Uncharted Waters- Part 2
Scotland and Norway are arguing- he can hear them through the wall. He's almost certain they're arguing about the rift, but since he can't understand them he can't be sure. Norway had torn his way through the whole house and found nothing. He had seemed calm enough at the time - but. India runs his hand over the stairway carpet as the argument raises another few decibels. Then silence. India presses his ear against the rough paper of the wall. Quiet voices, dimmed to a sullen and exasperated murmuring.
He plays with the fluff balls that have accumulated from neglect on the carpet. The evening air is still heavy with heat, and the late sunset stripes the stairs below an exhausted gold.
"They're still going at it then?" says a voice in Bengali. He looks to the bottom of the stairs. His sister is leaning heavily on the banister, like her spine won't hold her up- and her voice is rough and slurred.
You should be sleeping. Is what he should say, but what comes out is- "Where's your shadow?"
Bengal chuckles. "Asleep on the sofa, I crawled away when she started drooling."
He snorts. "Jet lag?" Bengal just shrugs.
"It's when you- oh nevermind." It's not important anyway. On the other side of the wall he can hear furniture being moved - maybe chairs? Again he can't quite make it out, but he's dignified enough not to smooch his face against the wall to check.
"Can I join you?" Bengal says quietly. Her hesitancy is unnerving, and unlike her. Still, he shuffles up so there's space on the stair for two, and pace the space between him and the bannister. She wobbles her way up, and takes his hand when it's offered and immediately lets it go when she feels she's steady. He respects her enough to trust her on it.
She carefully lowers herself next to him. On the other side of the wall the argument has escalated again. His sister fidgets with her dress.
"Are you going to say anything?" It's so strange to think that she's so openly worried about what he thinks of her. Not since.. .Well. since before she was this age. Well before.
"I promised to treat you like an adult, didn't I? I take those more seriously nowadays." His voice is level, and he can see a flicker of a smile on her lips. "If you don't want to include me on your schemes, that's your choice." She flinches. "Sorry."
"I didn't expect anything to go wrong, truly." Her voice is low and she shivers when she speaks. Up close, he can see her hand tremble. "And we just needed a way to get-"
"Unstuck. I know." She sighs.
"And now something is sucking the magic out of us-out of me- " she shudders again as his gut squirms. Carefully, he puts an arm around her, she doesn't shake him off, which can only be a good thing. "-they could be doing anything with it."
"You couldn't have known." He says.
"No. I couldn't. " Her face is still so pale. He wishes that face wasn't so familiar to him. "But neither could you." Clearly he makes a face because she leans against him and scowls. "Even you're not arrogant enough to think you can read minds." She pokes him in the side as if to deflate his imaginary ego, and he laughs. The knot of feelings inside him loosens, just a little bit, and for a moment he just basks in the warmth of her half-hug and the sound of Norway and Scotland ranging the whole damn kitchen by the sound of it.
"So how did that second meeting with the Thakurs go?" That knot tightens right back up again inside his chest and winds up until it hurts. He sighs. Then tells her.
"Oh fuck." She fiddles with the end of her dress. "What now?"
"I don't know. I can't turn up at their house again with a fruit basket and a card."
"No, that'd not be good."
"And-" He pauses and does a little head jerk towards the boys room, hoping to convey a general sentiment about the sheer, overwhelming lack of social skills the boy has. He'd got him to go to bed earlier, and without a fight even. He's relieved about that, obviously, but it's strange too. Her face is blank though, so he elaborates. "I don't think he'd know why- I'd just be forcing him to do another nonsense task."
Her face stiffens and then relaxes into something desperately sad.
"Yeah." The silence stretches on and on.
"Are you talking about me?" says a small voice in Latin. India turns to see England standing at attention against the wall. The bags under his eyes, when they meet Indias, say he's tired, but his face is blank.
"You don't need to stand to attention." It slips out unintentionally, but India means it with every fibre of his being. England just stares into his eyes though, beseeching. He relents. "But yes, I was telling Bengal what you did."
He nods and turns to Bengal.
"You must hate me now." He doesn't even seem angry, just tired. It's such an arse backwards response, that, yes actually now he thinks about it, he's seen before. On drunken nights when that mask would slip and India would see the real person he'd fallen in love with, not the tyrannical Master of the house.
Still, India's eyes drift over to Bengal. He's not sure any of them have the energy to fight, but he doesn't want to have to try anyway. But again, she just looks very sad
"I'm too tired to hate you." The kid gives her a Look.
"Really? 'Cause you're kinda preachy." She just rolls her eyes at him.
