Hetalia Axis Powers is most definitely not mine. I'm not smart enough to come up with the idea.
Mermaid
"Why did you have it made?"
Denmark looks to Norway, slightly bemused by the question. "The mermaid?" he asks.
The two nations are at one of Denmark's places, a large house on the beach. The last dregs of sunlight sparkle on the horizon, where the pink sky seeps into orange, slowly fading into a lustreless blue. Denmark is on the balcony, perching on the very edge, while Norway – secretly fearing that he will fall – sits inside by the fire. Every now and then, a cold breeze flutters inside, making the fire spit and crackle.
"Yes. The mermaid." Norway confirms.
"You never asked before. Why now?"
Norway shrugs. "Do I need a reason?"
Denmark smiles, a little rueful. "I suppose not."
"Gods know you never do." Norway says, a slight smile tugging at his lips.
"Do you remember Mother Scandinavia?" Denmark asks, nostalgic.
Norway replies simply, "No." He'd been too young when she'd gone.
"I do." Denmark says. "She taught me how to forge. My axe… it was hers. She magicked the blade to be always sharp. Your magic… you got your magic from her."
"So did you." Norway tells him.
"No, I didn't. Do you remember, ages ago, when we used to go Viking with Sweden? All the way through Greenland, Iceland… we even hit Canada once, I think. Ice says we did."
"Of course I remember." Norway waves Denmark on, impatient as always, even though the Dane is gazing out to the horizon, to the end of the world, and can't see Norway's gesture.
"We went to England heaps of times, and he was scared shitless of us."
"Still is." Norway says. There's a smirk on his usually blank face. "He quails every time he sees us."
Denmark laughs. "Yeah… but remember when he started using magic to fight back?"
Norway snorts, and gets up to pour himself a cup of coffee. It seems as though the story will be roundabout and lengthy. "If it can be called that. It is inconvenient without the right weapons, yes, but British magic is nothing compared to what we have."
"What you have." Denmark corrects. "Me and Sweden, Mother Scandinavia's magic didn't pass to us. Only you got it."
Norway sits on the bed, cradling his mug. He's beginning to get annoyed. "Denmark, I've seen you fiddle around with water like there's nothing to it. Why are you trying to hide it now?"
"I'm not." Denmark says, and closes his eyes as the sun becomes blinding, reflecting off the water in a desperate last stand before it sinks below the horizon.
"Where from, then?" Norway asks, as his frustration begins to slip into his words.
"The mermaid." Denmark spins around on the rail, and hops down lightly. Norway suppresses a wince, terrified that Denmark will fall to his death. Immortal though they are, death is still not a thing to be taken lightly. If nothing else, it is a great inconvenience for all involved.
Denmark joins Norway on the bed, reclining against the headboard. There's a book in the middle, and Norway sits next to it, legs crossed. The book is a thick one, a detailed compilation of history. It speaks not of wars, but of the people, from the royal house to the poorest of peasants, even prisoners taken from others are listed. Norway wonders why it's there.
"The mermaid?" Norway repeats.
"Do you think, Nor, if I had magic, I would've let England come so close to defeating me? I was unprepared, wielding only a sword and dirk."
"But you defeated him, as you'd done a hundred times over." Norway says. He pauses, and his eyes widen just a fraction as he remembers. "You collapsed after the battle, when we were sailing back, laden down with all of England's treasures. That was how we worked, you to fight England, Sweden his common soldiers, and me to track and take the spoils."
"There was a storm." Denmark reminds Norway.
"Yes. The ship was overturned. We lost what we had just gained into the sea. We were lost too, left with only a broken ship and no land in sight." Norway reminisces, running his fingers idly over the book's binding.
"Hey, I got it back. England's stuff." Denmark says. He likes to remind Norway of this, of the time when he succeeded when Norway did not. "How long were we there, trying to swim home?"
"I don't know."
Norway's coffee rises from its cup, but not a drop falls to stain the bed covers. It forms a shape in the air, a dragon that flaps its wings and opens its mouth in a silent roar, little coffee flames spilling forth.
"She had a squid's tentacles, actually." Denmark remarks idly while Norway watches the coffee dragon. "The original statue does too, but it didn't sit on the rock properly, so we used a fishtail instead."
The coffee dragon warps into the shape of a woman, but the legs are tentacles, long and grasping. Norway isn't even angry about how Denmark is playing with his drink, even though he'd told him a thousand times not to. The coffee mermaid is rather odd to behold, Norway thinks, the tentacles are peculiar and strange attached to human form.
