'd been reading squint-eyed with his finger tracing the lines of the text and mouthing along the boy had still got about a chapter in. He'd barely got to the end of the first page. Bengal sighs loud and exasperated before bundling up her books and heading downstairs. Arthur waits until he leaves, and then follows in his shadow. But for all their annoyance India feels like a whale has been lifted of his back when he leaves the master bedroom for the relatively clean and comfy living room.
Of course, this does nothing to help his reading.
"I could cast a translation spell if you want?" muttered Arthur, after an hour. His words hung in the air like a particularly noxious fart as the two adults stared at him- one angry and disbelieving, the other embarrassed beyond belief. The boy sank in on himself, legs folding to press the book he held to his chest and shoulders collapsing in to hide his head like a tortoise. Even his voice shrank.
"I mean, I've not done it in a long time but-"
"NO!" India's disapproval is almost drowned out by Bengal's absolute fury and Arthur, cornered, rocked back for a moment.
"Why not! I can do it!" He shouted, and his body uncoiled from its cower and into an almost crouch.
"That's not the point" India said quickly and levelly to diffuse the situation. From the look on Arthur's face you'd have thought he'd slapped him.
"But I can help." He looked so wounded.
"You could hurt yourself" He said, hoping affection would mollify the child. Instead, he just looks insulted.
"I won't-"
"You shouldn't be doing magic anyway, it's not right." Annnd trust his sister to put her foot not just on the trigger but straight through it, eyes flashing and a grim expression on her face. He could have screamed at her for her misaimed protectiveness. Utter conviction. Zero consideration. Arthur's face twitches and for a split second he thinks he sees despair, and then he blinks it away and his face contorted with rage.
"I- you- I'm only trying to help!" The boy chucks the book on the floor with a heavy THUNK and springs up, towering over them for a split second with his fists clenched before storming off upstairs. India can hear the thumpthumpthump of his footsteps as he races away. They mirror the thump of his racing heart.
Trying to get his breathing under control he glares at Bengal - only to be met with an equally powerful glare back. As if this is his fault.
"Do you want to go after him or shall I? Wait-" he says before she can interrupt, "- I'll do it. We don't want him to actually run away."
She flinches and a little guilt coils in him, but he's up and marching out the room before it gets him to apologize. He flies back up the steps, but he can hear that Arthur has headed for the top of the house- his heavy footsteps make dust float down from the ceiling. India pauses for a moment and tries to think about how to approach this. It wasn't his first rodeo. Australia in particular sprung to mind - a child with a massive heart and equally massive holes in his memory where his native population should have been. His mood had been equally erratic, and when he'd been overwhelmed or upset it'd been best to leave him to calm himself. But he'd been tied to the house by a sense of love for England- his 'father'. Arthur. Little England. Wasn't.
India was not foolish enough to think that the temporary ceasefire he'd achieved on Friday would be a substitute for that kind of bond. So he took a deep breath and climbed the stairs.
The first thing he noticed was the dust. It coated everything- tables, carpet, railing, stairs, in a thick, gritty grey blanket that muffled his footsteps. It was so thick that India could easily see that Arthur had gone round the corner by the footprints on the carpet and handprints along the banister. The rest of the house was by no means spotless, and had relaxed a little since his confinement 71 years ago, but this was jarring. The England he knew hated mess and disorder of all kinds and if he couldn't bully you into cleaning it he'd spend all night on his hands and knees bringing it up to standard. Even in his seemingly more relaxed modern form….this felt wrong.
Suddenly there was silence. Arthurs footsteps stopped and India peeked around the corner. He stood the far corner, staring straight at him with a carefully constructed look of disinterest. It was spoiled by the waver in his voice.
"You gonna yell at me again?"
"No."
"You better not. If you do, I'll hit you." India stifled a sigh even as his cowardly heart picked up a beat. The echoes of the man who would become the Empire are already present in this kid, and he can see them overlapping. It makes his skin crawl. He consciously relaxes his body, keeps it non-confrontational, waiting for the boys anger to burn itself out. He notes the little things- the dust motes, the fretful crumples around the boys eyes, the fact that by some unspoken rule they've both slipped back into French. It helps. And after what feels like an age, the boys shoulders slump.