"Brat. Get over here." And the brat does. India just stares at the pair of them for a moment- England, sitting and finally, properly, allowing himself to slouch, with his knees pulled up to his chest. Bengal makes exasperated sounds in her throat as she flicks her fingertips through his fringe to try and lie it straight. Unbidden, a laugh bubbles up in India's chest. Bengal gives him a Look of her own.
"What."
He can't help it, he snorts. Then replies in Bengali, "You have no idea how surreal this is."
She rolls her eyes and chuckles herself. England's eyes dart between the two of them, tense again, though not uncoiled. "Whatever," she swaps back to Latin, and flicks England's hair again. The boy relaxes. India does too. The silence is so much heavier this time, and more comfortable. Bengals hair flicks have softened to sisterly head pats, and if anything, England is leaning into them. The largest Empire there has ever been, the world's most dangerous man, India's bastard ex-husband- curled up like a stray cat for head pats from a woman who could justly say she wanted him dead. It really is the strangest thing India has ever seen.
His own eyelids and body droop, pulled down by the soft heavy feeling in his chest flowing into his limbs, and he lets himself rest against the wall. England is clearly asleep now, and Bengals hand slows to a stop, rubbing a single clump of blond hair between her fingers.
"I wish I didn't care."
It's a whisper. Barely said and barely heard. He doesn't say anything, not even about the pang of empathy in his chest. There's no point.
He feels the same way, after all.
Ow. Ow ow ow. The waking world dribbles into her head like a pickaxe. It's warm, but everything hurts. Her back and shoulders, from where the stairs and banisters dig into her. Her neck, from being at a funny angle all night. Even her fingers are full of pins and needles from being crushed under her and her brother all night.
"Ahhhgh- ah." India yawn-groans and squirms upright- " -ow," - wacking his head off the railing with a dull clunk and slumping back, squashing her in the process. Behind them is a small giggle.
"Are you stuck?" She'd turn and glare at the boy if her neck would work.
"Next time you can fall asleep on the stairs, and we'll see how you feel ok?" India says.
"Brat." she adds, as India groans and levers himself upright. Finally, she can breathe again!
England sticks his face over hers, eyes scrunched up equally in amusement and concern, a grin twitching at the edge of his mouth. He sticks his tongue out at her, fast like a snake, and she rolls her eyes.
There's a click and India whips his head round and releases a flurry of irritated Hindi- England scowls. So she knows it's her sister before she even opens her mouth. Their back and forth lasts all through Bengal hauling herself upright on the banister, panting. She ignores the pang of hurt when neither of them acknowledge her- it's familiar but unjustified- and instead tries to shuffle onto the next step down so she won't be quite so harshly squished between her brother and the bruising wooden railings. Shaha is at the bottom of the stairs, dressed relatively plainly in a blue salwar kameez as she adjusts her red head scarf flapping her hands at her twin sharply despite her grin.
Suddenly there's a creak of stairs and Shaha shoves a phone screen in her face. There's a photo of the three of them - her, England, and India- in a pile at the top of the stairs. They're fast asleep- the boy curled up like a cat and India drooling a little. She'd wedged herself into a position that looks like she's broken half her limbs as she tries to sprawl in a space half the size it needs to be.
"You're all so cute, I was thinking of keeping this for blackmail purposes." Shaha says in Bengali with a teasing smile. Bengal just rolls her eyes and bats her hand away, but can feel herself smile, even if her brother isn't. "Maybe even after this gets fixed, who knows?"
"Speaking off," she continues, switching to Latin, "Norway wants the lot of you down in the kitchen, he needs the boy to do a spell." Bengal can feel England tense behind her, and her brother sits up properly, turning to the side and spouting off something to someone at the bottom of the stairs. She leans to the side and there's Norway, looking pretty well-rested for someone who couldn't get to bed last night. He says something back in what's probably English. Her brother's eyebrows pull into a serious expression and he nods immediately and stands up. So does England, his face grim.
"What is it?" she asks in Latin, because England can have no more understanding of what is happening than her.
"Norway's going to try and find the center of the rift, apparently it can't be under us - but it can't be far, or Scotland wouldn't be able to sense it." India says. Her stomach churns, and she rubs her arms at the phantom cold. Norway says something, and India replies.
"Why?" she says, heart pounding.
India looks very serious, and England's eyes dart between the pair of them. But it's Shaha who replies. "He thinks what happened with you is Ruqyah tried to unravel the spell- oh, that's how ruqyah tries to deal with magic by the way- we figured out last night, thanks to you guys stopping us going to bed- " Shaha flaps her hand sharply at her, but Bengal's too tense to even rolls her eyes- "But there isn't any actual spell on your body per say, so there's nothing that needs correcting, so it did the best it could and acted on the connection-"
Bengal grips her stomach, "And pulled the soul of modern me here." Shaha nods.