"Isn't she beautiful?" Denmark asks.
Norway thinks the coffee mermaid and the statue look nothing alike, and truth be told, he prefers the statue – it's less unnerving. For Denmark's sake, though, he says, "Quite."
Denmark seems pleased to hear Norway agree with him. "It was two weeks, I was told. Two weeks before Sweden made it back, and another three days for you to reach him."
"Where did you hear this?" Norway inquires. He looks straight at Denmark, head slightly tilted with curiosity.
The coffee mermaid loses her form, and sinks back into Norway's cup. He's not entirely sure if he still wants to drink it.
"Her name is Eliya." Denmark ignores Norway's question, so Norway assumes it was the mermaids who told him.
"Is she still alive?" Norway asks.
"I don't see her anymore." Denmark replies, unintentionally elusive. "I used to, every day, for centuries. Then one day, she wasn't there."
"Dissolved into sea foam?" Norway asks, working from Hans Christian Andersen's tale. A physical copy, old, but otherwise in perfect condition is on the bookshelf, buried behind a series of fantasy novels.
Denmark sighs. "Let me tell you about it. About all of it."
Norway takes the book from the middle of the bed and puts it on the table. He moves closer to Denmark, leaning on the headboard next to him. Denmark is a good storyteller, he knows. He remembers when Denmark used to tell him stories as they walked, as they sailed, when he had trouble falling asleep.
Those days are over now, and there's no way Norway is going to admit that he misses it. So instead, he settles back, close to Denmark but not quite touching, takes a sip of his much-less-bizarre-looking-than-forty-five-seconds-ago coffee, and listens.
-o-o-o-o-
Several centuries ago, in the Viking Age
Three twisted corpses stained the dirt with their blood, all cut to ribbons by only a sword and a dirk. The corpses were not of humans, nor of natural born animals. Mutated by magic, or perhaps created by it, the creatures were fierce, loathsome and fit only for killing.
Denmark stood over them, in marginally better condition. He wasn't dead, but he was quite close to it. There was no way he could stop now, though. He didn't slay the beasts just so he could collapse dead on top of them. He was here to kill England (again), while Sweden and his army slaughtered any mortal who would dare oppose them. Norway, being the only one who had inherited Mother Scandinavia's magic, slipped through the crowd, hunting down what they had come for.
"Denmark…"
Someone was standing a while away, blocking the way to England. The stranger looked to be quite young, and visibly nervous. He trembled slightly, his grip on his sword far too tight, and the sword itself was clumsily made, especially compared to Denmark's weapons, which he'd forged himself not too long ago.
"Oh, hello Wales." Denmark said, and made an effort to hide his injuries. He succeeded, mostly because Wales was too busy trying very hard not to piss himself in terror. It was quite obvious the boy (and really, he only was a boy) had never fought anything more dangerous than his own facial hair, and possibly even not that.
"Turn back," Wales warned, "turn back now, Denmark, back to your own lands."
"I've crossed the entirety of the North Sea," Denmark feigned an expression of hurt and betrayal, "and you turn me away? I even killed whatever the hell those things are, just so I could see my dear friend England!"
"I won't let you." Wales said, holding up his sword. He looked nauseas, and his face was pallid and covered with a clammy sheen of nervous sweat. "Stay back, Denmark."
"But Wales," Denmark took a somewhat shaky step forward, "aren't we… friends?"
"Denmark!" Wales cried out. It was not a battlecry, but rather a despaired protest. Wales was only a young country still, and desperately terrified to the point of tears.
Denmark didn't stop. He moved past the corpses, one, two, three, and approached the quivering nation. Wales squeezed his eyes shut for a brief moment, and then hoisted his sword above his head and charged straight at Denmark, screaming wildly.
Denmark stepped to the side and held out his blade. Wales ran right into it, slitting his own throat. He stumbled and fell to his hands and knees, gurgling and choking on his own blood. The viscous liquid spilled out onto the floor, warm and sticky, oozing into the fur of one of the beasts, staining the patched skin of another dark red. Denmark ignored it, and moved forwards, leaving Wales alone to join the dead.
He walked on for what seemed to be far too long, just putting one foot after the other, over and over, blood still dripping from his blades. The dirk was soaked in nation blood, as red as any mortal human's, while from his sword slavered small droplets of a strange hued liquid, rutted and far thicker than blood that lay within any natural being.
