DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya
LIGHTS OF THE NORTH
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Please excuse my use of modern language (insofar as dialogue and description); as well as my taking liberties with some character relationships and history in general. All countries will be called by their present-day names rather than their historic names to avoid confusion.
This is a story—a theory, really—about Canada's lineage. It's based on the idea that a colony is the direct descendant of the country who discovers it. (i.e. A colony is born when it is discovered and settled, and the first country to do so is the one who gives "birth" to it.)(Note that this is my logic for colonies, not established territories; ergo, it doesn't work for most of Eurasia.) I've considered several alternatives of this theory, but decided that this one is my favourite. It's the one I've had in my head the longest, and I'm really excited to finally be sharing it. I hope you enjoy! :)
REYKJAVIK
Norway stood at the bow of a large passenger steamship, eyeing the steel-grey sky as it maneuvered slowly into a protective bay. A strong, arctic wind swept across the water, tugging at his pale-blonde hair. It smelled of ice. The anchor dropped, but the ship—a great iron behemoth—barely shuddered. Norway felt the reverberation in his gloved fingers, clutching the rail. Big, frothy waves broke on the ship's haul; the water looked dense, as dark as the sky. This was not the beautiful two-toned seas of the Mediterranean; nor the warm, sparkling seas of Arabia; nor the bright, peaceful seas of the South Pacific. This was where the dark Arctic met the deep Atlantic in a merciless clash of wicked winter storms. This was the far north. But Norway was not afraid. He had been born in the north; bred to it. It would take a much fiercer wind than this to make him flinch.
Bored, his violet eyes looked beyond the large glass windows of the ship into a luxurious dining-room, where most of the world's representatives were taking refuge from the cold. Heat spewed from overhead vents, connected by steely intestines to the boilers below-deck. It kept the passengers comfortable, but Norway found it a bit hot, which is why he had escaped to the bow. Denmark had followed him. Despite his much milder climate, he had spent enough of his life in the far north to be desensitized to the debilitating cold. He leapt voraciously across the snowy deck, chasing Norway's young colonies—his children—Greenland and The Faroe Islands; and his former-colonies, the children who had been adopted by Scotland long ago: The Orkney Islands, The Shetland Islands, and The Hebrides. It was nice that the colonies got to play together here, since they didn't live in the same house anymore. Sometimes Norway missed the chaos that came with a household full of cold-climate, hot-tempered little troublemakers. As Denmark roared and lunged at them like a beast, making them shriek and scatter, Norway vividly remembered chasing the colonies around the longhouse hearth, yelling at them to:
"Stop beating on each other like that! That's not how you make a fist; this is how you make a fist."
"Put that axe down now! I'll show you how to use it later."
"Get that thing away from your brother's face! Kill it first, then you can eat it."
It had been an unstable time in history and Norway had been very, well—He had been angry when Scotland had taken his colonies away from him (very angry), but, in hindsight, he understood why the young Scot had done it; and he understood why everyone else had let him do it. The days he had lost his island-colonies in battle had been one of the darkest moments of Norway's long life. He would never forget the ferocity with which he had fought to keep the three of them, but in the end he wasn't strong enough. Had it been just Scotland or just Denmark back then, he might have stood a chance; but against a collective of unlikely allies who were determined to end Norway's conquest of the British Isles, there was nothing the Norwegian could do except watch as his warriors died and his colonies were taken from him.
"No! No!" he had begged, clawing at their little cloaks as they were ripped from his arms. "Please, no! Let me go! Denmark, you bastard, let me go!" He thrashed wildly like a frantic, tethered wolf as Denmark restrained him. He was seething with rage and fear. His human-body was badly injured; his bones were broken, he was bleeding and lightheaded, but the pain barely registered. It was pale compared to the pain of heartbreak. "I won't let you take my colonies!" he screamed, an empty-threat. The other countries looked upon the helpless Viking with—not regret, but pity. They were all young. None of them had ever lost a colony before, and none of them wanted to watch it now. It was ugly. The loss had rendered one of the region's most fearsome conquerors debilitated. "Scotland!" he continued to shriek long after the battle was over. "Come back! I won't let you take my colonies! I won't let you take them, you thief! Give them back! Give me back my babies! I'll kill you!" he howled, tears freezing on his frosty cheeks; crying, even as he fell to his knees in defeat. "I'll kill you all..."
That had been nearly a millennia ago, but Norway remembered it. He had a long memory and remembered things well. He remembered the anger and grief and shame; the heartache. But he understood it—now. Back then, he had let lust guide his actions: lust for land, riches, power, bloodshed. He couldn't deny that he had been neglectful of his colonies. He hadn't considered their welfare in his hunt for power, too hungry for more—more! more! more!—to consider the role of parenthood. He had been too young; no more than a teenager in human-years. Denmark had tried to stop him, to control him, to corral him like cattle, and oh! how Norway had hated him for it. He was stubborn and he fought Denmark's crushing control, desperate to prove how strong he was. He had been insatiable in his youth. He had refused to yield—submit—to anyone, too proud to admit his wrongs. So Scotland took his colonies, and Norway was forced to vacate the isles he had once claimed as his own. At least he had managed to hold onto The Faroe Islands and Greenland (and Iceland, of course). They were of some comfort to him on the cold winter nights when he missed his lost colonies the most.
When Norway married Denmark in 1524, he unwittingly pulled Norway out of a long, dark depression that had been effecting his country's welfare for centuries, unbeknownst to him. The Dane had adopted all of his colonies, but, unlike before, it hadn't felt like a loss. In fact, it felt like Norway had finally become part of a family again. And though Norway and Denmark had separated for political reasons in 1814 (screw you, Sweden!), the three colonies had remained in the Dane's care—and, surprisingly, Norway was okay with that.
