British India

A/N: This thing is mostly on the relationship between England and India, and how it develops. I know it's not accurate; it's just supposed to be an establishing thing for India.

Many thanks to my new beta, kagami7147!

At first, she had just thought he was an upstart – a green, young Nation with the ambition to reach the stars. Her people had many thoughts on ambition, very few of them good.

He addressed her as a superior at first, which was a good start, she supposed. He came rarely, at least in the beginning, so she had time to ask her fellows about the new Nations appearing in their shared waters.

What she heard was not good. Thailand was already complaining, and Malaysia was cursing over the loss of his ports to another, similarly-young Nation with much better weapons. Egypt mentioned the inklings of something terrible on the horizon – as the closest to Europe of all of them, she took it to mean that he knew what would happen.

China was silent – he rarely spoke to her or to anyone at all – but Vietnam had heard him voice suspicions about the newcomers. Perhaps she should consider that as well, for she and China were both Elders, and it was better to be safe than sorry.

India shook her head as the green-eyed Nation from northern waters departed. This one would be a terrible headache, she just knew. Their courting period would be over soon enough.

Of course, she had forgotten the merchants.

India did not know what the little upstart Nation – no, his name was England, and he was far from the first – had done, but he had succeeded in creating the greediest armed force she had ever seen. Unfortunately, they were also highly competent.

The concept of merchants being armed was utterly alien to India and her trading partners – there had been no need before, aside from the occasional pirate attack on ships in Japan's sea, perhaps – but suddenly there were hundreds of small, fast vessels with light-skinned crews, all of which had no problem using their newly-developed new powder weapons.

She wondered about that – India knew that China had invented the powder the Europeans used in their weapons, but he would never have allowed the secret to get out if he could avoid it. So, the Europeans must have gotten their hands on it through…ah, Mongolia's invasion several centuries ago had probably been the catalyst. Stupid goat-herding horse-people.

India, living far inland in a small village where no one would bother her, shuddered as she could feel her defenses being whittled away bit by bit. It was like having to lie on a bed of nails – every bullet, every cannonball, every single drop of blood shed by her people or her enemies; she felt the wounds as if they were her own. The siege couldn't last.

She couldn't hold out any longer than her people could, and her people were in pain. The best thing to do would be…

India heard someone at the door and rolled over on her pallet very slowly, brown eyes flashing in anger. There was the green-eyed devil, standing in her doorway, with that horrible smile on his face. How she hated him!

He approached, and her mind screamed at her to thrash him for daring to step into her home uninvited, but her body protested with more pain. She glared up at him, and felt for the urumi next to her under the sheet.

"Hello, India," he said in a low tone that she despised immediately.

"Demon Child of the Northlands," India hissed in her own tongue, her hand closing around the urumi's handle.

He knew. He caught her wrist as she brought the weapon up. India cursed herself for feeling slow and weak after days of being bedridden.

"From this point on," England said in an accent so thick India barely understood him, "you are a jewel in the crown of the British Empire."

"That is truth?" Her English was worse than his Hindi, but it would do. Her eyes flashed again.

"You have no choice." England told her in that same low tone. India already had a backup plan, though it would hurt her, too.

He put a knee down near her head, and bent down to kiss her. India used that moment to pull out her other weapon from under her pillow – a small ivory dagger she was very fond of – and stabbed him in the leg.

It was not long before her people fell into step with their new rulers, though India resisted. England could beat her and her people down in the nearly-common uprisings, but she would fight back with the long patience of one who has seen ages pass without wavering.

As whispers trickled into India of other Nations falling under England's strength, she sat in her home and wove a new outfit for herself. She was nothing if not entirely practical. While she gathered strength for a new fight and her people worked for their food and homes, India wove. It would be something she could hold when she was done – something that she would know existed. She had heard entirely too many false promises over the years to make any of her own.

India disliked the idea of sepoys, much as she disliked all of England's grand plans. Indians controlling Indians on the behalf of the British Empire? Foolishness. But ever since England had taken her princes under his wing, she had found that she had no voice, and it angered her to think about it for too long.

So when the sepoys abruptly turned on their faraway master, she was not sure whether to celebrate or curse them. They were Indians, but it was only through their actions that she had lost her freedom to England in the first place. Perhaps…no, they were soldiers of fortune, and had only turned because they had gotten into an argument over the animal fat involved in bullet casing. Despite their skills, they were worthless to her. Worthless.

