Naomh Pádraig | Saint Patrick (naomh_padraig) wrote in nevermore_past, @ 2012-07-19 17:36:00 |
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Entry tags: | saint george, saint padraig |
Who: Padraig, English!George
Where: George's home in London
When: 1861
What: So, England seems to be trying to take over the world, George. (Originally posted by George)
It was strange to be back in London, the city so familiar and so unfamiliar all at the same time. He'd spent the better part of the last few years shuffling between the Indian colonies and Chinese ports, dealing with all the little insurrections and rebellions that had been springing up across Asia. And the not-so-little insurrections, of course. Like the battles that had been dubbed The Opium Wars, like the Indian rebellions. He closed his eyes briefly, shaking his head to clear his mind of the images of palaces in China burning, of beggars in the streets of India that were little more than living skeletons.
It was probably a good thing that business had sent him back to London. Breathing British air and being on proper British soil would help him clear his head.
He'd been making reports for most of the last week, letting various government officials and military brass know how the situation stood in the colonies. They tended to rely on George for information on anything relating to immortals especially, which he couldn't deny was logical. So he sent along stories of his encounters with the various Hindu deities and Chinese spirits, and gave advice on just how the military and the provincial governments could deal with them. And of course, there was Opium, although most of George's encounters with him didn't make the official reports.
He'd written his brothers a month beforehand to let them know he'd be back, pleased at the idea of finally seeing some familiar faces. The house that the had government kept for him was too empty, still feeling dusty and disused even though the servants had been hard at work cleaning it. Having some of his fellow saints around might help the place feel a little more alive.
George glanced out the window, at the rain steadily pouring down outside, and took a sip of his tea. There likely wasn't much of a point in making the place feel more lively, considering he'd doubtlessly be called away again soon. But it was too quiet here, and it made it hard for him to sleep. Strange, guilty worries kept chasing through his mind, like hounds after a fox, and George couldn't stand the lack of distraction.
Padraig had gotten the letter and immediately decided he had to go to London to speak to his brother.
In the decade preceding, Padraig had watched a million of his people die of starvation and a million more flee Ireland's shores for new places, hoping to find a better life there. Padraig had begged his brother's assistance and received very little help. He didn't blame George, but it was a worrying trend. The British Empire seemed to care nothing of the people it conquered. What had happened in India was just as unspeakable as what had happened in Ireland.
Padraid darted through the streets to George's door, the Spring rain soaking his clothes. He had given his umbrella to someone who looked like they needed it more than him, and by the time he reached the door and knocked on it, he was soaked almost all the way through.
George had heard the knock on the door and been on his feet in an instant, already smiling at the idea of seeing Padraig. He could feel his brother's familiar presence already.
Of course, he hadn't been expecting Padraig to look quite so much like a cat that had been dunked in a bucket of water.
"What in the world, get inside right now," George said, pulling Padraig inside out of the rain. "Did you walk all the way here from Ireland without an umbrella?"
George called out to one of the servants to bring a towel and held his brother at arm's length to look him over, caught between happiness at seeing him again and worry that he was going to make himself sick.
Padraig was glad to see his brother and more than anything, affection won out and he reached out to hug George even though he was soaking wet.
George deserved to be wet, anyway.
"I gave my umbrella to someone on the street. She looked like she could use it," Padraig said, looking miserable and cold, but far healthier than the last time George had seen him, that was without a doubt. "And I don't need your bloody servants to get me anything, King George, I can get my own towel." Padraig pulled his coat off and then he peeled his shirts off, pulling them up over his head while they dripped all over the floor beneath him. "And don't worry, I'll get down on my hands and knees and mop your floor too, your majesty."
George rolled his eyes once Padraig started peeling off his clothes. One of the servants, Mary, returned with a towel and immediately flushed bright red at seeing Padraig shirtless. George disguised his laugh with a cough and pulled Padraig into a hug, towelling at his hair roughly.
"Stop taking your clothes off in front of people, you exhibitionist," George said, tugging Padraig up the stairs. "Come on, I'll find you something dry."
Padraig followed George, frowning just at little at poor Mary who was probably left to clean up his mess. "I didn't meant to terrorise the poor girl. Goodness."