He watched them now, playing in the snow. Denmark lifted little Faroe onto his broad shoulders and stuck out his tongue, tipping back his head of thick, unruly blonde hair. The other colonies gathered around him, following his example, catching snowflakes on their little pink tongues.
"You're smiling, Norway."
Norway glanced at Iceland, whose silent approach was spectral. The younger violet-eyed Nordic grinned in self-satisfaction, as if he had caught Norway doing something naughty.
"Did you make arrangements with Reykjavik?" Norway asked.
"Yes." Iceland leant against the metal guardrail. "The ship will stay anchored here until the storm passes. I've heard a lot of complaints, but everyone goes quiet when they see me—usually too late. Thank-you for the hospitality, Iceland, that's all they say. I guess no one wants to tell me to my face that they hate being trapped in my capital. It's too dark. It's too cold. It's too empty. I can't control the climate though, can I?" he said in annoyance.
"No, you can't," Norway agreed. "It's part of who you are."
"Your colonies haven't grown much in Denmark's care," Iceland noted glibly. "Not like England's America."
"It's not that easy to grow in the north," Norway argued in Denmark's defense. "There are less opportunities for growth here: harsher climates; less resources. And we've never had the population that the other Colonizers do. Greenland and Faroe are safe, protected, and provided for, that's what matters."
"I suppose," Iceland ceded. "But, really. Just look at America, he's so big for his age. I've never seen a colony grow so fast."
Norway followed Iceland's line-of-sight to the dining-room, where America was sitting with England and France. He was a very spry and healthy-looking young colony. Very cute. And very loud. The colony talked nonstop as he ate his supper, his open mouth revealing bits of half-chewed food, which made both of his imperial parents cringe. England scolded him as France wiped his messy face with a linen serviette. America barely noticed—or slowed. He rambled on in the garbled tongue of a selfish toddler. In contrast, his brother sat quietly beside the window. His eyes sparkled as he followed the descent of the snowflakes. Big violet eyes that reflected the glowing lights of the Aurora Borealis. Norway swallowed the lump forming in his throat.
"Norway—?"
Denmark's tone revealed a sliver of concern. Distracted, Norway hadn't noticed his lumbering approach. The Dane's gaze swivelled to the window, spotted the little violet-eyed colony, and then recaptured his ex-partner. A silent, private exchange passed between them.
"He looks sad," said Denmark, jerking his head at the window. "I think he wants to play," he added, smiling a crafty smile. He lifted Faroe overhead and set him down on the deck. Then he strode heedlessly into the dining-room, where the heat blasted. Norway followed him, but he stopped just inside the doors; close enough to eavesdrop, but far enough to remain anonymous.
"Oi! America, slow down! Chew before swallowing, otherwise you're going to choke. And don't talk with your mouth full, it's impolite," England chastised as France grievously scrubbed America's face.
"Oh. Hello, Denmark," England said. His body instinctively tensed. So did France's. "Is there something you want?"
Denmark's posture was languid, his thumbs hooked into his belt-loops as he regarded the two Empires, both of whom were younger than he. "The little one," he said doggedly, bobbing his head, "he looks bored. Let me take him outside to play."
England's Lincoln-green gaze widened in surprise, then narrowed distrustfully. In reflex, he eyed the steak-knife sitting inches from his fingers. France, too, faced the Dane wearily, shielding America with his body.
"No," England said, at the same time America demanded dessert. ("I want cake!")
"He's not finished his supper," France said tartly in dismissal. But Denmark shook his head.
"Not that colony, that colony," he said, pointing to the violet-eyed colony who was sitting between England and the frosty window. His tiny fingers—delicate, like Norway's—traced icy circles on the glass, gaze mesmerized by Iceland's snowy shores.
"Canada—?" asked Denmark, ignoring England and France's glares of disapproval. The colony's pale-blonde head whipped around, a look of surprise on his face, as if unused to the sound of his own given-name, especially from foreigners. He regarded the Dane with polite intrigue. Denmark grinned down at him, and said: "Do you want to come outside?"
Canada's violet eyes widened, the Lights glowing. But England answered for him:
"No," he said. "Canada is safer here with us. It's much too cold outside. And he's barely touched his supper; he'll be hungry in an hour. Besides, it's dangerous on-deck. He could get lost, or hurt, or scared. He'll stay right here... with... us..."
England's voice softened, faltering at once when he saw Canada's crestfallen face, deflating with every denial his imperial father spoke. Guiltily, England glanced at France.
"Well, maybe... he can, just for a little while," France permitted. He seemed to struggle with the decision, but the smile he got in return melted his resolve. Canada beamed at the Frenchman in gratitude. "But he's not to leave the foredeck," France warned Denmark as Canada eagerly crawled across England's lap. "I don't trust you, Denmark. Not for one minute. I want my Canada where I can see him at all times, is that clear?"
"Fine," Denmark agreed. "But he'll be safe, I promise. My kidnapping days are long behind me," he added in jest, then smirked at his fellows' horrified reactions.
England glared as he re-tied Canada's red scarf. "Be careful," he told the colony. "It's cold outside, keep your hat and gloves on, please." He adjusted the colony's winter coat as he buttoned it, and then tenderly cupped his snow-white cheek in affection. "Have fun, love," he said for Canada's benefit. Over his curly blonde head, he sent Denmark a scalding look. A warning. He was very (over)protective of his Empire. (Denmark blamed Spain for that.)
Denmark extended his hand to Canada, whose hands were so small that they wrapped entirely around two of Denmark's big fingers.
Norway's chest tightened as they neared. He retreated onto the deck, casting Canada a fleeting smile as the North American colony and his Danish escort exited the dining-room.
"Hello, Canada," said Iceland, kneeling. They were nearly the same age, but since Iceland had been nurtured by Norway and Denmark from such an early age, he had grown faster.
"Hello, Iceland," Canada replied shyly. "Thank-you for letting us stay here," he said, parroting his elders, but without a trace of prejudice. He looked past Iceland's human-body to his geographic one, and added: "It's beautiful."