Some were Hindu, some were Muslim, but India was still torn over the idea of considering them Indians. They had betrayed their motherland in the worst way…India thought viciously that perhaps now they would be England's headache, not hers.

When the Sepoy Rebellion of 1857 was over, she was still not sure what to think. Humans had been so much less complicated before England had come to meddle in the affairs of the ancient Asian Nations.

The sepoys had been disbanded, her people disarmed, and now the British Empire was going to rule them directly. Maybe her people would try again, once her opinion of the sepoys had softened.

India sat in her home, her spinning wheel still spinning as she thought. She had much to think on. England was bad, but were there worse things? She looked down at the cloth she had created so far, and then glanced out the window. If there weren't worse things already, someone in Europe was already devising a way to make them, she thought bitterly.

England was insistent on cotton. India had a good idea why, but asked around anyway after England had gone.

Egypt sent his cotton to England to be manufactured into cloth, which would be sold back at some ridiculous price. In North America, much of the same thing was happening. India was curious, but decided not to ask.

With England came many new things, devices and inventions she had never seen before. As soon as his boss had taken full control, it seemed as though the entire countryside was crisscrossed with railroads. She felt her people's pain as they were forced to build, cutting deeply into her as her lands fell…India decided that this was no day to lie in bed, and left her house. She had been giving herself too much time to think, and it was hurting her.

India's house was located far enough from the cities and England's men that she never felt threatened. She knew she was threatened, of course, and every day she was reminded by bouts of phantom pain, but she didn't feel it. And that was about as good as things would get, she thought.

Like most Nations she had met, India favored a number of animals. China had his pandas and his dragon, England seemed partial to dogs of some ugly variety, and she was sure Egypt had a pet jackal named Anubis. India left her house to rediscover human contact and was followed by her favored pet, Garuda, a beautiful blue peacock.

India liked Garuda. He didn't crow much, unless a pretty female was around, and trailed her everywhere she went. In a way, it was nice to know that someone insisted on looking out for her, since she seemed to have so much trouble looking out for herself lately.

She visited the new train station in Bombay, because she was curious, and one of the most closely-guarded abilities of Nations was the ability to be free from restrictions combining time and space within their own borders. Garuda, as her pet, was similarly exempt and followed her dutifully.

She had gone barely thirteen steps before a voice said, "India?"

Well, she had never been asked. Usually, it was just correct assumptions. What a change. She turned to face England, who looked surprised to see her.

She was small – smaller than China's youngest child, in fact – with brown skin, jet-black hair that was twisted into a knot at the back of her skull, and sharp brown eyes. She wore a teal-colored sari tied around her body, with one arm hidden in its folds, and a knife attached to one thigh (but no one needed to know about that last one).

He was taller than her by at least a head, like she remembered, but perhaps a little older and more tired around the eyes, which were darker than they had been before. He hadn't changed much otherwise except in fashion, because he now wore a dark brown suit that she had noted was becoming so popular among her opportunistic, pro-Western people (of which there were depressingly many). At least his eyebrows were still thick. She knew where she stood with those.

Namely, standing out of sight and snickering, but that was irrelevant.

"I never expected to see you outside of that hovel." England said, reaching out to her.

She retreated from his offered hand as though it were an angry cobra. "I am sure you did not."

"Must it always be this way?" England said. India thought she heard real regret in his voice, but she did not trust him.

"Yes." India told him firmly. "I have no intention of cooperating more than I need to keep my people alive."

"I assume you've heard what happened to China?" England said, instantly switching topics. India narrowed her eyes at him.

"I do." India retorted. "Believe it or not, England, I am neither blind nor deaf. I have also heard that Egypt is more-or-less under your thumb, and that you have defeated every rival of yours in Europe.

"But I also know that you lost your greatest colony to feelings much like my own at the moment." India added. She smirked – she had almost forgotten how good it felt to be back to herself. She had been dealing with Europeans for too long. "I also hear that there is a situation brewing in the Balkans…?"

India had not known that a white man would make so many colorful faces. He knew he couldn't strike her, not so close to her people, where a mob would form in an instant and overwhelm his troops. It was rather sad, she reflected, that the younger generation used violence to solve every problem.

"You will sell us back our own cotton as cloth, yes?" India said after a time.

England finished his journey around the color spectrum by clearing his throat. "Ah, er, yes. It's much more efficient to send cotton to my factories. Faster that way."