At long last, when Denmark was sure his legs would give way and leave him dead upon the floor, he found his target.
"Was that really necessary, England?" Denmark shouted to the other nation. "Why make me chase you? It still ends the same way, don't you know? The story never changes, dear England, no matter how many obstacles you put in my way. I will always find you, I will always kill you."
England seemed surprised to see him. "I honestly didn't think you'd make it past my pets." he admitted. "I almost didn't send Wales and Scotland. I thought it might have been overkill."
"Scotland didn't show." Denmark smirked. "Apparently he doesn't take orders from you."
England scowled. "Apparently not, but it does not matter now. Scotland be damned, this time I am ready for you."
Denmark smiled, but it was not a smile of innocent joy and delight, as a child smiles as he sees the world for the first time, it was a predatory smile, the smile lions would give their prey if lions had lips. (But they didn't, so they didn't, but the point stood.)
He stepped forward, adrenalin coursing through his veins, numbing the pain of his injuries and renewing his strength. England moved to meet him, sword in hand.
The clash as their swords met resonated loudly, and was followed a few seconds thereafter by another one, just as loud. Denmark, though weakened from previous battles (not counting Wales and the notably absent Scotland), had the upper hand, using his dirk as both blade and shield, while his sword slashed and sliced at his opponent. He lived for the battle, enjoyed its heat and its ferocity.
His sword reached for England's exposed stomach. England's eyes widened, he knew he couldn't move quickly enough to block it. He extended a hand instead, and bright, golden light exploded forth from it, forcing Denmark back.
"You filthy, rotten hypocrite." Denmark snarled, a maniacal grin working its way onto his face. "What was it you were saying before about magic being an unnatural, despicable act of the devil himself?"
Truth be told, he was actually quite thrilled that England had stepped up to meet his challenge. There were few things in the world that Denmark enjoyed as much as battling a good foe, someone who wouldn't simply crumble at the first puff of air.
"I changed my mind." England gasped out between strokes. He was having a hard time matching Denmark's blows, but worked to level the gap with bursts of magic.
The two nations spun and whirled, locked tightly together by their blades, moving almost as one as they hacked and slashed at each other, both of them determined not to give in, to be the last one standing. Denmark brought his sword up and across, catching England's shoulder and leaving a deep gash. England brushed the pain from his mind and seized the opportunity to ensnare Denmark in cascades of crackling, white-hot bolts of magic. Denmark shuddered as the pain seared up his arm and throughout his body and shattered, and England continued to smash into him over and over with unnatural force. His sword clattered to the dirt as he screamed, eyes watering and fluttering wildly. He lurched unsteadily on his feet, and stabbed England right through the eye with his dirk.
England stiffened and fell. The burning bolts ceased their movement, and Denmark sank to his knees, struggling to breathe. He'd pushed himself the point of breaking, and it had paid off. He'd won, and England's corpse lay at his feet, still, and slowly stiffening. Denmark joined it lying on the floor, gasping for breath that wouldn't come. He put a hand to his chest, and found that, quite disturbingly, one part moved free from the normal rise-and-fall pattern, almost as though it were in reverse. Denmark began to panic, but forced himself to calm. He was not dead yet. He would hold on. He must hold on.
Minutes passed, hours, perhaps years. Time fluctuated, seconds becoming centuries and millennia merely a score. Denmark's vision blurred, and his eyes slid slowly shut. His blood pooled around him, already splattered over all else during his battles. Just when his eyes darkened into the back of his eyelids, he heard the clink of metal.
"Denmark." Sweden said, and struck the other nation lightly on the cheek, hoping to rouse him. "Den, what happened?"
Sweden did not wait for a reply, but instead carefully lifted Denmark off the bloody ground and carried him to the shore of the North Sea, ignoring the Dane's weak flails that suggested Sweden was an asshole and should put him down so he could walk, because he totally could.
Denmark still had his eyes closed, and thus could not see when they arrived at the shore Norway's face, stricken with worry. Humans were loading England's riches onto the ships, but as soon as Sweden arrived, more than a few of them rushed over.
Sweden raised an eyebrow at Norway. Norway shook his head.
"There is no magic for healing." he said tersely. "We'll just have to hope he doesn't die somewhere too inconvenient."
With that, they set off into the slowly falling dusk.
The waves were calm, at first, as calm as could ever be expected from the untamed seas. Their ships rocked as they rode the waves out, leaving dead England behind, but taking his wealth. Gradually, the sky darkened as the sun shone its last rays over the horizon, glittering blindingly across the water. Storm clouds drifted in as the sun departed, and shortly, it began to rain. The drops were fat and thick and above all, wet, but no one gave a shit, because it was only water, and as long as it was only water, they were fine.