Iceland's violet eyes softened. "Thank-you, that's very kind. Hey, do you want to see something really cool?"
"We can't take him off the deck," said Denmark, as Iceland took Canada by the hand. "Otherwise his parents are going to declare war."
"That's fine, we can see it from here," Iceland replied, leading Canada—and Norway and Denmark—to the icy portside of the ship. He lifted the colony onto the bulkhead, holding him secure around the belly, and pointed toward the harbour's mouth. A big, long black shadow lingered there, preparing to sail. "Do you see its nose?" Iceland asked. Canada nodded, eyesight unhindered by the falling snow. "It's an icebreaker, a ship especially made to cut through the frozen water," Iceland explained. "It's made of extremely thick re-enforced steel. Its hull is the strongest in the world, stronger than warships," he stated proudly. "I bought that particular icebreaker," he pointed, "from you, Canada. Did you know that?"
Canada's eyes were wide with wonder. "It's so big," he said in appreciation. He looked back at Denmark and Norway. "Do you build ships like that, too?"
Denmark guffawed, puffing-up his barrel chest. "Of course! Who do you think taught Iceland the technique?"
"I did! I did!" shouted Greenland, bouncing up-and-down at Denmark's side.
Denmark frowned and gently nudged him aside. "Quiet, you."
Greenland pushed his cheeks together and blew a big, wet raspberry at Denmark, then scampered off, his jet-black hair wagging like a shaggy dog's.
Canada giggled at his neighbour.
"Oh? Think that's funny, do you?" Denmark teased. In mock-threat, he curled his fingers into paws and leapt at Canada, who shrieked in laughter. Denmark pretended to falter, letting the colony climb safely down from the high bulkhead, and then chased him across the deck. Faroe waved urgently for Canada, who took cover behind a hastily-built wall of snow: a fort. From there, they peppered Denmark with snowballs. Norway watched as Denmark scooped Greenland up under his arm and charged the snow-fort, shouting out a wild battle-cry that encouraged the colonies to retaliate. Peels of high-pitched laughter echoed in the night as Scotland's (adopted) islands joined the fray.
"He really loves colonies," Iceland noted, indicating Denmark. "It's a shame that he has none of his own, not truly. I think that's why he tried to take everyone else's."
"Greenland and Faroe are his," Norway said.
"No, they're yours by birth, Norway. You conceived them. They're only Denmark's by adoption."
Norway swallowed at Iceland's word-choice. He could see his colonies—his children—running across the icy deck, clinging to Denmark's forearms as he lifted them off their feet. He could see Canada's flushed face among them, smiling as he dropped down, collected a snowball between gloved hands, and fired it with frightening accuracy at the blue-eyed Dane, hitting his midsection. The sight struck Norway unexpectedly. He shivered, and softly said:
"Adoption still counts."
HELLULAND, 1000
The Viking longship scraped the rocky shoals of a snowy inlet, dark water sloshing over the side and freezing into ice-crystals. A young colony poked at the congealing wet mass through a thick seal-skin glove. It was heavy. His big, violet eyes looked past the longship and scanned the deserted landscape, which looked foreboding, but the colony was not afraid. The scene was not so unlike his birthplace. A plane of solid stone stretched out before him, covered in layers of deep snow. It was barren, but it was not as foreign a place as he had expected, or hoped. (This was his first expedition, after all. He had wanted to see somewhere exotic.) He cocked his pale, silver-blonde head, and the earflaps of his hat fluttered in the wind. It made the water ripple below. He leant down over the curved side of the longship, wanting to touch it. As he reached, his boots lifted off the deck and his lightweight shifted, pulled down by gravity—
"Iceland!"
Norway grabbed Iceland by the waist and hauled him back aboard the longship. "Stay away from the water," he said, scolding. Then he knelt, his violet eyes searching the colony's snow-white face for signs of trauma as he fixed the lay of Iceland's hat; readjusted his gloves; tightened the sash of his coat. But Iceland's stare was innocent as he looked back at Norway, too young to fear the unknown. Norway sighed.
"Please stay aboard the ship, away from the water," he repeated, feeling anxious. He followed Iceland's line-of-sight and gazed at the desolate landscape. "It could be dangerous. I don't know this place, it's foreign to me. It isn't Greenland," he acknowledged.
Greenland was Norway's youngest colony, who was then only twenty-one-years-old; a newborn. The Viking had left him briefly in the care of the Inuit peoples while he returned to collect Iceland. "Am I going to meet my new baby-nephew?" Iceland had asked. "Are you going to take me on a voyage?" Norway had nodded his consent; albeit, distractedly. He had intended to take Iceland with him to fetch Greenland; then, with Greenland safely aboard, travel to The Faroe Islands to retrieve the smallest of Norway's colonies; then return home to Scandinavia with them. There, he could better provide for them, nurture them, teach them, and protect them. Once they were safely settled, Norway would return to his islands—The Orkneys, The Shetlands, and The Hebrides—to see how his eldest colonies had fared in his absence, and then bring them back to Scandinavia so they could meet the new additions to their growing family. Iceland was keen to meet his—nephews. For some reason, Norway couldn't bring himself to correct Iceland's mistake. Maybe it was because he was so exhausted. Since leaving Scandinavia, he had navigated the Atlantic with a skeletal crew of banished men (the only men brave enough to risk the voyage); he had established countless settlements; he had explored uncharted regions; and—in doing so—he had conceived and birthed six new colonies (which is why his colonies were all so close in age). It had been thrilling at first, but by the time he reached Greenland, his energy and enthusiasm was gone; used up; bled-dry. He was tired. All he wanted to do now was take his colonies—his children—back home to rest and enjoy the spoils of his adventures.
"If it's not Greenland," said Iceland curiously, "then where are we, brother?"