"Is that so? Tell me, what is that?" India asked, pointing at the train with her uncovered hand. "What is it for? Does it move quickly?" Best to keep him off balance, she thought. Well, she was already in two minds over the "industrialization" idea, whatever that meant, so she did not have to work very hard. If he thought of her as flighty, all the better.

England looked over at the great black locomotive, and in his garbled mixture of broken Hindi and English, tried his best to explain. India, who paid attention when the British officers tried to teach her people English, felt a little like laughing.

They met in India's house. Over the years their relationship had become slightly less strained, but neither had any intention of letting the other have a good shot at their back. England remembered India's knife, and India remembered a lot of deals gone bad; not just England's.

"So." England said, at length. He had already finished his tea.

"So." India responded. She thought about starting her spinning up again, but decided that more tea was due instead. England liked tea more than she did, but it wasn't like it cost her anything. She got free supplies from the villagers, who hated this particular variety of tea. Earl Grey, in fact. She poured him another cup.

"You're at war now."

"Why?"

"Because I said so," England replied shortly after a second, because they had long formed a habit of short answers followed by long-winded explanations, "The Austro-Hungarian Archduke and his wife were assassinated by a Serbian the other day. Russia's already ready to attack to back up Serbia, Germany and Prussia have allied with Austro-Hungary, and both France and I are being called in to help Russia."

India nodded over her tea. "Ah. So all the colonies are coming?"

"Yes."

"And America as well?" India asked curiously.

"No." England grumbled. "Bloody ungrateful brat…"

India sipped at her tea and said nothing. She hated it too. It was one of those odd types that seemed to beg for milk and sugar.

"I'm going to have to borrow your men very soon." England said. "I'm sure of that."

India kept silent.

"France is getting in over his head." England added absentmindedly. He seemed to have forgotten that he was in the house of a hostile force, even if said Nation probably wasn't going to act on the impulse.

"Your mental state for war needs refinement." India told him at long last. "With so many countries involved, this may take much longer than you assume. How many men can you throw at them before you run out? How many guns can you supply? Can you give every soldier enough food to continue?

"Are you sure your will won't break?" This last was rather unusual, she would admit – it wasn't as if she really cared that much, but she seemed duty-bound by her designation as a colony to help her "boss," no matter how reluctantly. Him giving up would be a good thing in her eyes, but he couldn't know that.

"It will be fine." England retorted. "Germany and Prussia don't stand a chance." He scowled at her, then stood and swept out of the house like some haughty noble. Which he sort of was, if she really thought about it for long.

She looked back at her spinning wheel and set to work again, soon as she couldn't hear his boots on the ground anymore. "I'm sure you think so," India muttered.

India had never been to Europe before. It was confusing, stark, and above all, cold.

India rather hated England's house in London. That wasn't new at all. What she had not expected was to find so many other Nations there.

One young man with dark blond hair was always outside, chattering with the wildlife. He had introduced himself as Australia. India had seen him up close only once, and the similarity to England had nearly scared her to death. Apparently, the eyebrows got bigger as the generations went on.

Another young man did not look much like England at all, aside from the light hair color. It was rather longer, and his eyes were lavender rather than green. He looked a lot like France, in fact, only younger and more prone to hiding. And he wore glasses.

Then there was the little boy who, to India, looked almost exactly like a younger version of China, but with thicker brows and shorter hair. India felt an odd little trickle of nervousness go down her spine every time she saw him. Hadn't England said something about what had happened to China, once? That had been a long time ago, but all she had heard was that China had lost…

India was starting to have a very difficult time telling which of the various Nations in the house were actually supposed to listen to England at all. They all seemed to have more fun trying to piss him off, which, while funny in another context, was starting to annoy her too.

And it was awkward as hell being the only woman, as well as the only non-Christian-of-some-sort, and the only one who wasn't at least halfway British in mannerisms.

India sighed. She hated it when it rained like this. Her lands had long been devastated by drought or storms, and now she was suspicious of all extreme weather. And worse, she was troubled by the distance between herself and her people. Certainly her sons were here, and that was good, but they were England's men here, and that was bad.

"When do we fight?" India demanded of him one day, cross as ever.

"Very soon," he replied, looking out the window at the rain. "France and I are starting to run out of men."

That was a depressing note. "Ah. I see, then."

"You'll get your chance at the trenches, unless you'd rather go to the eastern front and fight alongside Russia and his winter."