"I was only trying to help," he mumbled, staring at the floor.
"I know" It's said without heat.
" Of course you do," a half hearted sneer, quickly dropped. "Why're you angry with me then?"
"I wasn't. I was worried." The boys eyes flash with anger and he hunches in on himself as he shouts.
"What. Did you think I'd try and hurt you-"
"No. I thought you'd hurt yourself." Silence. Arthurs stare is wide and disbelieving, and his hands are shaking. India's just trying to keep his cool, so maybe he's coming out too cold, so he tries again. "You've already been placed under a powerful spell that we don't know how to lift. Arthur, who knows how trying to cast another might affect you-"
"-Translation spells aren't dangerous!"
"Under normal circumstances!" He cuts of Arthurs' whine, and tries to ignore how vulnerable the boy now looks with his eyes that wide. "This isn't normal circumstances. If something went wrong-" It costs him something to say this, but Arthur deserves to know. "-If something went wrong there's no way to know if we could fix it. If anyone could fix it."
The boy just stares at him, wide eyed and gawping like a fish. And then he regains composure, closing of his facial expression and refusing to look him in the eye.
"Who cares." His voice is quiet and flat. "It's not like I can die."
"That's not the po-"
"Anyway you can't say Bengal ain't angry. She doesn't even know anything about it and she hates it. Bitch."
A cold pit of frustration opens up in his stomach. "Don't say that."
"Why? 'Cause it's true? She hates it and it's not good enough for her. Bitch."
"Arthur" He says, anger leaking through into his voice despite himself. The boy shows his teeth somewhere between a smile and a grimace, he knows he's got under his skin, and India can see what he's going to say even before he opens his mouth.
"And? You can't stop me saying it! She's a bitch! A stupid bitch! A great h-"
"THAT'S ENOUGH"
Arthur's face pales immediately and flinches, back straightening out into that wooden, military posture again. India takes deep breaths to try and get his temper back under control, so the fight doesn't come to blows. Or Arthur faints. One of the two. It takes a minute.
By the time he's regained his composure- enough that he won't start yelling like that again- Arthurs gone from grey to chalky white. He's holding himself unnaturally stiff and carefully tilted to the side, like he's ready to defend himself. After a moment the boy nods meekly, a jerky, halting motion that makes India feel like actual shit. Except. He couldn't have the boy saying those kinds of things- it's not right. But he's not sure what to do now. He can't send the kid back to the living room- it'll only start another fight. But at the same time he's hesitant to punish him more since shouting so clearly terrified him.
"Do. Do you want me to go to my room?" India blinks. That wavery voice sounds strange coming from this kid, and he notes with a vague feeling of concern that he'd slipped back to a formal 'you'. But he wasn't sure what to do with it.
"Yes, if you could." Is what slips out instead of...something. 'Are you going to apologize' maybe? Are you done being a brat? Maybe even, are you ok? But England pushes past him and is down the stairs before he can take it back and… he supposes it's better that way. More normal for the child. He watches him go for a moment, then his phone bleeps.
Hey. The array you found is a summoning array. Powerfull, but completely harmless unless you use magic to activate it.
I don't think it's related.
India stares at his phone for a moment before really registering that Norway was explaining that creepy sign in England's lab. It feels like an age since they found it, though it was only yesterday evening.
Why not? He replies, having to work quite hard to get his fingers to work properly. He started to walk down the stairs - out of the dust and into the clean, bright landing beneath.
Too large. I'd have noticed if he'd drawn it out on the meeting room floor. And it's the wrong thing, transformations don't need gating runes
...?
The compass points. They help fix position for all involved
makes summoning really easy to spot
India bit his lip, leaning against the wooden railing. To him 'summoning' sounded like the exact kind of thing time travel might be based on. But what did he know? Still he quickly types out a reply.
You don't think it's a summoning?
…
No. Why would I?