I'm not your brother, Norway thought guiltily. What he said, however, was: "I don't know." He eyed the vast, jagged landscape wearily, noting the sun's low position in the sky. "The wind must have blown us off-course. Stay in the ship," he ordered Iceland as he, himself, leapt over the side.
His knee-high boots landed in the snow, producing a sinking crunch as he walked. He hunched his shoulders and pulled his thick, fur-lined coat and cloak tighter around his neck. It was the middle of winter and it was very cold here—wherever here was. His violet eyes surveyed the barren landscape, searching for signs of movement. He looked at the towering planes of rock, the glaciers, the deep, dark water, but nothing struck a chord in his memory. When he turned back, the top of Iceland's rosy face peeked over the side of the longship, following Norway with eyes the colour of summer thistles.
"The sun is ahead of us," Norway muttered, stepping in circles, "which means we were still sailing west when the storm hit. We're moving west, even now. But how far west have we come? What land lays beyond the reaches of Greenland? Whose home have we stumbled upon?"
No one's, by the look of it. It was empty.
Night was fast approaching and Norway's crew needed to take shelter. On orders, they banked the longship and made a weak fire; the icy land was not plentiful here. Then they pitched sturdy tents made of wood, fibre, and animal-hide, and fell asleep two to a bedroll for warmth, hugging knives and axes to their chests.
Norway slept fitfully on that long, cold night. He held Iceland—swaddled like a newborn in fur—snug against his chest and worried and waited for the pale light of day. Eventually he did fall into an exhausted sleep, but it wasn't for long. Iceland roused him from a shallow dream in the small hours of morning.
"Brother, look!" he whispered, pointing.
Norway stifled a yawn and obediently looked up at the night's sky and was suddenly struck speechless. The Aurora Borealis shone so brightly, it's beauty lit the whole sky in an iridescent rainbow of colour. It danced overhead, reflecting off the snow and the glaciers, and in both Norway and Iceland's violet eyes.
"The Lights of the North..." Norway inhaled in disbelief. But that's not possible. The Lights are reflections of memory, they don't shine without a conscience to give them life.
"It's so pretty," said Iceland, smiling innocently. "It's like magic! It's just like our Lights, isn't it, Norway?"
Awestruck, Norway nodded. The Aurora Borealis could be seen from his homeland in the northern regions, but rarely had he seen the ethereal lights so vividly before. The first time they had glowed like this was when Iceland was born. Iceland was right; it looked magical. But it's impossible. The Lights shouldn't be here in this soulless land. Could it possibly be—a sign? What are you trying to tell me? he begged the gods, hoping that they would hear him so far from home.
"Let's make a sacrifice," Norway said, lifting little Iceland into his arms. "I believe the gods have led us to this place for a reason. Perhaps it wasn't the winds that blew us here, but fate."
"May I name it?" Iceland asked, excited. "I've never named any place before. I want to call it... Helluland," he said.
"Yes, fine," said Norway, swallowing his trepidation. "Helluland is fine."
MARKLAND
This place looks nicer. Maybe we can stay here?" Iceland suggested.
Norway eyed the dense, rocky shoreline skeptically. The huge trees grew so close together that they hid the interior. Norway hadn't seen trees so tall and thick—so ancient—since leaving the Scandinavian coast. The presence of sustainable life was promising, but he disliked not knowing what lay beyond the cliffs.
"No," he decided, ordering the longship to keep sailing on by. "There's nowhere to land here. Let's go farther south and see if it thins."
Overhead, the Lights shone.
VINLAND
Can we please stop now, Norway? I'm sleep–y," Iceland yawned.
It had been months since they had arrived in the new world. The longship had finally been dragged ashore onto a rocky beach at the mouth of a shallow inlet, where the forest was much less unforgiving. Norway and Iceland had explored, leading Norway's crew into the depths of the dense interior, and soon found themselves surrounded by ropes of twisting grapevines flourishing with sweet fruit. "Let's stay here," said Iceland, grape juice coating his sticky fingers and mouth. He licked his lips with a loud smack. "I want to stay here in Vinland," he begged, taking the liberty of naming the land. "Please, brother—?" Norway had done a quick calculation and, finding no reason to deny Iceland's request, agreed. The Vikings found an elevated, open plane and began immediate construction on a longhouse. One soon became several, and the encampment soon expanded into a settlement as more families arrived from Iceland.
"Norway, I'm sleepy!" Iceland repeated, now. In protest, he sat cross-legged in the grass, pouting grumpily.
Norway rolled his eyes and retreated to the colony's side. They had been hiking since daybreak. "Okay, let's take a rest," he ceded.
They shared a small lunch of salted cod, barely-broth, and grapes—lots of grapes. Norway had been pleased to discover that the salt and fresh waters of Vinland were ripe for fishing; the forests plentiful for hunting; and the soil fertile for farming. He had even found a rich cache of bog-iron near the settlement. It was—admittedly—the perfect place to establish a permanent outpost, but Norway was hesitant. Even as the days grew longer and winter melted into spring, the cold grudgingly receding, Norway felt anxious. Every night, the Lights glowed brighter. The Viking settlers awed in appreciation of the display, happy to recognize the same sky here that was visible in Iceland; but Norway knew the truth. He could feel it inside himself, a familiar weight that whispered the birth of a new life. He had felt it the minute he set foot in the new world, but he had ignored it, thinking, hoping, that he was wrong—until he saw the Lights. Even so, he had denied it. This can't be happening, he thought in private. I can't do this again. But the longer he spent tracking and charting and settling Vinland, the stronger the feeling became until he could no longer deny the fetal colony taking shape. The fact was, Norway was pregnant—again.
Iceland noticed and was very happy with the development, pleased to be an uncle for the sixth time.
"What do you think my new baby-nephew will be like?" Iceland asked, resting his silver-blonde head against Norway's chest, listening to his heartbeat and the strong, steady heartbeat of the unborn colony. "Do you think he'll be anything like me?"