Padriag pulled his hands free from George's grip halfway up the stairs. "I can follow you, you know. You don't have to force me. Though it seems to be the trend these days."
George sighed through his nose, waiting until they were at the top of the stairs and out of earshot of any of the servants before he responded.
"I can hardly believe you came all this way to nag me and got yourself soaked in the process. It's been how many years since I've seen you?"
They rounded the corner into George's bedroom. George had just barely gotten his things unpacked, so it wasn't difficult to sort through his clothing to find a shirt that would fit Padraig reasonably well. "Here. India cotton."
Padraig was halfway through pulling the shirt over his head before he froze and bristled. India cotton was it? Padraig pulled the shirt back off his arms and he raised an eyebrow at George.
"George, did the cotton for this shirt come from slave labour?"
"Oh for--no, brother, it did not. To my knowledge, it was farmed by Indians on land owned by the Crown, woven by Indians, and transported by rail lines and ships built by Indians, all for the good of the Indian and British econonmy," George said, his voice the same slightly patronizing tone he used when talking to missionaries he particularly disagreed with. "So you can wear it without guilt, just like everyone else who benefits from it."
Padraig frowned, but he pulled the shirt over his head. "It wasn't guilt I was feeling, George," he hissed once the shirt was on. "Do you have any dry trousers? I know they won't fit me, since you're a giant and I'm still scrawny, but if I sit on your fancy furniture like this, I might ruin it. And heaven forbid that."
George started rifling through his things again, trying to find something that would fit Padraig. Most of the more comfortable pants were all still in a tangle in one of his bags, and George pulled a few pairs out as he searched. A small metal medallion fell out from one of the pockets, hitting the floor with a clang.
Glancing down at it, George's jaw clenched. A St. Sebastian medal. George could remember buying it from a missionary, one hazy night outside of Bengal when he'd been feeling particularly raw and melodramatic and lonely. He'd been fighting down the urge to send a letter to Sebastian for years now, or even physically going to find him. They'd fought viciously the last time they'd spoken, and George doubted the other saint would want to see him. Would want anything to do with him at all. With a frustrated huff, George nudged the medallion under one of the tables with his foot. He'd deal with it later.
"Here," he said, tossing a pair of trousers Padraig's way. "These ought to at least stay on you. Now, what's put you in such a snappish mood?"
Padraig had seen the medal. He glanced away, pretending to fuss with his trousers so George could deal with the medal how he saw fit. He took the offered trousers without really looking and pulled them on quickly, leaving him awkwardly holding the wet ones.
"George," Padraig whispered. No matter how he was feeling towards England at the moment, he still loved his brother. "Come here. Let's have a real hug." They could get to other things in a moment. Padraig now knew Sebastian was on George's mind, and that deserved a hug from him.
Wordlessly, George stepped forward and pulled his brother into a tight hug. He rested his cheek against Padraig's head and closed his eyes. It had been too long since he'd been with his family.
"Missed you," George murmured, reaching up to ruffle Padraig's still-damp hair.
"I missed you too," Padraig mumbled into George's shoulder. Gracious he was tall. "I am glad to see you." He had things he needed to say, but that was probably a good place to start.
Padraig pulled away and he ran his fingers through rain-soaked hair. "Do you have anything to eat, brother? I could do with a good meal." They could talk over food too.
"I do," George said, pulling back as well. He nodded towards the sitting room across the hall. "I was just having tea, so there's a pack of biscuits that you're welcome to if you're peckish right now. I can have the servants cook something if you want a proper meal, since Lord knows I'm useless in the kitchen."
Padraig wasn't completely pleased about that, but he knew George actually was useless in the kitchen and while Padraig wasn't, he didn't know what George's kitchen had in it, nor did he think cooking was conducive to talking. "A meal would be good," Padraig said with a nod. "I've been travelling for a while. And before that-" Padraig shook his head. "Thank you for the dry clothes. Should we go sit?"
"Well, now that you won't be drenching everything in rainwater," George said with a smile. He made a quick trip out into the hallway to ask one of the servants to prepare another helping of lunch. George didn't care for most of the dining customs of the time, finding nine courses of food to be ridiculous at best. He usually preferred simpler fare, such as soups and smoked meat with vegetables.
