It had been well over a year since Norway was informed of being a reparation to Sweden. Just roughly over a year when her people tried to legitimize their independence and constitution from Denmark to escape the fate of being ruled by a Swedish king and his aristocracy. More than three seasons since the last war her people fought Sweden's military and lost, and eventually coming to terms of their fate before the harsher chill of winter would set.
So much of her life changed in just one year, all her time spent in the presence of Swedish noblemen and women alike, ones that still reign over the working class without a second thought. The idea of creating a democratic government with the bourgeoisie seems like a distance dream, although one could not be so dismissive of the possibly. The Norwegians already started to root an actual democratic system similar to America and France. It was not perfect but her people will take in the ideas of freedom and hope for Sweden to follow suit.
To be free...to be completely free, it had been literally ages since Norway considers herself so. Being bound to another's name be it Swedish or Danish since even before the Middle Ages. Knowing she nearly achieved it not even a year before hurt her. She will wait another year, ten, or hundred, or thousand times that, she will out of the gilded cage called a union, even if it meant breaking the Swedish nation's heart.
She remembers those few days after they married, she didn't want to see nor speak to Sweden unless it is absolutely mandatory, it didn't mean she has to tell him of her condition. Her people were going through a famine even before the last war, and her government at the time refused to cohort with any offering of aid. Why she didn't tell him is simply out of stubbornness, and admittedly desperation.
It wasn't the first time she dealt with being ill, some conditions worse than others. She became pale; lifeless from the stress, and eventually Sweden is the first to find her unconscious one evening. In that state, she is aware she is emotionally unstable. Thoughts of self-harm passed from time to time but never attempted, not when her husband kept a close watch and never left her side from her conscious fevered episodes.
She knew this from the band on his larger hand, brushing on her naked body while he wiped it clean of sweat and helped redress her after. At times when he thought she wasn't conscious, his lips ghost over the ring on her thumb. It is a ring Sweden expected to slip on a Norwegian man's ring finger just days prior to her surrender.
The kiss is a prayer on her behalf, a part of Sweden's love and fear on every grasp of her hand as if it would be the last.
The early morning came and Norway felt restless just staying in bed. Her eyes flutter to the morning light, spring still in the air and summer not too far off.
She is not able to sleep on her side or her stomach for some time. Her body is still aching and stiff despite the amount of rest she takes, and stretching did not help shake the fatigue. It will be all over soon enough.
"You must like to grab my attention in inopportune times, do you?" Norway said aloud.
Her hand rests on the obviously pregnant belly. Light stirs of the child try to show it presence of good health only for its mother to calm it with gentle strokes. Norway is unsure if the child understood the gestures, but it does stop when she wanted so.
'I wonder if you would be a rowdy babe,' Norway mused, 'since you're so adamant of leaving me aching by the time you are born.'
Sweden became even more attentive knowing their child will arrive. Norway didn't expect the relationship to be intimate in the physical or emotional sense. Clearly she is mistaken within the month, because she let him approach her.
Three days after her fever broke she finds him resting in the den, reading some novel by the warmth of the fireplace.
Norway didn't know if her husband is aware of her presence but didn't say anything and just shift her attention to the crackling flames. Memories of comfort and brutality associated to the raw energy, days in the open air under a blanket of diamonds and soft pearl of the moon, side-by-side with brethren by a pit fire recalling stories and creating the mythology of the world. The reverse is true when the screams of slaughters and rape resound with infernos under the same sky, where she bore witness half blind to her own doings. She didn't mind how long she sat there, as the pyre of wood soon became a pile of smoke and embers with no one to stoke it alive again.
She hears the light thump of the book closing before Sweden slips his arms under her in a bridal carry. His possessive arms wrap their vice on her without any struggle or a word, the warmth of the den in her thoughts trumped by the warmth of a powerful masculine body. It has Norway thinking of how small and softly feminine she became, a body made to nurture a child yet the cunning mind to administer mental poison to those who scorn her. Neither is of use to Sweden as he is neither a child nor a weak minded man, but it only tests how long it could be true.
The door opens to an intimate bedchamber, large closet by a wall, some shelves holding novels, maps, some shipping manifests and personal journals next to a desk. Another fire place is inactive and opposite to the undraped balcony letting in the autumn moon and glow of Stockholm housings in the distance. Norway has not seen the Swede's room once since she slept in a separate room, but the large bed in the centre calls for two souls to fill it now that she is present.
Sweden places her in the mid of the covers, straddling over her hips and thighs to feint escape, and capturing her lips in a firm but still tentative kiss. Still she did not say or do anything to hint discomfort or pleasure, but Sweden doesn't need to. Sweden felt the heart above her breast start to race, eyes becoming dilated and pale skin becoming rosy; her arousal still ambiguous compared to his.
"If I wanted to us to make love right now, would you deem it as rape" Sweden asks, his baritone even Norway admits is a treat to hear.
As blunt as the question is, Norway still didn't bat an eye and answers without a stutter. "Any woman would be nervous in their first time; arranged marriage or not, consummating it is an expected practice." Norway told him, only for a small smile to grace her face, "It's up to you if you wish we make love; I do not see it as such if you ask for my consent."
Sweden kisses her firmly once, to twice, and third where the Swede's tongue slipping between Norwegian lips. Still, Norway didn't resist and let herself relax, and feel heavy as her head is cradled on gentle hands, eyes fluttering close, with her heart beating in her ears.
They break contact to unbutton the back of Norway's cream nightdress, Sweden his dress shirt and trousers. Both slip off the garments and underwear until no scar, burn welt, or beauty mark is hidden. Sweden takes notice on filled out curves and rosier glow, breasts pert and roughly a man's handful, an indigo gaze that could chill a lesser man in place but challenge the sure and haughty to failure.
Was he really smitten with such a cold and troubled woman? She wants to be away when they spoke, yet he could not stay away. He wants the Norwegian's love to be returned without sorrow.
Fingers run through the tangles of her long, lightly waved hair. She let it grow to look the part of a wife and expectant mother but tying it to a held up plait as an old marital custom.
'I feel as if you will take after your father. I am uncertain if I should blame him for consummating the union or thank him for bring you to being. It is partially my fault for not declining when he gave me the choice.'
She exited the bedroom, away from Sweden from by a long corridor where she assumes him working in his study.
'It is funny how love works, I would deny the love of the father who helped create you and yet I would love you freely without knowing your face.' Norway walks down the corridor to the study, 'but why don't we greet your father good morning, Ludwig or Monika.'