"Maybe," Norway replied quietly.
"What are you going to name him?"
"I don't know."
"Is he going to come to Scandinavia with us?
"Norway—?" Iceland looked up at Norway's face and was surprised to see unshed tears in the elder Nordic's eyes. "Brother, what's wrong? Aren't you happy?"
Norway swallowed, ashamed of his weakness. If it had been anyone but Iceland, he would have gotten angry. Instead he blinked the tears from his eyes and forced a false smile. "Yes, of course," he lied. "I'm just... very tired."
It was the truth. He was tired—and so very afraid. He had not intended to conceive so many new colonies in such a short time, especially so far from home.
What am I going to do? he worried. I don't have the strength to protect all of them. I don't have the means or resources or population. My strength is stretched, my fleets scattered. He was not strong and rich like Denmark or Sweden; he was just Norway. Norway, who's talent was not nation-building, but instead: piracy; thievery; butchery; and—apparently—pregnancy. He was an explorer, a voyager, a trader, a Viking—not an Empire. Not a parent.
Orkney.
Shetland.
Hebrides.
Faroe.
Iceland.
Greenland.
They were small islands, their settlements isolated. They were easy(er) to explore and protect. He could even circumnavigate most of them in a day of favourable winds. But Vinland was vast; incredibly vast. He hadn't meant to discover this land, this new world. It had been an accident. Greenland, too, had been unexpected, but his existence was bearable. Norway had circumnavigated the large island and concluded that the land was mostly uninhabitable, forcing settlements into a concentrated area that he could govern without much difficulty. Iceland, too, was under-populated and quiet. As for his tiny Atlantic colonies, their island-bodies were largely unattractive to the Empires of Europe, seen to be relatively useless. No, Norway was not worried about them, but he was worried about the unborn colony that was slowly growing inside him, getting stronger day-by-day. He didn't know anything about this vast, wild place, which had already revealed countless unseen dangers. Norway and his crew had attempted to voyage down a long river into the interior to explore, but they had been met with fierce resistance from the natives. Norway had never encountered such a savage force before, who were determined to protect their territory from the pale-skinned invaders. Even his warriors had fled in terror of this new innumerable threat, whose fighting-skills and knowledge of the land left more Norwegians and Icelanders dead than alive. After one too many encounters with the angry natives, the settlers had been too intimidated to venture away from the shores of Vinland again.
I don't even know how big this geographic-body is or what else it holds. It could be riches; it could be death. Either way, Norway was not willing to risk finding out. This landmass could go on forever. How could I ever nurture and protect a colony like that? I don't have the strength. I'm not an Empire. I just—I just can't do it.
I just want to go home.
"But it was you who wanted to explore this new world, Norway," said the Jarl, when told.
"Yes, I know I did," Norway replied, absently hugging his middle, "but I've... changed my mind. I don't think we should settle here permanently. The gods have blessed us," he noted, implying their cargo of fish and furs. "I think it's time we returned home."
Norway's goal was to leave Vinland before the colony was born. Maybe if he left, it wouldn't be born.
I can't do this, he thought, desperately afraid; desperately homesick, not again.
The colony was born on an unseasonably cold summer day in July.
Norway looked down at the tiny newborn cradled in his arms, gazing upon the beautiful face and violet eyes that reflected—The Lights of the North. Oh gods, he really is one of us. He rocked him gently as he paced indecisively back-and-forth, paternal instinct fighting fear. Soon, the newborn fell asleep, swaddled in thick, soft pelts to keep him warm. He felt safe in Norway's embrace—his father's. The colony's geographic-body was big and wild, but his human-body was so small and so fragile, it made Norway feel guiltier than he ever had before. Of all his colonies, only Iceland had inherited Norway's human-appearance. Faeroe and Greenland looked nothing like Norway. But this pretty little newborn—with his silky pale-blonde hair, and his snow-white skin, and his big, long-lashed violet eyes—did.
Norway took a shaky breath.
The longship was waiting in the harbour, loaded with cargo and supplies for the long voyage home.
"Norway," said Iceland gently. He stood a few feet away, silently watching the country cradle his colony—the parent cradle his baby. "It's time to go."
"I-I-I—I'll be right there," Norway said, dismissing Iceland.
He walked deeper into the forest until he reached the base of an ancient tree. There, he knelt in the grass and hugged the sleeping colony to his chest; his heart. "I'm sorry," he whispered as tears flooded his shining eyes. "I just can't keep you. I just—I can't. I'm not strong enough. I'm sorry, little one. I'm sorry." His hands trembled violently as he laid the colony down in a basket beneath the canopy of maple leaves, but he couldn't let go. Not yet. He lingered, touching the colony's tiny hands; his round, rosy cheeks; his soft pale-blonde hair. As he leant down, his teardrops fell onto the colony's face. The little thing murmured and emitted a sweet sound of contentment, which Norway felt in his aching heart. Gingerly, he pressed a kiss to the nameless baby's forehead. "I'm sorry.
"I'm so, so sorry."
Norway stood and backed away slowly, crying. One step, two, three—
He couldn't bear it. He turned on his heel and fled, leaving the sleeping newborn all alone in the wilderness.
And he never returned.
NEW FRANCE
534-YEARS LATER
France stumbled through the forest, grumbling irritably, and picking leaves and pine-needles out of his long curls. He had been walking for hours, having left the riverside encampment to explore this unknown land, located due north of baby-America's massive geographic-body. France loved baby-America, but he was tired of noisy, southern battles. The newborn had so many countries vying for ownership of him, France had travelled north in search of peace and quiet. He journeyed farther and farther, wondering where the landmass would finally end, but it didn't. Without realizing it, he had crossed into a new territory, untouched and unclaimed.
"Hello?" he had called, but received no reply.
Finally, he triumphantly forced his way into a grove of towering maple trees—
—where he came face-to-face with a young child.