"But it's more than that," says India, "it means the portal itself must still be open at least a little-"
"Draining us of magic." she says, twisting her dress in her hands. India nods.
"Norway thinks that between England and Scotland's connections he can find the center of this rift." She shudders, and glances back at Norway. For a moment their eyes meet, and something must show on her face because he immediately starts talking in a strong but earnest tone, and India blinks before turning back to her.
"He also says England and Scotland won't be using their magic, at all. They'll be safe." Her stomach unwinds- besides her, England's shoulders relax. He was going to do it. The thought makes her feel sick, almost as much as not knowing why.
Behind her, her sister rests a hand on her shoulder and says softly in Bengali, "Sometimes, these ugly things are necessary."
Bengal ignores her, and India's disgusted glare, to meet Norway's gaze again. And nods.
So they all follow him into the kitchen, which seems less than half the size it actually is, with the furniture shoved into the corners, and pile and piles of paper stacked on top of the table. Instead the floor is dominated by a complex, beautiful, chalk triangle. The sides are equal, but only just long enough for Scotland and Norway to sit without touching, and the points barely poke out of the rune circle. In the center is a round of copper about the size of her palm with a hole punched straight through the middle. Only one corner is left empty.
Her sister pulls out two chairs and hands her one, and she sits, but only because even the short trip down the stairs sets her off shivering. She leafs through some of the papers- a few are her notes, but many of them are -or were- arrays, their ink now spooled out like unruly threads. Next to them are the likely culprits- prayers, but only a few. England stays by the wall. She can tell nothing from his facial expression.
She wipes her sweaty palms on her dress again and tries to keep her voice level. "Are you sure you're going to be ok?"
Scotland snorts and she can feel Pakistan's judgemental shake of the head without even turning around. And she resents them for it, because it means that- whatever England actually feels, he hides it.
"Norway's not actually using his magic." India says. "Just using it as a guide." He looks confident, but that could be a lie.
England ignores them both, flopping cross-legged on the only free corner of the triangle. Her eyes flick back between all three of them, and when Shahadeva slips her hand in her she grips it fiercely. Norway says something, both boys snap back in sync and he pinches the bridge of his nose and hushes them. All three are silent.
Then Norway starts to chant. Her knuckles turn white. His chanting- of actual words probably rather than the wordless guidance of throat singing- slowly rises in volume and pace. Nothing happens. Then the chalk begins to glow blue and the boys flinch as green light rises straight from their skin. The copper glows red, then white, then starts to rattle.
And it's over.
The lights fade with Norway's chant, and India marches over to England who jumps up and waves his arms in a way that can only be described as look! I'm fine! And Norway checks on Scotland, who lounges totally unaffected. Her hands unclench. Still, she keeps her eyes on the rattling copper.
It keeps going, increasing in rate and ferocity, gradually inching itself across the floor as it rocks almost from edge to edge. It flips over- once, then twice.
Then clatters to the end of the kitchen, smacks itself against the wall and whizzes under the kitchen cabinet.
And Norway gives a deep, beleaguered sigh.
The reasoning was that a spontaneous array still needed power. The reasoning was that that power would still have a limit. And so, supported by the way the copper dowsing pendulum swung enthusiastically at the building that started the mess, the reasoning was that the rift must be in the old meaning room.
But frankly, to India, the reasoning was bullshit.
"So you should be picking up something around here?" he says in English, toeing the new carpet. That they'd had to replace it was evidence of a sort of course, but the staff had been vague about the state of the old one- and the two regular caretakers were missing and off sick respectively. As it was no one else had directly seen the old carpet before it was torn up and the new one laid down.
"I am picking things up. There's no shortage of things to pick up." Norway says, yanking on his unruly pendulum as it whirls aggressively at the floor like an upside down helicopter. "But it is clearly not here."
India rolls his eyes. Norway snaps, "Look, I don't know what to tell you but you'll know it when you see it." India nods just to mollify him.
Norway had suggested the array might have burned all the way through to the floor beneath. But no amount of diplomatic papers were going to get the increasingly harassed and fretful staff to rip up the carpet in a government building. It had been worth a try though. Stress relieving.
"Could you not even give us a clue?" Pakistan says, back on full sarcasm now the trail was cold.
"Starshaped probably." Norway throws his hands up. "Not that we'll be able to find it under this wretched carpet."
Vaguely India looks around the room, not expecting to see anything useful really, more to keep an eye on the kids. They're spread out across the room, Bengal resting again, panting on a plastic chair- if Pakistan had had her way she'd still be in bed- and the two boys at opposite ends of the room, having used up all their patience not to murder each other in India's illeagally overcramped car. Thank god for diplomatic immunity. Again.