Which wasn't to say that he didn't enjoy the huge variety of sugared candies and cakes available, but he had enough self-restraint not to eat his weight in it.
Lunch ordered, he headed back into the sitting room and took a seat at the small table facing the window, pouring out a cup tea for Padraig. "So, where have you been adventuring?"
The Irish Republican Brotherhood may have removed the part in their oath about secrecy two years before, but Padraig watched George quietly and he honestly wondered if George would let him leave here if he was aware how very deep into the brotherhood Padraig actually was.
The famine had seen to the greatest breakdown of love between England and Ireland in decades. That Irish people starved while England continued to export cattle and sheep from them had severely fractured the relationship between the countries. And the Irish Republican Brotherhood had arisen in the wake of it. It had been established in 1858 on his feast day, after making sure there was support in the United States, thanks to the work of Padraig's American self. And the Brotherhood had first sworn to do anything to see a democratic and free Irish republic. Now the swore to uphold the republic they felt already existed, even if only in their hearts.
"I haven't been adventuring, I've been working," Padraig said, sipping his tea gratefully. "It's been nearly ten years since the famine ended and we're still not completely on our feet again yet." Losing two million people would do that to a country.
"I don't doubt it," George said, glancing outside to the sheets of rain coming down. "We've been trying to set right the famines in India since we brought it officially under the Crown, but food shortages don't just vanish. Death is the only horseman more resilient, I think." He sighed. "Have you heard about the cotton famine? The Americans and their civil war have put half of Lancashire out of work."
Padraig raised his eyebrows again and he nodded. "I have heard," he said carefully. "And it is most unfortunate. Though I can't say I disagree with the war, since it is in the hopes of abolishing slavery. I have heard from Patrick once, and he is working with the abolitionists. I wish it could have been resolved without violence, but unfortunately some things simply cannot be."
Like freedom. Padraig knew in his heart that if violence was what it took to free Ireland of English rule one day, he would do what he had to do. He would commit terrible sins for love of the people he had pledged his devotion to. His last comment said, he eyed George suspiciously, wondering if his brother would read into that.
George raised an eyebrow at Padraig over his cup, but didn't comment. The issue of Irish independence was one that was best skirted around carefully when it came to Padraig, as George had learned.
It did lead him to wonder just what his brother had been up to while George was off in the colonies, though. He'd be very, very cross about having stamped out rebellion in India and China only to come home and find the Irish trying to break away. And Padraig, naturally, would be right in the middle of that.
"Quite. From the sounds of things, it had become contentious past the point of any reason. The American version of me is apparently unable to pick a side, the bloody fool. I doubt he'll have his sanity if the war goes on for much longer."
"If he met up with Patrick, I am sure Patrick would pick a side for him," Padraig said, momentarily amused. "I do hope the poor man doesn't lose his mind, however. I don't think anyone would benefit from that."
Padraig took another sip of his tea and then he set it aside. "I know how I would feel if Ireland were engaged in civil war. I would feel torn apart as well. As I said, though, sometimes violence is unavoidable..."
"I'm sure he would," George said with a laugh. "The American doesn't have any love lost for slavery, but both sides are calling out for help, and he hears it all. Or so he tells me, anyway. His letters are getting more and more disjointed."
George fell silent as the maid brought in two bowls of soup and a plate laid out with bread, smoked meat, and vegetables. He smiled at her as she left, and waited until the door was closed before replying to Padraig.
"Well then, let us hope that Ireland continues it's current peaceful streak and that any...rebellious tendencies are quashed." George's smile was the polite, diplomatic one that saw far too much use.
"I can understand that," Padraig nodded, feeling his understanding was quite kind of himself since he had been a slave. "I hope he finds someone to help him."
As the food arrived, Padraig watched it with great interest. He was quite hungry, and he was reaching out for some bread when George practically dared him to take offense to what was said.
Padraig's hand stopped short and he stared at his brother in shock. "Rebellious tendencies!? George, this country sat by while mine starved to death! No, no. You didn't sit by, did you. You continued to take what little food we had, to fill your own stomachs with!"