India typed out the sensations his charges had been having, placing particular emphasis on Bengals 'stretched' feeling. It felt strange- had Norway not asked his own wards? But then again maybe Denmark was the type to hide his problems. Scotland and Ireland certainly were.
And?
India furrowed his brow, feeling distinctly annoyed. It took a moment to form his reply.
What if they were summoned across time rather than space? When you get into it, they're basically the same thing.
The reply was instant.
No.
I'm sorry. Why? Maybe his irritation bled through because the next reply was slower, taking almost a full five minutes. Or maybe he was wrangling Scotland. It'd be nice to know he wasn't the only one struggling.
I'm sorry but time travels just not possible. The array you saw was to summon a fairly small creature across dimensions in the same time. no one has ever successfully summoned across time before and it take so much energy it might as well be impossible. we just don't have enough information atm to say how he did it
India stared at the phone as guilt coiled in his stomach. Maybe it was stubbornness, but he hadn't told Norway about the journal because if he had then the nation would want to know what it said. It was bad enough knowing himself that he was avoiding it, but telling others would be worse. Technically he supposed he could send it to him. But that would be it, an admission of failure. He mulled the information around in his head, trying to find a loophole. But he didn't know much about magic, so what could he say?
He takes a brief moment to press his ear to the door of Arthur's room, just to make sure he's in there, and then pads downstairs to do it all again. Quietly he sits on the bottom steps to compose himself. He doesn't like this, he'd much rather deflect with a joke and smooth things over. He takes a moment to enjoy the hall, bright light streams through the glass at the top of the door and over the riot of clothes and shoes on the rack. It makes him smile a bit to see that England's shoes are just as all over the place as their own. He wonders if they're rubbing off on him. He also wonders if he could stay here rather than have a what is going to be one of the most uncomfortable conversations of his life.
As a rule, he kind of hates telling people how to do religion. There's so many different faiths inside him held so strongly that it was just better to stay out of it. But. They need to be able to get along long enough to fix this. Even if she was sort of right.
"How is he?" India jumps, lost in thought. Bengal is leaning against the door frame fidgeting with her orange headscarf.
"He's in his room," he says by way of a non-answer. She gives him a look.
"I think he's ok. He hates being shouted at." She has the grace to look contrite.
"I didn't think he'd react so strongly." He smiled, if young England overlapping with the Empire made his skin crawl, then it was a relief to see the overlap between Bengal and Bangladesh. Never had the feeling of having a 'baby' sister been so apt. "I'll apologise for shouting at him."
India gave her side eye. "Not for telling him he can't use magic?" She snorts.
"Hypocrite. I won't sit by and let him screw his own soul over, he's a child." India blinks, there's not much he can say to that.
" It's what he's used to" His voice is blank, neither approved nor disproving. Her eyes turn hard and he braces himself for a fight.
"And?" For a moment they stare at each other, then she deflates, taking a deep breath and forcibly calming herself. She looks dead on her feet from exhaustion. "I don't like this, but I won't use magic to undo this if I can help it. And I won't use his."
India bites his lip, but he can't ignore the elephant in the room. "And what if there's no other way?"
"My people will always come first, but.." She looks like hell. " I'll endure. For as long as I can."
They sit silently in the hallway, neither moving from their position. India can hear the birds chirping outside but it doesn't touch him or the icy lump of guilt and worry in his gut. He looks away and watches the dust motes shining in the air. Maybe I should give this place a clean.
"I just wish we knew what was happening." It was said mostly to herself, India only just caught it. But apparently 'shit' was the feeling of the day. The last couple of hours played in his head, him being difficult, refusing to acknowledge his own weaknesses, causing fights. He felt sick. And seeing Bengal having to face down the possibility that there may be no good answer for her, no way to keep to her religion and her safety- made it worse. It was only a notebook.
"I'll read it tonight," he says quietly, staring at the carpet. "I don't want you, either of you, getting hurt to obtain what we need." He looks up, Bengal is giving him a distinctly worried look and he wonders how bad he must look. He musters up a smile. "It's my responsibility."
"I...Are you sure?" This time he puts some effort into his smile.