"Ok," says Pakistan, "but pardon me if I'm being oblivious, doesn't this building have a basement?"
As one they turn towards the replacement caretaker- Jim. Jim was the least senior member of the cleaning staff, and had the hovering, uncomfortable air of uncertainty to prove it. He shuffles under their combined stares.
"Yeah, we have a basement." He shuffles some more when the kids join in the staring. "But it's staff only, and only the cleaning staff go down their at all." A moment. And then some more shuffling. "I guess you want to see it then?"
"Yes, that would be very helpful." India says, Pakistan beconning Bengal- and by default, England and Scotland- over. Nonetheless, it's her that takes the lead in questioning the caretaker, Scotland close on her heels, and England close on his.
"How far does the basement run?"
"Under the whole building Maam."
There's a gentle nudge at his elbow, and he turns to see Bengal sidling up beside him, eyebrows raised. Behind her Norway is tapping his pendulum, muttering under his breath, every so often he stops to flick it. The only reason he's even as close as he is is because of how slow she's walking.
"And what's down there?"
"Store rooms mostly, Maam. But also boilers and the fusebox, y'know. Maintenance stuff."
"How're you doing," India asks his sister quietly, not wanting to draw attention to her. She rolls her eyes at him.
"Same as always." she says, then points subtly in front of them. "I was actually going to ask you how they're doing." India looks in front, to where the two boys have fallen back from Pakistan and Jim, and are hissing words at each other like a pair of angry rattlesnakes, and swears.
"And how often is it cleaned?"
"Err, every fortnight? At least the storerooms are, but the boiler rooms are only cleaned before being serviced so they're checked less often. Maam."
He needs to separate them. His whole body tenses up at the thought, the bland, creamy corridor pressing down on him- Bengal nudges him, sharply, in the ribs. Her face looks very concerned. He lets out the breath, and breathes slowly back in again. After a moment he can muster up a smile.
"You'll be fine." she declares with frankly unearned confidence.
"And it's only authorised personnel that have gone down there over the past month?"
"Do you mean the cleaners and the maintenance people, Maam? It should be- just them ad their managers, it's passwords locked y'see and theres a book at the bottom you have to sign to say why you've been there."
Still, he has to steal himself to make the few last steps to catch up with the boys. Scotland is now bent almost double, and England is standing on his tiptoes so they can snarl insults in each others faces. Heart pounding, he taps them both lightly on the shoulder.
They whirl around and pin him with death-looks, it takes all his effort but he doesn't flinch. Instead he raises an eyebrow, turns to England, and says in Latin.
"Bengal would like to have a chat with you, that ok?" And.
He gos. He drops the glare, nods, and wanders off back to his sister. No muss, no fuss.
Huh.
Still, he should probably say something to Scotland for politenesses sake- his heart stinks. For a second. Because Scotland's face, which had been unreadably blank while he was talking to England, is contorted in a look of bone chilling hatred.
"Look, this isn't a terrorist thing is it, Maam? Are you sure you don't want me to call the police or something?"
"No, Jim. That wouldn't help."
But. India's heart slows, and he straightens up- Scotland doesn't actually look so very much like his little brother. For one thing, even as a teenager, he's far taller. And for another, India has never taken any of his shit. So he's not about to start now. "And how about you Scotland? How are you holding up?"
The gangly boy huffs and turns away, only to have to halt immediately because they have finally reached the lift at the end of the corridor. There's a series of short beeps, the door opens, and all seven of them pile in. It's big and industrial, designed to take cleaners and their trolleys, or to transport things to and from the store room- even so, it's a close fit. Crushed against Scotland, Bengal and the wall, India's stomach twists from the claustrophobic feeling.
Theres a rustle from the front of the box, and Jim speaks up. "Now, if I could just get your full names on the list for security re-"
For a moment there's an uncomfortable silence- India winces as Scotland's shoulder jabs into his collar bone. "What is it?" he says.
"I- it says nobodys been to clean down here for over a month." Again another pause, and a prickle goes across India's neck. "It's probably just Ben, he always forgets to fill in the paper work. It's not like there's anything valuable down there anyway, the - the-" Jim sways, and when India successfully maneuvers himself s he can see his face, his eyes are glassy.
"Jim?" Pakistan asks.
"I- yes? Do you want me to take you to the front desk, we must've gotten really turned around if we wound up here-" The clipboard clatters to the ground. He doesn't seem to notice.