"Don't blame me for what the government chose to do!" George snapped back. "I never agreed with it then, and I still don't! What they did was wrong, but that doesn't mean that Ireland still isn't a part of this Empire."
"It means Ireland shouldn't be a part of your empire!" Padraig yelled. "I know you didn't agree, George. I know my letters broke your heart." One of them had been quite short and to the point.
Dying again. Everyone around me is dying too. Hard to hold the pen. George, please. Help.
Of course George hadn't liked knowing his little brother was starving to death while his government did nothing. But that George didn't see the repercussions of that was maddening to Padraig. "Your Empire is the problem! If Ireland had been it's own country, your damn government couldn't have taken our food! We lost over two million people, George!"
George half-rose out of his seat, lips drawn back in an angry snarl. His hands were curled so tightly around the edges of the table that the wood creaked in protest.
"The Empire is a good thing and don't you dare say otherwise! It's a force for justice and the law and Christianity. The only reason heathens half a world away are being saved is because we went there and converted them!"
George turned away from the table with an angry hiss, hands curled into fists.
"It's not perfect," he said, voice down in volume from the yell it had been. "It has flaws, deep and terrible ones, but that does not mean that it's evil. It just means that things need to be changed a bit." He gave a bitter snort and muttered. "If I had the position in the government that I deserve after serving England for centuries, Ireland would have been swimming in food."
Padriag stared at his brother as George not only called him wrong, but outrightly stated that the Empire was good and he should be more powerful than he was.
"George," Padraig breathed. "Your Empire has no right to govern my people. Not to mention the rest of them. America had the right idea and...civil war aside, they're doing much better on their own than they were as a colony. Just as Ireland would have done as a free republic than as part of this damned Empire. And what possible position do you think you deserve!?"
George dropped back into his seat, frustration making his jaw clench.
"And that's all well and good, Padraig, but have you noticed that any government that gets half an ounce of power starts trying to take it all from everyone else?" George asked, lips still in a sneer. "If you think the Americans won't want their own empire someday, their own little patch of someone else's land to call their own, you're sadly mistaken. If England didn't have Ireland, someone else would, because that's all humans care about, Padraig, and I'm so tired of them and their petty squabbles that I want to scream."
"The Americans are not currently my problem," Padraig hissed right back. "Your damn government is! And I honestly don't believe it would have been any different if you held a more lofty position. It would be the same because like you said, people in power only care about power! You would have taken the food right out of my mouth because you could!"
George was aware of the irony of wanting to yell that he'd never hurt his brother while also wanting to punch him in the head.
"How dare you," he growled instead. "After everything I've done to try and keep you safe, whether I agreed with what you were doing or not."
"What I was doing?!" Padraig jumped up from the table and he started pacing, staring at his brother in disbelief. "You can't possibly tell me you wouldn't be doing the same damn thing in my position if someone else were out conquering the whole damn world and telling it how to live and taking every last thing from them! George, Ireland is going to rebel if freedom isn't granted and I am going to be right there beside them! Why should they remain under the rule of a country who doesn't give a shit about them!?"
"Ireland won't be able to stand on its own!" George yelled, and he knew that he was probably crossing a line in Padraig's mind even as he said it. "It'll be gobbled up by some other empire or it will fall into anarchy, or English forces inside of it will topple any government you try to set up. I don't like it any more than you do, but it's the truth and there is absolutely nothing that I can do about it. I'd give you your country if I could, Padraig. I would do it in a heartbeat. But we serve monarchs and governments that are too bloody-minded to listen to us. So yes, brother, I'd prefer Ireland was trapped under England rather than someone else, because at least we can have some damned effect on this Empire."
"It is not the truth!" Padraig hissed. He knew better. He knew what his people could do. "You wouldn't give me a thing! George, all you care about now is your precious Empire, you have lost sight of everything else. But believe me, Ireland will rebel and she will win her freedom and when that happens, she'll stand on her own two feet and you will eat your words, brother!"
George's temper finally snapped, and he stood up in a quick, sharp movement, knocking his chair to the side. He stalked over to Padraig, boxing his brother in against the wall.