"What, you think your big brother can't handle a little notebook? I'll be fine."
"I'll be fine." Bengal looks at him. His hair is mussed from rumpling it to many times and his eyes are droopy from tiredness. She suspects his smile is fake too, but he is skilled at faking his emotions, so she can't be sure. "I still expect you to apologize to Arthur."
She sighs and slopes her way up the stairs, shoulders heavy as iron. She dislikes apologizing when she couldn't have know she was doing wrong. It feels like a trap. But standing outside of Arthur's door she can admit to herself she also hates being tongue tied. It's an unfamiliar sensation, and she kind of hates the uncertainty of it. Eventually though, she just has to start.
"Arthur!" She knocks on the door. There's no answer. She knocks again, as bad as this feels she thinks it should at least be face to face. "Arthur? Can I talk to you?" The silence persists.
Her stomach twists and she's bombarded with images of the room empty, the kid having decided to leg it- getting lost, getting hurt. He might technically be England, but the future was a foreign country. She grabs the door handle, her head is fuzzy with sleepiness and she nearly faceplants the door when it doesn't open like she expects. It actually does give a bit, a sliver of room becoming visible before the door sticky with a screech of wood on wood. He must have jammed a chair under the door.
"Arthur! England!" Her throat burning and she's hammering on the door. "Are you in there? Arthur-"
"What."
She breathes a sigh of relief and rests her head on the door. He's not thrown himself out the window at least. "Sorry for yelling at you earlier." She doesn't get a reply. "Are you ok?"
"...I'm fine."
Again she finds herself staring at the door in the middle of a hostile silence. It's a very plain door, boring to look at. She looks at the carpet instead- it's not much of an improvement. "Try and get some sleep yeah?" Her neck heats up with embarrassment. Try to get some sleep. Try to get some sleep? What was she, his Aunty?
"Whatever." Thankfully, the conversation died after that and she didn't have to deal with the emotions. What was it she said to Shaha? That he was like a cat? Low maintenance. She breathes a sigh of relief and goes to take her own advice.
She can't.
Even in the half light of her room, her body won't relax. Between the fight and the fear of Arthur running away and that painfully uncomfortable apology, she's buzzing. Every bone in her body hurts and her mind is spinning, but she's gone all the way through tiredness and out the other side. Despite knowing she needs sleep, she's manic. And of course, that ever present grating stress of the overstretched connection sawing its way through her guts every time her mind drifts for a second.
She can't stop picking at her nais. Her legs won't stop twitching every time she doses off, waking her after a millisecond of sleep. But at the same time she's confused enough that she forgets what she's doing midway through anything- she goes to get a drink and forgets halfway down the corridor, then goes back to bed. Instead, brain at idle, she dwells on her sleeplessness, and wants to cry. Lying on the bed trapped in the waking world, the future presses down like a pillow over her face. She endures it for as long as she can. Three hours. Then she just has to go back.
"Why do you do it?" She's standing outside England's door again. It's boring to look at, so she's brought a small pad of paper with her and is writing notes in a half dreaming state. "Magic?"
He's so silent that for a while she thinks he must have finally fallen asleep, and she's talking to herself. Then he whispers, full of anger.
"Excuse me?"
She jots down a few more things: fits? And fear. She's sure now that Arthurs discomfort earlier today was in the magic itself, not just reaching out to help her brother. And this spell is already doing harm, nibbling away at their insides, making sleep impossible. She tries to imagine a man so stuck in it that he'd volunteer to do it under those circumstances. She tries to imagine a boy who would. She slides down to sit on the floor.
"You knew it could hurt you, and you're Christian right?" She thinks so anyway, he mostly prays out of sight in the morning, and he blasphemes with Jesus.
"I already said I wouldn't do it again- what more does he want to know?" he growls. "Tell him to ask me himself if he wants to know."
A flare of irritation in her chest and her lips purse, "I'm asking for myself! He has nothing to do with this."
"Jesus Christ, fine. Yes I know magic will condemn my immortal soul to hell, if I have one blah blah I repent. " He's breathing heavily and she can hear him holding back a shout. "Happy now!"