The waves grew wilder, but that had been expected long before. Sweden and Norway stayed by Denmark's side, letting their humans take control of the ship they were on. An ominous roll of thunder sounded, and the humans exchanged worried glances. Lightning cracked across the darkened sky.
"Can you halt the storm, lord?" one of the humans asked Norway.
Norway responded, "Even a hundred men would not be able to hold the heavens at bay. It is not England's work. Only the gods, and they will do as they please. It is as it is."
The human bowed his head. "It is, then."
The waves churned and roiled, and the waves rose to crash upon the sides of the ships, rocking them wildly. Norway stared upwards into the clouds, trying to see. He opened his mouth to speak to Sweden, but his words were drowned out by the wave that broke upon their ship. Humans yelped, and panic began to crawl into their midst.
Three more waves, just as big, and one small one broke their ship, plunging them all into the ocean.
"Oh fuck–!" Norway yelled before water filled his mouth and he could speak no more.
The water roused Denmark, and he struggled to stay afloat. He was normally a good swimmer, he could swim for the length of a year if he had to, but now he was injured and sinking. He forced his eyes to open to gain his bearings, but all he could see around him was murky darkness. The salt stung his eyes and poured down his throat.
Something brushed against him as he drowned, and he forced open his eyes once more to see an irregularly shaped figure in front of him. It wrapped what seemed to be hands around his throat, elongated fingers easily encircling and grasping delicate flesh. Tentacles wrapped around his chest, and squeezed. He opened his mouth to scream, an automatic impulse, and the fingers around his throat yanked hard, revealing that the fingers ended in sharp claws. The claws tore through his throat. Blood spilled out into the water, and –
He could breathe. He could see. He was alive.
The figure in front of him was clear now – a mermaid. She was exquisite to behold, and the most terrifying thing he'd ever seen. Her skin was translucent, pale blue, almost white. She had long arms that ended in eerily distended fingers, each with four joints and tipped by vicious claws. Squid-like tentacles served as her legs, and she propelled herself through the water effortlessly. By far, the most striking thing about her was her hair. Denmark wondered how he'd been unable to see it before, even blinded as he was, it seemed impossible that he could miss it – it was Dannebrog red.
Her eyes were colourless, completely white save for her pupils, which were dark green. She had a sharp, bladed nose and lips of a far darker blue than her skin. She held him tightly.
"Denmark." she said, and ran a hand through his hair, back and forth. "Are you well?"
Denmark nodded in response. He could feel water rushing into him as he breathed, yet he seemed unable to drown. He attempted to speak. "Hello."
The mermaid smiled. "My name is Eliya." she told him. Her voice was sweet, a mellifluous sound that resonated through the water. "I know of you."
Denmark smiled back, choosing to ignore the bizarreness of his situation. "I don't know of you. Tell me?"
"Come." Eliya's hands found his, and she pulled him upwards. He swam easily after her, all resistance disappearing.
They broke the surface some time later. For a moment, in the light of the half moon, she looked human, and so did he. They could have been two regular humans, lovers perhaps, or close friends. Denmark's clothing had slowly been stripped away during the course of his adventure – what little of it that hadn't been burnt off by the fire-breathing, acid-spitting beasts had either been pulled off him by Sweden and Norway in a vain attempt to treat his wounds or taken by Eliya and left to drift away, no longer weighing him down. The cold touched neither of them.
Her tentacles were wrapped around his chest and legs, and her arms around his shoulders in a bizarre embrace. He held her tightly, not for fear of drifting away or drowning, but simply because he could.
"You were here for three weeks before I found you." Eliya told him softly. "You're quite lucky. Something, I didn't see what, took your arm, but it seems to have grown again."
Denmark lifted his hand, and saw that the tips of three of his fingers weren't quite done healing. In a few days, his hand would be as perfect as ever.
"I see." he said simply, for there was nothing else to be said.
"Do you live forever, Denmark?" Eliya asked.
Denmark turned his head to meet her eyes. There was a soft, small smile on her face. "As long as there are Danes," he told her, "which may be forever, or until the dawn. I don't know."
"We live long, too," she said, "but not forever. I don't think anything lives forever. Not even the sea."