"We want you to take us down to the basement Jim." Pakistan's voice is firm and commanding, but it's the piece of paper concealed in the hand she puts on his shoulder that makes his eyes clear. For a moment he just blinks, then pales. Then nods.
"Yes. I'll...I'll do that." There's a bleep from the control panel, and a momentary sense of weightlessness, and they're going down. "...Is this what you've come to fix?" Jim asks eventually. The lift stops with a metallic clunk.
"We'll fix it," says Pakistan, again with the confidence of a conman. She doesn't take her hand off Jim's shoulder. And judging by his shivering, she really shouldn't. Judging by the shivering of Bengal and Scotland, he's not sure they should. Norway's pendulum is tap-tap-taping against the door.
But it's only when it opens that India can feel it.
His heart races, his palms grow sweaty, and his breath huffs out in a fine mist in front of him. Cold, icy cold, presses in until it forms like a lump in his gut. Inside his head is every fretful thought and worst case scenario. His mouth tastes like iron - and cordite. His hands shake. So do his companions. England worst of all.
"It's this way," says Norway, not looking away from the pendulum tugging on the string like an ill-trained dog. He moves forward, and Bengal follows him, praying under her breath. Scotland follows next. Then Pakistan.
India, however, takes a few stomach-deep breaths slowly in- then out. He notices the walls and the floor, and the smell of moist concrete. Real things. Non-magic things. It only makes the feeling recede a little, but it's enough. He reaches out and puts a hand on England's shoulder- he flinches first (of course) but then reaches out- and lets his hand drop. India raises his eyebrows, but doesn't comment.
"Come on, lets go," he says in Latin. "Nearly there."
It's only when they're walking out the lift that Jim finds his voice.
"What about the kid?!" his voice comes out squeaky but surprisingly strong, considering. "If-If this thing - if this thing-" Even as he speaks his eyes begin to glaze over again.
"We'll be fine," India says, with an authority he does not feel. Instead he grabs the clipboard from the floor and writes their bosses phone numbers on it. "If we're not back in an hour, call these numbers- tell them Vihaan Srivastva, Ra'ani Nehru and -"
"Lukas Bondevik"
"-Lukas Bondevik, requires assistance with the latest matter." Jim nods and takes the clipboard in shaking hands. Then the door closes and he's gone. India knows in his soul that he won't come back, no matter what happens.
They're on their own.
"Let's go," says Norway, voice tense.
The corridors are damp and non-descript, featureless grey, Every so often there's a pair of double doors, same colour as the wall, with heavy metal handles. They pass many of these, on both sides, and every time one of them pauses to inspect one, Norway snaps at them, and they follow the pendulum. Until this one.
"Stop here," he says, rooting around in his pocket. His pendulum vibrates so aggressively it pulls the string horizontal against all the rules of gravity. He fishes out a small ball of paper and throws it at the door. A wave of cloying cold energy erupts from the door, ruffling their clothes, India breathes against the rising memories, in and out, even as his hair stands on end. The copper pendulum lets out a low, angry hum which makes India's teeth hurt.
Bengal gives a low whistle. "It didn't like that at all, did it."
Norway nods. "It's time- stations everybody."
India nods, and backs away with Scotland, Bengal and England, translating as they go. Far enough away as to be (maybe) out of the blast radius, but close enough to (maybe) help if needed. Pakistan starts laying out a prayer circle, not nearly large enough to use all of what she had made due to the narrowness of the corridor, so she doubles up. A failsafe for their failsafe. Bengal begins praying herself, and India can feel the cold lift (a little) and his heart rate slow (barely).
It means he can focus more as Norway draws a half circle in chalk around the door and steps inside. On the sharp, almost acrid smell as he crunches something in his fist and takes a small piece of red chalk- the type you could find in any grocery store- and draws a triangle, then a sigil in the center of it.
And it emerges.
A white array, like a jagged spiderweb, throbs angrily across the door like a living thing. It writhes, spits flame, and lets out a caustic hiss when Norway lies a hand on the bottom quadrant. Embers rise up along Norway's arms, his clothes begin to smoke. India's breath freezes in his throat.
Norway starts to chant.
It's a throaty, musical thing and pulses with the rhythm of the array. The flames sway with it, rolling off his skin like fog.
For a moment Pakistan's voice falters, and ice cold air washes over them before she starts praying again and they can breathe. India can feel Scotland shift at his side- he puts his arm out to stop him. Scotland shoves his arm away.
Norway's voices rises.
Cracks and splinters start to spread, then collapse that segment of the array unravels itself. The lights pop and burst. But the remainder pulses insolently, bright enough to light up the whole corridor. Then Norway stumbles and slams both hands into the array, and it's blinding. Lightning lashes against the man, skittering along his skin like claws. Norway's chant is still rhythmic, but India can see him flinch. Pakistan is gasping now, unable to speak. The cold freezes India in place, England clings to him and India clings back.