"Hah." India said, already shuddering at the thought. Half of England's islands froze during the winter – how much more horrible could a place blessed by General Winter be?

"In fact, I think they're starting now, so I have to get going." England said abruptly, grabbing his coat from a hook near the door. Again with the dramatics, India thought dryly. She had hardly seen him cross the room.

India tossed him something, and he stopped and spun to catch it. It was her knife, from years ago, with his blood still on it. He looked at her, confused.

"Consider it a token of my appreciation." India said waspishly. "If you can come back with that weighing down your luck, maybe you are worth something." She had entirely mixed feelings about this, but she knew that England was as much a pagan as he occasionally accused her of being, inside. Black magic did not work the same way as white magic, and blood was blood.

England cursed her, but India laughed. Foolish young Nation. A victory is not a true victory unless you have made your enemies bleed for it.

The Great War, as they called it, was over soon enough. India returned to her home, thinking new thoughts that she had actually heard before but had not considered at length.

She returned to a different people. In her long absence, her children had found a leader among them.

They called him Mohandas Gandhi, and India knew him at once. He was definitely one of hers, though one she had not seen in many a year. Hadn't he been the one South Africa had been complaining about?

All the better to knock England off his pedestal with.

India met him one day, or rather, he visited her. Garuda's many-times-over son, Garuda IX (she did not believe in being particularly creative with pet names) was perched on the fence, attempting to court a particularly stubborn peahen, and as such failed to alert her to a visitor.

Despite the initial shock, she did manage to greet him in a polite manner. She set out fish and small cakes, even though she was not sure he was hungry, to be a good host.

"Mohandas Gandhi, I have heard much about you." India said softly. "I am impressed and I am glad to meet you properly."

"It is an honor to be in your presence, India," the man said kindly. "I had never thought to meet a Nation."

"Humility will take you far." India replied, inclining her head a little. A well-spoken man was a rarity. "What did you wish to talk about, child?"

Gandhi did not seem offended by her way of addressing him, which was good, for it meant he understood her. He looked out, to where Garuda IX was displaying his dazzling plumage. "What is the British Empire like?"

India thought about it a little. "There is no British Empire, only England and his brothers," she explained. "England leads them, and together they are Great Britain. And he is a thick-browed fool with too much ambition and not enough kindness or patience." She thought on it a little more. "He is rash and cruel, though he seems to be calming now." That did not mean much. Nations of all stripes tended to revert to the old ways under pressure.

India had, for example, toyed with the idea of bringing elephants to Europe to crush the Germans as her Ashoka had once done to his enemies, but the war had ended before she had become wrapped up enough in foolishness to suggest it.

"Would he strike a defenseless man?" Gandhi asked.

India blinked. Ah, he would try the same trick here… "He would prefer not to. He calls himself a gentleman."

"That is good," Gandhi replied. He still had not touched his food.

"I am not sure about his generals." India warned. "You know as well as I that much cruelty was done in the war, and England was not there for all of it."

"I will be fine, Motherland. There is nothing they could lawfully do to stop a man who is passively resisting." Gandhi said with that smile, the smile she had seen before on one other and only one.

Gandhi was a Hindu, as was she, for the most part. But, like her, he had absorbed other things over the years, and for him, only the good things. Buddhism had been one of them. India saw the ghost of Siddhartha Gautama on the man's face, and she felt that this, this would definitely work. England would be driven out by his sense of honor.

India would be free again to make her own decisions, for good or ill, and to make her own friends again. She would be free.

India kissed him on the forehead, gently, as a mother would kiss a child, and blessed him with every god she had ever taken into her soul.

She screamed. Shiva, Vishnu, Brahma, it hurts! First the deadly disease they had taken from Spain, and now this?

She could see them all in her mind's eye; the blood, the bodies, and bullets flying through the air and cutting her people down, the ones that jumped into the well to escape only to end up drowning or dying in the fall…

Her stomach heaved, and she barely managed to crawl to the door in time. So much pain…so many of her people screaming for mercy and never fighting back because it would be betrayal to her…

She was bleeding, and not only from the nail marks in her palms. Holes had opened up in her side and had started to bleed, because her people bled, and she bled for them as they bled for her, blood being shed in an endless cycle that could go on forever.

She would have to make England pay for this.

India ignored England every time she saw him for a year afterward. He could apologize, or beg her forgiveness, but until she found a way to make him well and truly pay, she was happy enough to follow Gandhi's Salt March quite peacefully. A peaceful way of sticking it to him, at least.