Eliya moved her hands so one wrapped around his waist as they floated on their backs, faces turned up to the night sky. There were only a few clouds that night, soft and grey against the deep blue heavens, where stars shone and reflected in the water. The waves were gentle, and they drifted slowly this way and that.
"I often wonder," Eliya said, "what it would be like to walk on land. Sometimes I think I would like nothing better."
"I have wondered what it would be like to swim like a true sea creature." Denmark replied.
Eliya touched his face, cupping his cheek in her long fingers. "You will never know, but you will come closer to it than any other." she said softly. "Magic, the sea's magic, has healed you. It will not leave you. You are more of the sea than any human now."
Denmark smiled. "I cannot give you the land. I'm sorry, Eliya, I wish I could."
Eliya laughed. "They are only passing flights of fancy, Denmark. I am who I am, and I am satisfied."
"I will bring you something of the land." Denmark vowed. "I will bring you beer."
"I would like that very much." Eliya replied, and then added, "I will take you home, Denmark. They worry, your humans and your brothers."
She took his hand in hers, and tugged him towards his own lands. They swam for what seemed like eons, until they finally reached the shore of Vendsyssel. The barest shred of sunlight had emerged from the horizon, though the sun itself had yet to show. Eliya swam as close to land as she could, where she pulled Denmark into a tight embrace.
"You are the most interesting thing that's ever happened to me, Denmark." she told him. "I will see you again."
"I promise you will." Denmark replied. She let go, and watched him as he waded up onto the beach. He turned back, and called, "Tomorrow, at sunset, I will come here, and bring you beer."
"I will see you then." Eliya laughed, and disappeared back into the sea.
-o-o-o-o-
Present day, Denmark's house, on the coast of Funen
"My face was not stricken with worry and concern." is the first thing Norway says when Denmark finishes his tale. "You made that up."
Denmark smirks. "No, I didn't. Sweden told me you were near tears."
Norway snorts in derision. "Since when does Sweden tell you anything?"
"When he's drunk." Denmark says.
"And I don't think Vendsyssel was called that back then."
"So full of criticism, Norway." Denmark feigns a hurt expression, and laughs. "You wouldn't have known where I was talking about if I didn't call it Vendsyssel. You're almost as bad as Austria when it comes to directions and places."
Norway scowls. "I am not!"
"Yes you are." Denmark drawls, and ruffles Norway's hair. The Nordic cross pin that keeps Norway's hair off his face slips out, and Denmark catches it. He slides it back in its place carefully. There are still a few spots of blue paint, from all those years ago. The pin, then blue, had been a gift from Denmark to Norway when Norway became an independent country, to match his new flag. The years have caused the blue to flake away, revealing the gold beneath.
"Did she hate the beer?" Norway asks, fully expecting the answer to be yes.
"Nope. She loved it. We moved our meeting place a little bit further out into the sea, and I brought beer once a week. We'd have a few drinks, and then I'd join her in the water, and we'd swim a bit, and drink some more, and it was perfect." Denmark's gaze drops towards the end; he presses his lips together and closes his eyes. He misses her.
Norway glances away, out to the balcony. He doesn't like to admit it, but he finds Denmark's melancholy distressing, not just because the happiest nation in the world shouldn't be sad, but also out of compassion he won't admit he has.
"I didn't commission the statue." Denmark says, still not looking at Norway. "Do you remember Hans Christian Andersen?"
"Of course. I don't think the world will forget him for quite some time, not as long as his name stays with his stories." Norway replies.
"He stayed with me for a while, and I told him about Eliya. He loved it, and decided he would write it, with a few changes, of course." Denmark chuckles, and turns back to face Norway. "The nation became a prince, and she found a way to become human. Actually, the Sea Witch was Eliya's tale. She told me several scenarios she'd dreamt of, and Hans liked that one best. I don't know if the Sea Witch is real. If she is, I've never seen her, and she's never given Eliya a human form. It was a few years later that I met Jacob. Do you remember him?"
"Who?" Norway asks, uncertain. Denmark knows a lot of humans, more than Norway.
"Jacob Christian Jacobsen. He founded Carlsberg?" Denmark reminds Norway, hoping that the name of the beer they've shared so many times will remind him.
"Oh, yes, of course." Norway replies.