"And when that rebellion comes, just how much of a role will you have played in it? I'm not a fool. I know you haven't just been patiently waiting for your people to come together."
Padraig pressed his his back against the wall but he didn't back down. "No, brother. I won't just be waiting for them to organise themselves. I will be in the middle of it fighting against your dirty government and its disgusting policies! So help me God! "
George slammed his hands onto the wall on either side of Padraig's head, looming up over his brother. He'd rarely had any reason to take advantage of his greater size, but he was glad for it now.
"So tell me, if I acted like the bastard that you apparently think I am and had you arrested, how long would it be until we found out what your rebellious little friends have been up to?"
Padraig narrowed his eyes as George threw around his greater size and weight. He was actually afraid George was going to hurt him now, but he tried no tot show it. He allowed himself to press his back tightly against the wall, but that was the only outward reaction he gave.
"Are you planning on torturing me again, George?" Padraig hissed, his eyes narrow. "At least the first time was to save me. What are you trying to save now, George? Your power? Your superiority?" He said nothing about how long it would be until he gave up information, because it would prove he had some, if he hadn't already. And he didn't plan on sharing it with George, especially not like this.
The days they had worked together were long gone.
George saw the telltale flash of red that meant he was seconds away from hitting something. With a sound that was practically a snarl, he jerked away from Padraig and grabbed the edges of the table, overturning it. Dishes and cups crashed to the ground, shattering.
George had to take several deep breaths to keep himself from going after the rest of his furniture and trashing the room. It would be better than bashing Padraig's head in, but it would frighten the servants.
"I am not going to hurt you," George said finally, after more than a minute of trying to reign in his temper. "No matter what you seem to think of me."
Padraig came away from the wall, ready to run if his brother sent any of the debris his way. He didn't, however, and Padraig stood there, his hands slightly in the air though not in surrender. He was hoping to calm George down.
"George! What I think of you? You're my brother, and I love you, no matter what you do. I'm just worried that you care more for your Empire now than anything else! And hungry, and you did just throw my lunch on the floor," Padraig said, looking at it with slight lament.
"There's more in the kitchen," George murmured, running his hands through his hair and tugging on it sharply. He needed to calm down or he might actually hurt Padraig. He wouldn't be able to live with himself if that happened. He sank down into the chair Padraig had been sitting in before they started fighting, his head still in his hands.
"I'm sorry," he said, after a long moment of silence. He didn't look up at Padraig. "I've seen what happens to empires that die. I was born while Rome was falling, and it's always the same cycle. I can't watch England burn and be conquered. I can't do it. But I can't stand the things I've had to do either. I just...I'm so sorry."
Padriag went to his brother almost immediately, falling to his knees in front of George so he could pull his brother into a hug. "We don't want to conquer you, George," Padraig said over his shoulder. "George, things are different now. Your empire won't fall hard like Rome did. But you can't conquer the world."
George rested his head on Padraig's shoulder, wrapping his arms around his brother.
"No, it wouldn't be Ireland," he agreed. "But the other European powers, maybe. The Spanish and the French, or maybe the Germans. They'd start trying, start eyeing our shores. They already do. Sometimes I just want to take control of it all, so there'd be a way to put a stop to it. I've been fighting over the same miserable plots of land for centuries now. I'm so tired."
He told himself very firmly not to start crying. It was embarassing enough that he'd nearly attacked his brother.
Padraig held George tightly while he tried to think of anything to say that didn't make it obvious he felt the English losing power was a good thing. "George just...sit. Sit and rest with me. Let's have more tea and talk about anything except our patron countries for just a little while."
George nodded against Padraig's shoulder, then straightened a little to surreptitiously wipe at his eyes.
"I can give the servants the night off?" he suggested. "They usually don't have much to do around here anyway. I can show you the kitchen, and you can make yourself something?"
Padraig looked sideways at his brother and the question of why George even had servants died on his tongue. George probably didn't need to have that asked right now.
"I think that sounds like a good idea," Padraig said, reaching out to give George's shoulder a squeeze. "I can make you something too, if you like." It was going to be Irish food if he could find the ingredients. "George... I'm sorry for yelling. I'm just worried about you. I need you to know whatever happens, I love you. You're my brother. My family." George may not have been blood, but in Padraig's heart he was closer than any blood relative. It was just the outrage of his people he felt in his heart that made him angry. His feelings for George would never change.