And then a hell of a lot of things went wrong in a relatively short length of time. At least, a decade was short for her.

Thousands of her people arrested. There were enough of them in jails that the actual criminals were forced out to make room for more of her own that were charged with "sedition."

The worldwide economy crashed. Again.

England – no, everyone – cut themselves off from everyone else, and that initiated what she would later call the biggest screw-up in the history of the world.

So many damn years…and suddenly, as if the world had been waiting for a cue, everything sprang into motion at once and India found herself wondering what the hell was going on. War, yes, but why?

She was going to have words for England.

They were in what remained of England's rather large London house, where the roof had partially collapsed and rain dripped in through the new gap. RAF planes flew high overhead on patrols, and India could hear them clearly.

India stood at the window in order to look outside at the devastated landscape, which was sort of pointless when one considered that the window was broken and that there was a hole in the wall, too. She supposed it was a habit.

"How do you keep getting involved in this stupidity?" India demanded of the skies of London, though it was as much a question for England as it was for herself. She and England were fighting again, and this time a much larger war.

England did not answer, because he was lying unconscious in the parlor with three broken ribs, severe burns, and a bleeding wound on his forehead. All of them had been treated by an expert hand, hers.

She had covered him with an odd knitted blanket she had found lying around (did he make them?) and decided to shelter with him in the relative dryness of the half-wrecked structure. She had found him outside, half bleeding to death, so it had seemed only natural. A man's house is his castle, India thought mildly. Now where had she heard that?

India felt conflicted – one side of her mind was furious that she had not caused his injuries, while another (which she thought was the side working most closely with Gandhi) was demonstrating a sort of worry for his condition. He would be out of it for at least a few hours, or until the Luftwaffe came back and started bombing London again and he started screaming all over again.

"Forget I said anything." India muttered at the sky. Never any help, rain clouds. Entirely too silent – thunder would have kept the bombers at bay for a few days.

She looked back at England's unconscious form. Sooner or later she would have to move him again. Maybe the Tube this time. Plenty of his people hid out there at night, so why not?

Her sons were taken off to war again, which she had almost become used to, so she went home. She had never expected, though, that the conflict would reach her.

It was 1942; five years after Japan had first attacked China. India had expected him to falter. He had not and he had instead gone on to threaten her, using Thailand and Burma as attack dogs. Thailand had been turned somehow. India worried about this though she had not seen him for a very long time, due to the fact that she had been rather busy advising Gandhi on his anti-war sentiments ("Yes, that's very nice, dear, but Japan doesn't want to listen at all and Germany does not seem to know the meaning of peace."). Now Japan thought to invade her, the mistress of all South Asia, with his new puppets?

Huh. Japan, an upstart much like England had once been, trying to extend his influence over all of Asia. Asia for the Asians, was it? Helping with decolonization, was he? India felt as though she was in two minds about it, much like she had felt regarding her position for many years.

Then she had heard from one of China's soldiers what had happened to China's homeland, and her opinion of Japan had gone into free-fall.

Perhaps in another Nation it could have been excused – many young ones, like Russia, grew up knowing nothing but obedience to their bosses, and she had noticed that tendency in Japan long before – but Japan was nearly an Elder. If China ever faded like Rome had, it was generally acknowledged that, at one point, Japan would have been the one to raise the one who came after. But now…she couldn't imagine China or Japan greeting each other in anything but a hail of bullets.

The battle for Burma was going badly. England, America, China, and India herself all fought, but she was so conflicted inside she could hardly aim a rifle. China's men were poorly trained, and died quickly only to be replaced nearly as fast. England's men couldn't cope with the environment, and while America's were better-armed, they were overwhelmed by the heat, rain, and disease as quickly as any other faction.

India spent whatever time she was not using shooting at Japan or Thailand or even Burma with a skull-splitting headache. She couldn't remember her name on most days without a flash of pain. Oh, she knew why some of her people fought for Japan; it made sense to her most of the time, but then the pain from her sons that were captured by Japan—it would all come pounding into her head, and she felt like cursing everything in existence.

India was off-duty and mercifully pain-free, when Japan came to speak with her.

He wore the white naval uniform of a commanding officer. He was still as young-looking as ever, with the same even, dark hair and unfathomable eyes. He had no smile today – his face was completely blank.