France paused. At first, he thought it was a human-child, a toddler, but dismissed it at once when he saw the child's inhuman beauty and felt the powerful, ageless presence of a fellow nation. A colony? But who does he belong to—? he wondered, taken aback. No Empire he knew of had ever mentioned having a colony north of America. Briefly, France scanned the vast wilderness for flags or forts, but he saw nothing to suggest an Empire's presence. Feeling like he had stumbled upon a hidden treasure, he approached the colony cautiously, trying to make himself appear as kind and nonthreatening as possible.
"Hello," he said. "Are you lost, sweetheart? Where is your papa?"
The colony bowed his head shyly, a curtain of pale-blonde hair hiding his face.
France smiled and knelt down, sapphire-blue eyes sparkling. Something about the colony's coy innocence touched his heart. "Don't be afraid, chéri. I'm not going to hurt you," he said softly. "My name is France. I'm going to protect you, sweetheart. I'm going to take care of you."
After a moment, the colony slowly raised his head and France was struck by the incomparable beauty of the shining Aurora Borealis. He couldn't contain his smile, especially when the little colony looked up at him and smiled shyly back. He reached for France, like a son for his father. France obliged and lifted the young colony into his arms.
It was love at first sight.
EUROPE
16th CENTURY
Norway had heard talk of France's northern-colony, Canada—his pride and joy—but he didn't actually see the colony again until the end of the sixteenth-century. He and his newlywed partner, Denmark, were attending a gathering in the Kingdom of France, where France was boasting the rich rewards of a flourishing trade-empire, specifically—most recently—in the sale of luxuries. Canada, it seemed, was an untouched cache of natural resources (one that England was eager to get his hands on since he had been unable to monopolize America). France was so proud of his success, he had brought Canada back to Europe with him—for the first and last time—and was smiling like a fool as his guests fawned over the adorable little colony. Norway was careful not to approach. He and Denmark stayed at a safe distance to avoid unwanted attention. Norway hadn't yet told Denmark about his accidental journey to the land he now knew as Canada, nor how he was the one who had given birth to him over five-hundred years earlier. As he watched France and Canada in his peripheral-vision, Norway felt guilty about the colony, who was exceptionally underdeveloped for a colony his age. Even Iceland, who was maturing at a glacial pace, was older in human-years than Canada, who looked about three-years-old.
It's because he's had no one to nurture him for so long, Norway thought, ashamed.
At least Canada looked well cared-for, now. Norway watched France introduce the colony—"mon bébé!"—to Spain and Prussia.
Spain, who adored colonies as much as France, crooned fondly and begged to hold the timid colony—"Ay, ¡qué bebé tan mono!"—of whom he quickly declared: "He's very cold." Smiling, he passed Canada back to France and settled for pinching his rosy cheeks instead.
Prussia merely smiled and pat the colony's silky curls. (Canada had inherited many of France's features as he grew, like his fine hair.) Bluntly, the Prussian said: "Can I have him?"
"No," said France, more severely than needed.
Prussia shrugged. Ignoring France's disapproval, he leant down and said to young Canada: "When you're old enough, I'll buy you your first beer, okay, schatzi?" Playfully, he tapped Canada's nose.
Canada giggled. France and Spain awed in fondness (of the colony, not Prussia), and Norway's heart nearly broke.
"Denmark," he said coldly. "I want to leave."
"What? Norge, why—"
"Please," he interrupted, his voice a whisper.
Back in the Kingdom of Denmark, Norway ignored Denmark's incredulity and headed straight to the palace's nursery to check on his (former)colonies, needing to see them. He slipped inside and ghosted to the bedside, where he gently sat down. Little Greenland was sleeping sandwiched between silver-haired Faeroe, who slept with his mouth open, and Iceland, whose effeminately-long eyelashes fluttered as he dreamt. Despite their ages, their human-bodies were still underdeveloped—Faeroe, seven; Iceland, six; Greenland, four—because their two imperial parents had had to divert their attentions (and wealth) away from them for too long to focus on Europe. Still, they were safe, and that's what mattered. Norway sat on the bed's edge and reached down to stroke Iceland's hair. He didn't notice how long he sat there, until he heard Denmark's low voice.
"Norge," he said.
Nor did Norway acknowledge the tears in his eyes until Denmark offered him a handkerchief. He took it and hid his face, flushing in embarrassment.
"Norge, come on."
Gently, Denmark pulled Norway to his feet and paraded him out of the nursery. He fought his partner's weak protests and manhandled him into a bedchamber down the corridor—their bedchamber. "Norge, what's wrong?" he asked, closing the door; blocking Norway's only way out. When the Norwegian failed to reply, standing sullenly in the centre of the room, avoiding eye-contact, Denmark approached him. Norway tried not to react, despite the Dane's big, broad—beautiful—body standing so close to him.
"I'm fine," he growled out, wishing that Denmark would leave him alone. Seeing Canada had drudged-up old memories he thought he had buried long ago. In truth, he hadn't thought much about the colony in the centuries since he had left the New World; he had been too preoccupied. But now his hands were trembling and tears filled his eyes—and he didn't understand why. It was so long ago. Why am I reacting like this now? Why do I even care? Canada is so far away. He's protected, and he's being taken care of. France has done more for him than I ever did. France loves him, and Canada—he—he—he—A single tear rolled down Norway's cheek and suddenly he was being pulled into Denmark's arms. He wanted to fight it. He wanted to push Denmark away and retreat into himself, as always, but the Dane wouldn't let him go. His big, strong arms just hugged Norway tighter, until the Norwegian finally surrendered to the embrace and buried his face in his partner's chest.
"It's because of France's colony, isn't it?" Denmark guessed. Norway didn't reply. "Do you want to talk about it?"
"No," Norway whispered, and clutched Denmark tighter.
Denmark rested his chin atop Norway's bowed head and squeezed his partner soothingly. "Okay," he said.