"I'd like that very much," George said. He looked down. "And I'm sorry for what I said, Padraig. It's all a jumble in my head, and it puts me in a terrible mood."
He got up from the chair and leaned out the door. Mary was lurking nearby, eyes a little wide.
"Is everything all right?" she asked, fingers twisting the edges of her sleeves. "We heard a horrible crash." And doubtlessly some yelling as well, but Mary was too polite a girl to mention it.
"I knocked over the table like a lummox," George said with a self-deprecating smile.
"Oh! Should I-"
"No, that's all right, I'll clean it up," George said. "Anyway, I want you to take the rest of the day off, you and the others."
Mary's eyes brightened. "Thank you, sir! I'll go and tell them." And then she was gone, darting down the staircase.
Padraig watched Mary go and then he turned to his brother and he took George's arm. "I'll help you clean up, but let's eat first. I can show you how versatile a potato is." Padraig was silent for a moment, wondering just how far removed his head was from the American George's head. "Do you get confused sometimes too?" he asked carefully. "Like the American does?"
George laughed, but there wasn't any humor in it.
"I'm not sure. If I'm going mad, it's a different kind of insanity than his. He says he loses track of who he is, where the line ends between him and the soldiers that he's trying to protect. I just...I'm not sure how many of my thoughts are my own, and how many come from the people praying to me. Whole flocks of nobles and military men and God knows who else all come and pray in my chapel to bring the rest of the world to heel. They ask Saint George to guide their guns and ships and ambitions."
Padraig knew how that went. He was outraged at the English response to the famine as well, but certainly some of his anger was fueled by prayers for retribution and deliverance. "I know how you feel, " Padraig said sadly. "There is a fire inside not my own. It makes me want to demand payback from you, when I know you did all you could. George? Please don't try to become emporer. It won't end well for us."
George gave a small smile. "I doubt I'd truly want to be an emperor anyway. I hate politics, and have only come to hate it more the longer I'm alive."
They headed towards the kitchen, a small, cozy room in a corner of the house with wide windows to let in the light. Not that there was much light to be had in the middle of one of England's many rainstorms, but that was beside the point. The kitchen was stocked with bundles of vegetables and fruits, with stairs leading to a small cellar packed with food in jars and smoked meat.
"I am prepared to be highly impressed by the potato and your ability to create food," George said, smile still lingering as he sat down at the small wood table under a window. His smile faded, though, as he picked at his nails and finally asked, "Padraig? Have you really never considered it? If things would be better if the people knew who we were, looked to us for guidance instead of the politicians and the monarchs?"
Padraig looked around for the ingredients to colchannon, and he he shrugged as George asked him a difficult question. "I have considered it," he said with a nod. "And things were better once, when they knew who we were. But now, if they knew...George, we're already their pawns. And I am more than willing to be used as they see fit, but imagine an entire country knowing they have an immortal saint on their side, not to mention many others hiding in the wings. It would be chaos..." Guidance was one thing, but Padraig, sadly, didn't think that would be the people's first inclination.
"Public life would be horrible," George agreed. He'd always stressed to the monarchs who'd known his identity that they could not just start telling people who he was. "But at least they could stop claiming to do things in the name of God."
Padraig started peeling the potatoes so he could boil them. "I suppose they could, but they could use us to do things in the name of God. George, these will take a while to boil. Could I have some of those biscuits?"
"Have anything you like," George said with a nod. "There's more in the cellar as well. They gave me this house and most of the food, but I don't think it quite occured to them that it would really just be me here. I've got rooms I don't even use and enough smoked meat to feed a bear."
Padraig chewed on his tongue for a second to keep him from snapping that it was nice to have food coming out of your ears, wasn't it? They weren't his words, and so he kept them to himself.
"You know, ever since the famine it's been on people's minds for obvious reasons. They pray for plenty and beg not to go through another time like that. There is such fear of starvation that for a long time afterwards I still felt like I did when it was still happening. It's tapered off a little now, unless there's a public scare or a rumour. No matter what I ate, I still felt like I was starving. It's at the height of people's awareness even after ten years. It's why I still look like this." He looked better than he had during the famine, but not by leaps and bounds.