"Anyway, I met Jacob, and his kid, Carl. I can't remember when or why – I think I was talking to Jacob about his brewery, but I have no idea why Carl was there – but I ended up telling Carl about Eliya. He invited me later to see the ballet with him. A few more years, and he told me that he was commissioning a statue for Eliya. It wouldn't be quite the same, he said, because no one really knows about the tentacles, but the meaning would be there, and that was enough for both of us. Edvard, the sculptor, he did two statues, one with tentacles, and one to sit on the rock." Denmark says. For the second time that day, Norway is content to listen with interrupting. "Well, actually, the one in Copenhagen is a copy. The two originals, well, the one with the fishtail, I have no idea where that is, but the one with Eliya's likeness, the one with tentacles and distended fingers… I have it."
Norway is slightly surprised. "Can I see it?" he asks. He normally prefers to feign disinterest in whatever Denmark does or has, but he can't repress his curiosity this time.
Denmark grins. "Nope. It's not here."
Norway huffs. "Alright, where is it, then?"
"Elsewhere." Denmark says slyly.
Almost on instinct, Norway hits him. Denmark catches Norway's fist, and tugs him down, rolling them both off the bed. They crash to the floor, where Denmark pins Norway to the floor.
"Now, now, Norway," Denmark teases, "hitting people is rude."
"Well, it's not like you ever taught me not to." Norway snaps, but he can't stop a smile from springing to his face.
"It's in a bar." Denmark says.
There is a pause.
"Wait, what?" Norway demands sharply. "A bar?"
"She likes beer," Denmark shrugs, "and there's this huge window that faces the sea. I figured it was an appropriate place."
Norway closes his eyes for a moment and counts to ten in his head. When he's done, he opens his eyes, and aims another punch at Denmark.
"You're an idiot." Norway says. "That statue, it must be worth thousands! Millions! It's an original piece, and truer to the original story than anyone will ever know! And you let it sit in a bar?"
"Sweden reacted pretty much the same way." Denmark says offhandedly, He doesn't really understand why Norway's so worked up over Eliya's statue being placed in a bar. It's a nice, upscale sort of bar in a small beachside town on the coast of Funen.
"And you told Sweden before you told me?" Norway squirms and wiggles until, somehow, he's on top of Denmark. He punches the other nation, once, twice, three times, and shows no sign of stopping.
"Finland was there too." Denmark grins, unable to resist provoking Norway further. "And I think I told Iceland last Christmas."
"But – but – I – you –!" Norway protests, uncharacteristically incoherent. He settles for a muffled roar of frustration. "I bet you told Germany too."
Denmark's grin grows bigger. "Yep!" he chirps. "And Netherlands!"
"Is there anyone you haven't told?" Norway rolls off Denmark and let's Denmark sit up.
"Well… I haven't told Nicosia."
Norway stares at Denmark. "Seriously?" he says flatly.
"Ah, Norway, your face! And I really haven't told anyone except those guys." Denmark pokes Norway. "And you."
"But all," Norway pauses, and counts, "five of them before me?"
"Hey, how long has it been since we actually got to hang out and talk?" Denmark asks. "And I mean properly talk, not social small talk and international relations."
Norway blushes. "Fine." he concedes. The fire has died during their rather one-sided scuffle, and Norway moves to relight it.
"Don't bother." Denmark says. He gets up and pulls Norway into his arms, and jumps into the bed. "It's warmer like this."
Norway swats Denmark. "You're absolutely incorrigible."
Denmark grins. "Good thing you love me as I am, then."
"Hmph." Norway snorts, but says nothing more, instead burying his head into the crook of Denmark's neck.
The room is dark now; the last embers of the fire have finally flickered out. Elegant glass doors stand between them and the balcony, and the moon – three-quarters full – can only just be seen in the sky, almost entirely buried by thick, dark clouds which revealed themselves after the sun set. Only a few stars can be seen through the dense veneer of clouds. The room isn't warm, nor is it cold. It's somewhere in the middle, a balance. It feels as though they've slipped out of the time stream, and into their own little patch of forever.
"Have you visited Belgium?" Denmark asks.
"Once or twice, when she hosted meetings." Norway replies.
"Oh." Denmark says. "She has a statue in Brussels, Manneken Pis, it's called. Netherlands said it translates to 'Little Man Pee'."
"What?" Norway isn't sure if he heard Denmark properly.
"Yeah, it's this statue, a little taller than half a metre, bronze. It's a statue of a little naked kid, pissing into the basin of the fountain. Netherlands showed me, he said it reminded him of Eliya's statue. I told her that. She found it pretty funny. Every now and then, they dress the statue in little costumes, and…"
Norway decides to ignore Denmark, and goes to sleep, curled up in Denmark's arms.
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