Norway paints a sigil over the top half- just one horizontal line.
And everything is flame. He can see nothing, he can hear nothing but the roar of the flame. He digs his fingers into England's shoulder as he forces himself still-
Fire and lightning lashes against the prayer wall. He can see her lips move, but her prayers are drowned out-
"Stop!" Bengal yells, and India can feel the inferno over the freezing fear, the heat charing him-
- he will pull that man out himself if he has to-
The fire dies with a piercing shriek. The array unravels like a spool of thread and the corridor goes dark. Pakistan's prayer dies with a croak. Magic washes over them, cloying and rank. India grips the boys' shoulder tighter to ground himself. Scotland pushes free to support Norway, pulling him back to standing from where he'd slumped at the bottom of the door. A light comes on in England's hand, weak, thin, and powered by only a single word.
In it's pale light India can see that Norway is unburned. He can breathe again, and he lets go of England to open the door. But when his hand touches the handle, he freezes, unable to twist it against the heavy, crushing sound of his heart in his ears. Breathe. In. Out. He still can't open the door. Breathe. In. Ou-
"Are you going to open it or not?" says Bengal, who'd rushed to Pakistan's side. India jumps. He pulls the door open, wincing.
The smell hits him like an uppercut, sending him coughing, throat convulsing to the side- trying not to vomit. Behind him come a series of disgusted noises. A nudge into his stomach. He looks down- England's face is grey, but questioning- the only one not choking.
In the light of his spell India can see the room is crammed with broken tables and chairs, and outmoded computers that probably still kind-off work, except for the way they've been left behind by the world. Big tubes of filament lighting too. Though they can't explain the oppressive buzzing that bores into India's skull. But no window for light. No obvious source for the smell, either. India carefully runs his hand along the wall till he can feel the metal box and switches on the light.
There are flies in the air.
And in the center is a star-shaped array, rough and lopsided, pulsating and shifting like vines. The concrete looks translucent- a thin skin stretched over a gaping black wound. He can feel the magic humming on his skin. He doesn't need Norway to tell him what this is.
There's a body in the center. Burned to charcoal and hollowed out by only thing he can say about it is that the person used to be tall. When he remembers to breathe, the smell is like a wall- rotten meat and burning.
Carefully all six of them space themselves out around the edge. Far enough away that they are not caught in it as it swells outwards before crushing back in on itself. And again and again. The magic tickles, like reeds against his skin. Like fish hooks. Vaguely he's aware Norway's been dumped in a chair by Scotland, that England is leaning back away from the hole, that his sisters-
-"Why would you do this?" the words slip from his lips like poison as his little sister stands, shaking, bloody but victorious. Shahadeva, his Twin, his whole world-
"We need to go," Pakistan says in Latin, and again in English, voice serious. Norway just gasps, but Bengal and Scotland both agree, and India can feel a little hand tugging him away.
Against himself he scowls. "What and run away? No."
Pakistan grabs Bengals hand and snaps. "What's the point? They are long dead."
India's fists clench, he slips his hands from Englands and the edge is spitting with purple fire as it swells back out like an ulcer and -
"I kno~ow. But look how cool his spots are!" Pakistan says, voice high and girly even as she scowls and throws her hands up. He can feel the shadows as the reeds tower above his head and the mud up to his knees-
"What?" He finds himself taking a step foreward, right to the edge, even as his voice wavers. "This isn't right"
It's midday and all he can smell is the mud under his feet and the rushes that tower over his head. His sister shows him a frog and he laughs because it is so cool...
-Gravity starts to pull him down. Like a lead weight. England collapses to his knees, hands over his ears. Far away he can hear Pakistan yelling "You're mad- completely crazy!" And Scotland chanting something.
The stone is huge, and carved with royal edicts, but Brother only gets a glance at it before there's a phantom pain in his knees as his twin is thrown down next to their eldest cousin, Khandaha. Then real pain as he's thrown down. -
-Purple flames part before his eyes. And beneath him is an ocean. A pure black ocean. His eyes widen- wrapped around his hand and up- a golden thread. And beneath in the black ocean- gold- like a river-like a path-
-They don't throw Vanga down, and he's grateful for that- she's still really a baby. But she's still crying- same as his and his twins legs are still oozing pus. Him and Sister are still so scared as they're looked down on by the Emperor of what feels like the whole world.