Eventually, Norway did tell Denmark the truth. Not that night, or the next—but eventually. Denmark wasn't the self-centered nation everyone thought. He knew when something was wrong, especially if that something involved Norway. He didn't pry or ask needless questions, but he did behave more protectively of Norway in public after that. Others called it possessive—nothing new for the greedy Dane; he had Sweden to contend with, after all—but Norway knew it for what it was, and though he tried to ignore it, he suspected that Denmark had already pieced the puzzle together on his own. So, finally, Norway told him.
"Canada is my colony. I discovered him. I was the one who gave birth to him," he confessed stoically, but his voice quivered when he said: "and then I abandoned him."
Denmark was less shocked than Norway expected; that, or he hid it very well. He seemed more concerned with Norway's well-being than Canada, as if he thought Norway would break down and cry again. "When?" he asked.
"Five-hundred years ago, give or take," Norway answered.
Denmark nodded thoughtfully.
"I was too young," Norway said suddenly when Denmark failed to speak. It was unlike him to elaborate, but he couldn't bear the silence, heavy with guilt. It had been over five centuries; he had to tell someone. The secret he had been keeping for so long spilled out of him: "I wasn't strong enough. I couldn't have taken proper care of him. I could barely take care of myself back then. And I had the others; I already had six colonies, I couldn't have nurtured another. And Canada's geographic-body is so big, I just couldn't have..." He shrugged, feigning nonchalance; trying to ignore the way his heart clenched when he spoke the colony's name. "I was too young," he repeated quietly. "I didn't want to leave him, but I... I was scared."
Finally, Denmark spoke. He asked a single, simple question: "Do you regret it?"
Norway didn't hesitate. "No," he said honestly.
He waited for Denmark's criticism, or judgement, or scorn, but it didn't come. Instead, the Dane's beautiful blue eyes looked intently at him, studying him for a lie. Norway wondered what Denmark planned to do if he decided Norway was lying, but he needn't have worried. The Dane merely nodded in satisfaction. "Okay," he said. "As long as you don't regret it, Norge."
"I don't," Norway said, steeling his resolve. "Canada is much better off with France. I know that. I'm fine. I'm happy," he added, for Denmark's benefit. "But, Den—?" He hesitated. His violet eyes met Denmark's blues. "Please don't tell anyone."
Denmark kissed Norway's forehead. "I promise."
REYKJAVIK, PRESENT
Norge?" said Denmark. His deep, gentle voice interrupted Norway's memory. "Are you okay?"
Norway discretely wiped his eyes and nodded. "I'm fine."
It was late, now. Denmark cradled sleeping Canada against his chest. The young colony was exhausted from play and he lay limply, like a little doll, pale-blonde curls askew. He looked so peaceful with his rosy cheek pillowed in the fur-lining of Denmark's coat. Despite England's urging, he had lost his hat and mittens, which left him vulnerable to the cold, though he seemed unbothered by it. His nose and tiny fingertips were pink with cold, but the colony slept soundly. Overhead, the Icelandic sky gleamed with the vibrant Aurora Borealis, bathing the colony in a pale, ethereal glow. The Lights of the North, Norway thought, but he wasn't looking at the sky. He was looking at Canada, asleep in Denmark's arms; and at Iceland, who was gazing serenely up at the sky, the lights reflected in his violet eyes. And the ghost of a smile curled the Norwegian's lips. That is, until Denmark suddenly passed Canada into his arms.
At first, Norway panicked and tried to pass him back, but Denmark retreated.
Denmark, please! said Norway's eyes. I don't want to hold him, I—I haven't held Canada since he was born!
Then he realized—
I haven't held Canada—my colony; my baby—since he was born.
Norway's panic ebbed into wonder as he gently readjusted the colony's weight. Canada's head rested below Norway's neck, his small hands unconsciously reaching up to grab fistfuls of the Norwegian's coat. Norway rubbed his back and began to pace slowly back-and-forth, soothed by the soft, fresh scent of his baby, like ice-crystals. He closed his eyes and, just for a moment, let himself smile.
I wonder what it would've been like if I hadn't left you, Canada? Would you be like my other colonies, your brothers? Would you be more like us, a Nordic? Would you have even wanted that? Are you happy with France and England, little one? Do you know who you really are? Secretly, Norway pressed a soft kiss to the colony's temple; a cold, tender kiss for cold, tender skin. I think you would've been happy with us, too. I think you would've fit right in with our family.
When Norway opened his eyes, Denmark was watching him fondly.
There were only two countries in the world who knew the truth of Canada's birth. They also happened to be the two countries whom Norway cherished—trusted—the most: Iceland and Denmark. Iceland, because he had been there with Norway and witnessed Canada's birth. And Denmark, because Norway had told him. He had been so afraid to tell Denmark back then; afraid to face his own shame at having abandoned his newborn colony, but Denmark had been supportive. He had held Norway and dried his tears and then did everything in his power to ensure that Norway never cried again. Once, he had even suggested they return to the New World and reclaim Canada.
"We could cross the ocean, find him, and bring him back here," he said, kissing Norway's lips. "Whatever you want, Norge. I'll do it. I'll fight France and take him back for you, if that's what you want. Is that what you want?"
Denmark had always wanted colonies. He loved them, Norway knew he did. But the Norwegian's Viking days of exploration and colonizing were over. He knew they couldn't compete with the younger, larger, richer Empires of Europe; France being one. So he refused Denmark's offer. Besides, he doubted he could compete with France's care and attention—his indulgence—and, frankly, he didn't want to try. Unlike Denmark, Norway had birthed colonies but never thirsted for an Empire. And he never could have separated a parent from his child. Because that's what France and Canada were. When he looked at them together, he saw more than just an empire and colony; he saw a father and son. Norway's reputation might have been icy, but he never could have maliciously stolen a colony from a rival—not anymore. Not now that he knew what it felt like to lose colonies. It was too cruel. He never could have done what England had in 1759, taking Canada forcibly from France in battle. Norway still remembered the day it happened. He remembered France's agonized cries echoing across the Atlantic, making him cringe. He remembered the colony's beseeching plea:
"Please, England! Please don't send Papa France away! Please," Canada begged, "I love you both! I want you both to stay with me! Please!"