Meanwhile, she had her hair twisted into a long, thick braid and wore the uniform of her Army. She was covered in dirt and blood and was just finishing setting up a decent place on the floor to meet guests when he arrived.

The previous day had gone badly. China's men had not been properly informed of a retreat and had nearly all been killed. Those that remained had retreated much further into her lands, in order to regroup under America's men who had left long before with her Burma Corps. In the messy retreats, England had been left behind.

Oh, he was out cold again, having taken a stray round to the stomach and been complaining for quite a while until she had knocked him out and bandaged him up, but still, he was a possible hostage, as things went. Not a terribly good one if he wanted her to do anything, but Japan would probably realize that a captured Nation made a perfect bargaining chip against the British Army.

This was precisely why India had hidden him under a sheet in the other room, with a note on the blanket that said, "Burn at dawn" in perfect English.

"Hello, Japan." India said after a long moment. He probably knew this was not her normal outfit, nor was this the most peaceful meeting they had ever had, but it never hurt to be outwardly polite.

"Hello, India-san." Japan said with a bow. Full seiza, eh? Interesting, India thought, storing the thought away for later.

"Are you here for diplomacy?" India asked bluntly, deciding that if she was going to be outmatched in formality, maybe it didn't matter that much.

"Yes, India-san." Japan's dark eyes met hers and she had the strongest impression that there had once been something behind them. Mercy, perhaps. No, she would not turn over anyone, not even England, to him.

India looked at him, wondering if the mask had a person behind it. "Do you wish for an alliance, Japan?"

"If it would please you, India-san," Japan said evenly. "It would certainly benefit us both, very much."

"I understand." India replied. She definitely understood, probably more than he wanted. And she was perfectly capable of fighting Japan into a hostile bog of human bodies, much like China, if it came to that. "I will have to discuss your proposal with my boss, as I am sure you know. If you will allow me to travel to speak with him, I will return swiftly with a reply."

"I understand your reluctance, India-san, but it will be very simple." Japan said. She saw his right hand settle on the handle of his officer's katana. Oh, this situation was going downhill quickly. Too damn quick.

"You will simply annex a part of me?" India asked. "Taking things by force is so uncivilized." Well, it was never a good idea to anger the man with the sword, but her urumi was just a fingertip away…

Japan's expression did not shift. India saw death in his eyes and wondered for a moment if she would be fast enough. "Perhaps it is. But it is also rude to shelter an enemy soldier and not tell a potential ally of it."

She heard scuffling behind her and sighed – Japan had not been fully stupid, for he had brought a backup. She should have done the same.

Well, she had, in a way; England, even if he was not terrible useful to her at the moment, but that was her fault. "Stand down, Japan. You have exactly one warning." India told him coldly. She decided against the urumi and grabbed the handle of her katar instead. She didn't need the urumi's range for this.

"You have none." Japan murmured, and the blade whipped out.

She had never been given a chance to prove herself in close combat before. Always it had been guns. Now, however…well, Japan needed to learn a lesson about respecting his elders.

It was all a question of getting too close for comfort. That was all the katar was for. She didn't even need to enter the basic pose of kalaripayat to hit him at this range.

India saw the blade coming and blocked – the sides of the katar's metal hood were more than enough to stop such a blow which had not had time to build up enough momentum, and her fingers jammed into the crook of his elbow. Meanwhile, her katar-wielding hand flipped his blade free by slicing at his fingers, and she jammed the knife into the dirt next to his head.

The next thing he knew, she was sitting on top of his chest with a smirk on her face, and then nothing, as she tapped the side of his neck in just the proper way. India did not generally believe in hitting people hard enough for their minds to surrender, and so merely played with pressure points until she had achieved the right effect. It had worked well enough on England, who should have woken up five minutes ago.

The other Japanese soldier in the room fell screaming, cursing the Englishman when India turned to look. That same ivory knife was buried in his leg.

"Not bad for a pair of old Nations, huh?" England said with a huff, pulling the sheet off.

"I suppose so. You are a bit younger than Japan, though." India pointed out, helping him to his feet. He still couldn't walk so well with a hole in his belly.

"Yes, I – why is there a note here saying 'burn at dawn'?" England demanded.

"No reason." India replied with a smile. She allowed him to rip the knife back out of the soldier's leg, and then she shut that man up with a katar strike to the lungs. Japan was to be left alone, they decided together, until they could beat Germany. Then England would come back at full strength.