"I am not going to hurt you anymore," he says in a voice that rattles his bones, as his servants bring out lush robes and food that makes his mouth water-
Sotland finishes chanting. The whole thing contracts- for a second all he can see is concrete stretched thin like drum skin a few inches from his toes- shoes- armoured boot- brogues -sandals - . Then-
"Why would you do this?" the words slip from his lips like poison as his little sister stands, shaking, bloody but victorious. Shahadeva, his Twin, his whole world lies at her feet with an arrow in her throat. He's felt her shock, her pain, and her betrayal and it resonated over his own into a cacophony of malice as he draws his bejeweled sword and -
He falls in.
The cold is like a hammer to the chest, like being flash frozen. Like being stabbed. He's falling, or perhaps sinking and for a dizzying minute -
By mid-day he's fallen behind the Emperor's retinue, and no amount of huffing by his twin, or projected anxiety down the connection will get him to speed up his horse. And because he doesn't speed up, neither does she- they've been far too much apart this past century.
Partially, it's because he wants to enjoy the scenery but mostly, he just wants to talk to his baby sister. The heat beats down on him as he draws level with the palanquin. He can't feel how she is of course (though he sometimes has to remind himself of that), but he knows she's still injured because of the bandages. She doesn't respond to his greeting. She must be sulking. He talks anyway.
"It's so good to have you back with us again, little sister," he says, "You'll love it at the palace. You'll have all the books and scrolls you could ever need. And Akbar! I know you think he's a brute right now, but he's the smartest person I've ever met- he's not much of a reader, but he reminds me so much of you I'm sure you'll adore each other-"
-he forgets where and when he is as he tumbles downwards. As his chest burns-
They stand together at the funeral, all three of them. He can feel the echo in his fingertips of his Twin fiddling with her mourning clothes. Normally it would not be so clear, so acute, so self-smothering as it had been when they were children but pain and loss brings it closer. And so he tries desperately to only think of his pain at Shah Jahan's death lonely death, only of what was lost and never, never, of what his is about to lose-
- and then theres a tugging sensation in his chest and around his arm and-
There is war now, aways. He can feel it on his skin and in his leg when he walks with a cane. But he doesn't care, he will be stronger, and free. And his sisters will have to see that. He throws open the flaps to his tent and smiles. The pale man in the bed smiles back. Honestly, after such a long, hard day, he deserves a treat-
He is beneath a golden tangle shooting out in all directions, dividing and subdividing wrapped around his arm in endless black in all directions. Except-
The guns roar and people are screaming, running everywhere, dying everywhere, this is a walled garden, why would they do this? Why would anyone let this happen? He trips and falls- he knows not on what except that the ground is wet and slippery from blood and on his face and the guns keep firing and-
He is not there. He is his freedom and democracy and rising power and he will never ever be weak again. He is in 2017 and he is trying to end a curse. He stops falling. Opens his eyes. Like oil it presses against them and he looks at where he is. The whispers do not stop.
It is nearly midnight, and there is no England in sight, but even if there was, there is nothing he could do to take this feeling away. He is lighter than he's been in centuries- he grabs his sisters hands, one on either side so he knows where and when he is because apart from the throbbing bleeding wound in his side-he could just fall into it. He sees his brand new flag attached to the flag pole he knows he could just fall into this feeling, this place- the future-
He was a fool.
He is burning and bleeding from his side as the mobs hunt people down in the street, as they torture and maim because of the border, as the pain reache inside his head, his heart and slices away something he thought had withered too much for him to feel himself lose-
There was no up or down here, no window back home. Only towards or away from the pinpoint of light at the center of his web. Around, in every direction, is the swirling black waves of the void. But it is not only black but shot through with threads of gold that tangle and intersect and in one part form a great long river-
-he looks back one last time, at the Earth, at the land that had been his body. His sister, his twin, separated but not, grabs his hand and together they walk with their people into the whirring, singing light-
-it's not only black but alive-
A wave coils and slips its tendrils in the river, and then it grows. Horns. Eyes. A face. It reaches up and a terrible awful dread pulls up in him but he's too experienced to thrash, it'll only eat up his air.
He can't breathe.
Eventually his instincts do him in. It hurts too much. He gasps and the black goes down his lungs and chokes him. Unlike a human, he has too much practice at dying to panic. He tries to pull himself towards his light. It only jerks towards him. It's funny.. His connection pulses warm and familiar in his chest. But. There's no way back. All of him is here, not just his mind.
Oh.
I'm going to die.
There's no way back. He's freezing. He knows no magic. He's drowning.
Oh
oh
"Brother!" He hears it not with his ears but in his soul. His stomach burns. A warm hand grabs his and he grabs back instinctively as he turns back to. Pakistan. Her face is pinched in pain but before he can do any thing she pulls him back to reality. He collapses on the concrete like a sack of potatoes. Vaguely aware that he's fallen on something soft and covered in cloth. And then he throws up, black.