She rolls her eyes, as if that answers anything. "Yes, right. So why would you offer?"
"I WAS TRYING TO HELP!"
"Oi! Everything alright up there?" She freezes as India's voice blasts up from downstairs. England goes quiet. She realises that as an adult and an independent nation she can act however she wants, but a substantial part of her still doesn't want to upset her brother- or get Arthur into more trouble.
"Yes!" They chorus. It's surprising that Arthur joins, but she guesses he is still in his room. Where he is supposed to be calming down. Dammit.
"Sorry." It's quiet. She's gone about this all wrong, and whilst she holds her beliefs close to her heart, she can also feel some empathy for this kid. But, well, she'd kind of expected him to have the same views she did. People of the Book were alike in so many ways, and uncomfortable as it was to admit to herself, she liked this kid. Maybe it was only because they were both wracked with insomnia, and maybe he had grown up to be a deeply unpleasant person. But. She looks at her notes. No evidence stares back up at her.
"I didn't come here to fight, I'm just confused." She pauses, searching for a way to say this, because it hadn't come out right the first time. "You're a clever kid, so why would you do something you know is wrong? Something you knew could hurt you?"
"-I told you-" He jumps on her words, but she cuts him off sharply.
"And if you had to kill someone to help would you do it?"
Ugly silence. Bengal can feel her heart beating in her ears, every nerve ending straining to hear his response. She can't even articulate why this matters- 700 years is a long time, and her brother can be dramatic but he would never, never fake a reaction just to incriminate someone. He sincerely believes England did this. But. No evidence.
Eventually he answers.
"...not for you, no." Something unravels in her heart- he wouldn't hurt someone just because it'd give a ...what even were they?...friends? Associate? Wouldn't hurt someone just because it would help them. But that's not enough. She taps her notebook and asks before she can forget again.
"And you wouldn't do it for any other reason- magic, I mean," she clarifies. The answer is quicker this time, and quieter.
"no." Her whole body relaxes and her head falls against the wood of the door with a soft thump.
"Good. That's good." The boy just grunts in reply in a smal, non committed sort of way.
She stays there for a moment, staring at the carpet and th small gap beneath the door. Sadly, she realizes this isn't actually that different from having a conversation with the kid normally. Hard, unresponsive front with a small sliver of access where you can talk genuinely. And randomly you get shouted at. Maybe it's just sleep deprivation. But given the way he folds up into himself when he thinks no one's watching… she doesn't think so.
Bengal isn't blind. She knows she can be difficult to get along with- while most people like poetry and literature, she is, even by her own standards, obsessed. And when it comes to 'dull' mechanical topics, she can talk for hours. And people always butted in to divert her when she started to talk about politics. She was obsessed with justice, and on freedom. She hated hypocrisy- and was incapable of keeping it to herself. She liked to think that this was just the way her people shone through her. She loved them.
But there was one thing she hated, which she knew was all her own. Fake emotions. Hidden thoughts. The future was scary enough without having to play mind games when ever you even spoke to someone. Low maintenance. Hah.
She lies down on the floor and stares at the gap at the bottom of the door. Her body is too tired to do anything but notepad rustles as she fiddles with it. After a moment she murmurs.
"England." It's his name after all. "Do you want to play noughts and crosses?" She's not sure what she's expecting, but she dreamily draws up a grid and places a cross in the center anyway.
"Alright." The boys voice is quiet, but calm. She slides the paper under the door, and waits for a reply.
This is how India finds her: sprawled like a cat in the hallway, headscarf askew, and a small piece of paper covered in noughts and crosses pushed just clear of the door. He pick it up and snorts- 5 all - and places it gently back down. Asleep he can see how young she really is, round faced and soft, barely an adult. Opening England's door, he sees Bengals mirror- a tiny boy slumped against the wall, snoring gently- sleep robbing his baby face of all menace. He carefully places his duvet over him, and goes to fetch a pillow and blanket for Bengal.
After all, they had no choice but to rely on him.
"Shaha."
"Mhmm?"
"I don't think he did it."