"You are still an ungrateful bitch." England said, after a long time of leaving it unsaid.

India smiled. Back to normal. "What tipped you off? The fact that I still hate you?"

"Yes, in fact." England replied. "And your horrible bedside manner."

"Ah. I will strive to make it much more unpleasant in the future. You lived, after all." India replied with a laugh. "Now, come. Japan will be very angry when he wakes up."

Being with England for a hundred years had been the closest thing to a permanent migraine she had ever known. Sure it abated sometimes, but it was always there.

She had been shot, clubbed, stabbed, drowned (by accident or engineering was up for debate), all by proxy and a few in person, and split into three smaller states in the time she had known him.

Pakistan and Bangladesh were arguing again, and blood had been shed long ago between them and her, but it was over now. She had thought it was hilarious, though the blood and screaming, that England had made the exact same mistake with her as he had with Palestine, but then, it didn't seem like the Europeans ever learned.

India glanced at the clock. Long enough. "England, if you don't get out here right this instant, I'm adding red chilies to this slop!" And I'll make you cook for yourself while you're here visiting.

Hooray for insistent houseguests. She would think about really getting rid of him later. And actually, her curry needed more…kick. The only way to save him would be for England to know how to operate the water pump out back. And that was broken.

India had decided long ago that revenge came in many forms. For her, for a long time, that had come simply from being completely obstinate and not listening to him unless her existence depended on it. Now that she was free of what remained of his power, they could be equals, and she could piss him off as much as she liked.

When he finally came out of the other room, she clocked him with the spoon.

About five minutes later, after he had recovered from the blow, he had made the mistake of trying her curry after he had kept her waiting. And yes, the pump was indeed still broken.

A/N: Notes and junk.

1. An urumi is basically a whip-sword, or a whip made of steel strips sharp enough to cut. It requires a lot of practice and should not be wielded by any except masters.

2. A sari is a wrap-around garment worn by Indian women, mostly. I think most of them look pretty.

3. Sepoy: the term for an Indian-born soldier in the employ of a European power, usually Britain.

4. Garuda: literally "king of the birds."

5. India loves Gandhi, which makes it sad that I can't really write him.

6. The Amritsar Massacre: British troops fired on unarmed, nonviolent Indian protesters. In the belief that "just shooting a little" wouldn't disperse the crowd, Brigadier-General Dyer fired until he ran out of ammunition, killing anywhere from 600 to a 800 people and wounded over a thousand. If he had managed to get the armored cars into the area (he couldn't because the entrance was too small), he admitted that he would have used their mounted machine guns as well. I firmly believe this guy was the biggest prick who never ruled a country.

7. The Salt March was timed exactly one year to the day after the Amritsar Massacre on purpose. Gandhi's a sharp one. Some hundreds of thousands of people were arrested for violating the British monopoly on salt production. Really, guys, couldn't you worry about something else for once? You were practically broke anyway. Wasn't that why you gave up Canada?

8. Indian troops fought in Europe in both World Wars, but especially in WWI. In WWII, Indians mostly fought in the Burma Theatre and in Southeast Asia. When the British Isles were under attack by the Luftwaffe, whatever Londoners had made the mistake of returning to the city before the Battle for Britain was over hid in the Tube, mostly.

9. The two sides in the Burma Theatre were British Empire/America/China/India vs. Japan/part of Burma/part of India/Thailand. Both sides were almost destroyed by the weather, but the Japanese made headway for quite a while. This is about where Japan adopted the practice of playing possum in order to ambush Allied troops - this led to the liberal applicaton of flamethrowers by America, who hadn't signed the Geneva Conventions, either.

10. Kalaripayat is an Indian martial art once suppressed under British rule. In practice, it looks like a cross between yoga and kempo. It focuses on nerve, joint, and arterial strikes through the practice of studying marmam, which also makes a nice massage guide if applied nonviolently. Also, most of the weapons mentioned to be used by India are practiced with in kalaripayat.

11. A katar is a type of Indian dagger. The variety India uses is called a hooded katar, which guards the back of the hand with a metal shield as well as the sides. Look it up - one of the ridiculously obviously lethal tools in existence. They are mostly used for stabbing through armor and can be up to three feet long in exaggerated models. They're also rather pretty. The plural form of the word is katara.

12. I have heard that English versions of Indian curry are remarkably bland, considering the base recipe. I have no idea if this is true or not.