And passes out.
"He says nothing's changed, he'll be back in fifteen minutes to check on him again." England translates as Norway leaves the room. India is layed out on the sofa- Shaha and Norway had only needed on look at the stairs before deciding fuck that- and he is still breathing. It's the only thing that's keeping her together.
She touches his wrist, it's cold and clammy. She touches his forehead- it's burning. He had woken up a moment ago, called her Vanga- a name she hasn't had in centuries- and passed out again. Norway had said it was magic depletion, and it felt almost as if he was healing - from what though, is unclear. The name...perhaps he's experiencing what she did. It's not a comforting thought.
England is leaning into the side of her leg, plucking fluff from the carpet where he sits.
"England." she says, clenching her knuckles. "Can you translate something for me? To Norway."
England nods and together they go into the kitchen. He's making rune circles again, whilst Pakistan busies herself with the kettle. Of course, as soon as she enters the room her sister goes to her.
"How are you?" she says in Bengali. "Oh God, you look exhausted, Scotland went to bed hours ago-"
"Sister-"
"You really don't need to stay up, Norway and I can keep an eye on him and his depletion isn't half as bad as-"
"Pakistan!" Her sister snaps her mouth shut, and her face pales. Bengal hadn't meant to snap, but. This was beyond a joke now.
Basic respect should not be so difficult, dammit. She meets her sister's eyes, and says, politely and firmly, "I need to talk to Norway. I would appreciate it if you were there."
Shaha's face doesn't change at all, which is unnerving, but her long nails fiddling with the end of her scarf are brought up to scrape against her lips- a familiar, pre-nail biting habit. "Of course I'll translate for you-"
"No. England will be translating." She loves her sister but she's not thick. Shaha does bite her nails now, just pressing down, not even enough to dent her nail paint- then removing them quickly from her mouth. "I want you here to consult on something else."
Shaha's face is confused, and England's eyes dart between the two sisters and Norway ike he's expecting a fight. Bengal takes a deep breath, to steal her nerves, and another- then switches back to Latin.
"England. I want you to ask Norway to tell me everything he knows about translation spells."
FINALLY. It's done! *lets off party poppers* . And the next chapter is in the works! Right. Now. There's a mamoth amount of history notes (why do I do this to myself?) and each one corisponds to one (or 2) of the flash backs:
1- 500 (ish) BC - the twins discover their baby sister. The quotes from this section are actually taken from the fic I wrote about this- Riverbank Promises. (Shameless plug is shameless). Read if you like cute kids and giant mythic snake people.
2+3 - sometime after 276 BC- the reign of Ashoka the great- probably the first person to conquor the entire subcontinent. His rule was incredibly brutal untill the bloody battle of Kalinga caused him to have a change of heart, and reportadly become much kinder. Though historians offer conflicting accounts.
4- Mid 1300's, the was waged by IIyas Shah to make an independant, unified Kingdom of Bengal.
5- post- 1576- Emporer Akbar solidified mughal rule over the Kingdom of Bengal, after a long period of conflict and out and out war. Emporer Akbar was increadibly learned and knowledgable, and supported the building of many libraries. However, he was unable to read and write himself, and instead would have people read for him so he was able to study the vast array of topics that interested him.
6- 1658- death of Shah Jahan. Shah Jahan died in Agra Fort after being usurped by his son Aurangzeb (tbf, Auranzeb basicly thought he was going to die from the illness he got). It was also the begining of the end for the Mughal Empire. Unable to maintain their dominance, states began to declare their independance and new powers started to emerge. Like the Marathas.
7-Some time in the 1790's- Many Indian Kingdoms were at war with each other as the Mughal Empire waned and the Maratha's became the new big power in the region. However, despite being aware of the risks (having already had a war with them), they allied with the Brittish in the 1790's in order to take down the Kingdom of Mysore. They would later wage two more wars against the Brittish before falling under their control in 1818.
8- 13 April 1919 - Sadly this could be several different incidents, as Brittish rule tended to be increadibly bloody when they felt communal punishment was nessersary to maintain order. But this is specifically the Jallianwala Bagh/Amristar massacre - 376 people were murdered and over 1000 injured as a Brittish regement fired into an unarmed crowd. Permantly changed the view young Indian's had of Brittish rule.
9-August 15th 1947- Freedom declared at midnight for India and Pakistan
10-later in August 1947- The Partition of India- it was marked by horrific violence and displacement
11- ;P
PHEW. Why so many flash backs? why do I do this to myself? to you? Answeres on a postcard please.