To Europe's utter astonishment, England had yielded to the colony's heartbroken plea. He adopted Canada into the British Empire, but he let France stay.
"England and France are—sharing?" Denmark gaped when he heard. He grunted in dismissal. "It won't last. It never does. If someone ever asked me to share with Sweden—? Pft." (A rude gesture followed the derisive noise.)
"They're doing it for the colony's sake," said Norway quietly. "England and France don't want to risk tearing Canada apart. Upper and Lower Canada (English and French Canada) need to learn to coexist, otherwise he'll only get hurt. England and France both know that. They may not like it, but they care a great deal for him, just like they care a great deal for America. They really do love... Canada," he said, faltering only briefly. "And he loves them, too."
"Norway?"
Norway flinched. This time, it was France's voice who interrupted his memory. He turned—Canada asleep in his arms—and came face-to-face with two of the most powerful nations in the world.
France and England stood side-by-side on the snowy deck in a circle of artificial yellow light. It looked ugly compared to the natural beauty of Iceland's sky, making the two Empires look harsh. England was holding America to his chest, balancing his weight as if he had been born to support him. America was bundled up to his eyes in knitted garments to protect him from the wind's cold bite, but the tiny colony slept soundly, safe in his imperial father's arms. England's grasp on his human-body was languid, but his green-eyed gaze was possessive. And France's was no kinder. His face was candid as he pierced Norway with an uneasy glare. He couldn't hide his worry, his blue eyes unblinking.
"Norway," he said seriously, extending his arms, "give me back my colony, please."
In reflex, Norway clutched Canada tighter and glanced helplessly at Denmark.
"Just take it easy, okay?" said Denmark, stepping forward. "Canada's fine, there's no rush—"
"I want my baby back now!" France snapped.
"Now," England repeated when the Nordics hesitated. His voice was dangerously calm.
Again, Norway looked at Denmark, who's steely fists were clenched. Behind him, he saw Iceland lift his head, watching the tense exchange. Neither was strong enough to take on England or France, certainly not the two together. Norway knew this. He knew it wasn't worth a fight—not anymore. The Nordics' days of empire were over. Besides, he didn't want to wake the peacefully sleeping colonies. So Norway swallowed a lump of emotion, hugged Canada for the last time, and said:
"Okay."
France met him in the middle of the deck and plucked Canada from Norway's arms, leaving them empty. The Norwegian didn't miss the way France searched the colony for signs of distress or injury—which annoyed him greatly, but he stayed quiet. When the Frenchman was finally satisfied that Canada hadn't come to harm in the Nordics' care, he cradled the colony paternally, nodded curtly at Norway, and then retreated into the dining-room with England at his heels. Norway stood stiffly on the deck, the wind blowing his hair; the cold biting his skin; the artificial yellow light shrinking as the door closed, leaving him once more illuminated by the Lights.
A moment later, he felt Denmark's hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry," he said.
"Thank-you," Norway replied—and he meant it. He turned to Denmark. "But it's okay, Den, honest. Canada was never really mine. I might've discovered him and given birth to him, but he's always been their baby." He nodded to England and France inside the dining-room, both holding a pretty little colony in his arms; both talking, teasing the other affectionately; both smiling happily. Norway smiled, too. "Canada's heart has always belonged to them."
"Are you ever going to tell him the truth?" Denmark asked as they walked companionably to the bow.
Norway shook his head. "No, probably not. If he ever finds out, it won't be because of me."
"Are you ever going to tell Iceland the truth?"
Norway paused. Denmark's voice was lowered for privacy. He raised a blonde eyebrow curiously, blue eyes flickering to Iceland's willowy silhouette and back. Norway looked at his violet-eyed colony, as beautiful as the Lights, and he licked his lips thoughtfully.
"Maybe someday," he ceded, leaning gently against Denmark's body. "But..."
"What are you two staring at?" Iceland called from his perch upon the bulkhead. He cocked his silver-blonde head in annoyance.
"...not now," Norway finished. And he smiled.
Overhead, shining brighter than ever, danced the Lights of the North.
THE END
THANK-YOU for reading. Reviews are always welcome and appreciated :)
AUTHOR'S NOTE: After the Norsemen, the English were the first to take an interest in Eastern Canada (John Cabot, 1497)(Fun Fact: Cabot's ship—the first ship to reach Canada in nearly five-hundred years—was called Mathew.) The English, Dutch, and—very briefly—the Portuguese established industries in Canada, but no settlements. They came to fish and hunt, and then left. The English maintained a monopoly over Eastern Canada, chasing away the Dutch and Portuguese, who left for more promising ventures elsewhere. The English settlements at the time all failed for a number of reasons, but they managed to hold sovereignty over Eastern Canada (specifically Newfoundland) until as late as 1949.
So, why did I decide to begin Canada's adoption in Lights of the North with France? Because the first permanent settlement in Canada was founded in Québec by the French. That being said, it still took the French nearly two-hundred years to establish a colony due to a number of unfavourable factors, but they WERE the first to eventually do so. Canada was a very dangerous place at the time, and a large percentage of early immigrants died—or simply decided "to heck with this place!" and went elsewhere.
Perhaps this is why Canada's attitude toward settlers has always been relatively amiable, the underlying thought being: "If you're tough enough to survive here, then you're more than welcome to stay." ;)
So, while Hetalia's interpretation of France may be a little... flamboyant at times, just remember that historic France was a seriously tough son-of-a-bitch!
I'd bet on the coureurs-de-bois against the Vikings any day! :P