Padraig made sure the potatoes were set up to boil, and then he went to get himself some smoked meat to eat until then. "The things they do to us, George..."
George reached out an ruffled Padraig's hair, an old, familiar gesture that comforted him.
"A few years ago, I had a breakdown of sorts," George started, not quite sure where he was going with this. "It was right after I'd gone to the Crimean War. The weapons they're starting to come up with, Padraig, I don't even...It all seemed too much. So I ran away to America to put Europe and her problems behind me. Only, of course, it's not that simple for us. I couldn't run away. So now I've tried working from the inside, and that's doing just as much damage to me, I think. And I want to walk up to everyone in charge and shake them and shout about the famines in the colonies and the poorhouses in London and every other terrible thing I see every day. Except I also have to keep it all running to keep things from collapsing." He sighed. "I am beginning to really understand why God might have wanted to flood the world and have a fresh start."
Padraig gave his brother a deeply sad look. He was glad now to be past the fire of George's 'long live the empire' tirade, but he wasn't glad to know that heartbreak lay just below the surface. The loving brother in him ached to see George so torn, as it always had. "It's hard to have perspective. They have such short lives, why should they look any farther than themselves? I don't think flooding the world again will help. It would take us with it." Padraig looked sideways at his brother, "and I'm not finished yet. You're not finished yet either, right, George?"
George looked down and resumed picking at his fingernails. His first instinct was to give the answer he always gave himself when he was feeling rather...self-destructive. There wasn't any point in shooting himself in the head or throwing himself off the tallest building he could find. He's just be back, sooner rather than later, with nothing solved and blood all over his clothes.
Instead, he just shrugged and said, "I'm still here, so it means God thinks I'm not finished, and so does England."
"That's not what I asked and you know it," Padraig said, abandoning his food again, though he had managed to inhale quite a bit of smoked meat while George had been talking.
"Look at me, brother." Padraig stepped over to George and he took George's face gently between his hands. "This time will end. It can't last forever. We used to think we would never stop riding from town to town, rescuing them from whatever legendary creature was harassing them, and yet here we are. You're here because God has faith in you, yes. So do I. I know it hurts, and I know there's more hurt coming..." Some of it, he knew, would come from him. He hated that, but he couldn't help it. "But it will not hurt forever."
George closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against Padraig's. God, he had missed his brother. He had missed his family so much. He told himself firmly not to start crying.
"When did you become so wise?" he asked instead, giving his brother a small smile.
"Just about now," Padraig said with a gentle laugh. He had never been the wisest or the smartest man, but he loved with all his heart, and often that was enough to find the right words. "Do you want me to stay with you for a little while? I don't have anywhere I need to be imminently." And he hoped they could avoid killing each other.
"I'd like that," George said, already thinking about the spare bedroom at the end of the hall that Padraig would probably like. "Stay as long as you want. I...I've missed you."
Padraig wasn't sure if his presence would help in the end or not, but there was no better way to find out. Hearing that his brother was in such a bad way meant Padraig wasn't going anywhere for a while unless George made him.
"I've missed you too, George." Padraig had missed the entire, empire-loving lot of him so much that he was willing to stay in England to be with him. That was saying quite a bit. "We can talk about the other stuff again later. Hopefully...in a more calm fashion. For now though just tell me about...hmm, have you read any good books?" Keeping the conversation light was probably the best thing they could do for now. Though why he had asked about books, he had no idea.
George couldn't help but laugh. He was tempted to tease Padraig by asking about the weather. Instead, he said, "Not new ones. I re-read The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym on the way back from India. It was, admittedly, not the best book to be reading while I was on a ship, but it was what I had with me. The American sent it to me a while ago."
He stood up. "If you've got a little more time before your food's done, I can help get you a room set up?
Padraig nodded, though he went to check on the potatoes to make sure, tugging up George's trousers as he did so. "Yes, we have some time." Padraig darted back to grab some more smoked meat before signalling that he would follow his brother. "After you, George." He would set up a room and stay here as long as George needed him.