A knock sounded at the door of Denmark's study.
"Come in," he answered in Danish.
A man stepped in.
Denmark was shocked by his appearance: the man's blonde hair was lank, greasy, as it had not been washed in…a long while; his blues eyes were dull, clouded, and sunken; his normally pale skin now looked more like the snow outside than an actual skin tone, except for the flush of fever in his cheeks; his clothes were rumpled, unkempt, as if they had been slept in more than one night in a row; and, most horrifically, black boils stood out on his throat, oozing where a surgeon had tried lancing them.
"Norway?"
The man coughed loudly. He brought a stained handkerchief to his mouth -it came away red.
"What's happening to you, Norway?"
"I'm dying, Danmark."
"No, you can't! You're a country."
Norway closed his eyes. Fatigue colored his voice. "I'm barely holding on, Danmark. It won't be long."
Denmark stood, walked around his desk. "You can't give up."
"I'm not; I promise. But I…Like my people, this is one battle I cannot win. I'm sorry."
Norway finished his speech in time to have another coughing fit. Denmark stood by, helpless, not knowing what to do.
Finally, the coughing ceased.
"I -I need to see to some things, before…." He trailed off.
"I understand." Denmark took a step closer. He had to blink back tears as he pulled Norway into an embrace. "Let me know if there is anything I can do for you."
"I will, Danmark. I will." He pulled away. He reached up and rested a hand on the taller country's cheek for a moment, staring into Denmark's eyes. After that moment passed, he removed his hand and glanced away.
One hand caught Denmark's wrist; the other pressed a small, cold, hard object into his hand. "Be well, Elskede," he whispered as he turned and left the room.
Denmark stared after him, letting the tears stream down his face, knowing that there was nothing he could do.
"We will meet again in Valhalla, Elskede," he whispered in Norwegian. "I will look for you."
He looked down at the object in his hand: a small, silver cross.
The tears flowed faster.
Five hundred and eighteen years later, a surprisingly sober Denmark looked back on that day, the last time he had seen Norway.
He sat, as he often did when his darker moments came, in his study -not the same one, but similar.
He was growing old now. He was over a thousand years old, after all. Oh, not that he looked a day over twenty-five or so (for he did not), but he felt the weight of every war, every year, every day he had lived.
Feeling old was both recent -it had started in 1814- and something he did not like.
He wondered what Norway would say if he heard him talk like that.
He'd probably call him an idiot.
Denmark opened the top drawer in his desk and pulled out a plain wooden box.
It was perhaps two inches wide and three inches long. Reverently, he opened it.
A small, silver cross sat in a bed of the finest velvet. It had been a gift to Norway when he had finally converted to Christianity.
Denmark had held on to it through the years, wanting something to remember Norway by.
He was startled out of his reverie by a knock on his door.
He almost said, "It's open," in an irritable voice before remembering that he had locked the door, as he always did during the dark times.
"Just a moment," he said instead.
Hurriedly, he snapped the lid of the box shut and put it back in the drawer.
He walked over to the door in a slower pace, trying to collect himself. He swiped a hand across his eyes, just in case.
He closed his eyes. He didn't want to see anyone -in fact he had left strict instructions that he was not to be disturbed- but it might be important.
Steeling himself, he opened the door.
The sight of what awaited him shocked him to his core.
A tall man stood there, though he was not as tall as Denmark. His hair, blonde, was damp, probably from the rain. He was dressed in all blue, except for his gloves and shoes. Those were black. Blue eyes stared into Denmark's own -they were dull now, where once they had brimmed with life, but they were familiar.
"Norway?" Denmark asked, his voice hoarse, not sure if he could believe his eyes.
Norway nodded, and then blinked rapidly.
"You aren't crying, are you?"
"Idiot."
Denmark laughed, all joy and hope brimming within him, age falling away. Norway was back! He didn't know how, but he was back! Tears, this time from joy, streamed from his eyes.
Norway reached up and wiped the tears away.
Denmark hugged Norway to him, wanting to feel that he was really there. He didn't care how it had happened, or what miracle had caused it, but only that Norway was alive. "You're back! You're here. You're back," he murmured over and over again.
Norway's face was buried in Denmark's chest. "How long have I been gone?" he asked, his words muffled.
"Five hundred and eighteen years."
"So long?"
Denmark pulled away and looked Norway in the eyes. "Yes, but you are back now. We are together again. I thought -I thought you gone forever, Elskede."
Norway smiled gently. "I didn't give up, Elskede. I never will."
"I know." Denmark kissed him lightly on the lips. "I know."
A/N: I'm just taking a short break form the Second Kalmar Union. But no worries; I will finish it.
The first half of this story takes place in 1387. The second half takes place in 1905.
According to Google Translate, "Elskede" means "Beloved" in both Danish and Norwegian.