Å Sy En Dukke ~ To Sew a Doll
On Christmas morning, Norway awoke to see the face of his bunny doll staring at him. It had been dressed in his likeliness, with a sailor cap and fjord-curl stitched to its head. Seeing it brought a small smile to his lips. Surprisingly, it hadn't been crudely made and destroyed by Denmark. The only thing the Dane didn't seem to break were his dolls and toys.
When they had all lived in his house, Denmark would surprise them every Christmas with hand-made dolls, even though they were far too old for such things. Iceland and Finland had always delighted in the whimsical designs that were incorporated into theirs. Sweden and Norway's were much more simple, but charming nevertheless.
Slipping on a robe, he let himself tumble out of bed lazily. It was still eight in the morning. Far too early for him to be awake, yet today was the sole exception.
Over the years, Norway had uncovered his mixed feelings for Christmas, like how a child would eventually discover his favourite object under the mounds of other toys in his toy chest, only to soon see that his treasure was worthless to others. Finland in particular, adored the winter holiday. All of the Nordics did. Perhaps, it was the only tradition they still upheld since the dissolution of the Kalmar Union.
The Union had only been another toy to cover the precious one at the bottom. Such a thing wouldn't, and shouldn't break apart a group of mostly-friendly countries.
During Christmas at Denmark's house, the day would always be lively and full of liquor. By nightfall, the Dane was almost sure to be found passed out somewhere on the floor, or, if they were unlucky, threatening to strangle Sweden, while the latter attempted to defend them.
No one, not even Norway, after spending all those years with Denmark, could predict when he would enter a full-out rage. Most of the time, it happened when he consumed too much booze, but there were still those darker, violent outbursts that left the house quiet for days. Denmark suddenly grabbing a chair and smashing it on the ground. Denmark picking up his axe for no apparent reason, and trying to fight Norway, Sweden, or Finland. Luckily, Iceland was sparred the terror, being the youngest child, and held little to no memories of what had happened.
Sweden would almost always stand up for Norway and Finland. The tall nation would firmly hold his ground against Denmark, waiting for him to settle down. If worse came to worst, there would be violence. A black eye. Maybe a broken bone. Finland or Norway would intervene before it could go further.
The next morning, Denmark would wake up fine. He didn't question the marks he obtained from the night before. Not even a mention of how his broken nose hurt, or why Sweden wasn't present for breakfast. He would sit down beside Norway, ruffle his hair, much to the Norwegian's annoyance, and watch as Finland prepared their meal.
These were the times Norway remembered longing for after he left. Just having everyone sat down at the table, eating without argument, was something that he missed.
Those were the times he tried to remember when Sweden and Finland finally tried of Denmark's bouts, and left. The house had been near silent, the only sounds being the words Denmark said. Norway would hide Iceland in their shared bedroom, and walk the halls as casually as he could. Bringing up the subject of loneliness would only incite Denmark further.
So, in a way, Norway let himself turn into Denmark's doll. He would let the Dane dress him up, give him silly presents, and talk his ear off. If it kept him from hurting him or Iceland, Norway was willing to tolerate humility as the price. He remembered accompanying Denmark on walks, while the Dane chattered away to fill in the awkward silences that always threatened to consume them.
Had that been a happy time for both of them? It was hard to say for sure.
But the Denmark that grinned at him and teased him was always preferable to the one that threatened to kill them all. Memories of nights where Norway sat on his bed, clutching Iceland tightly as Denmark screamed in the hallways, smashing something there, ripping something here were terrifying. Malicious threats and oaths would echo through the empty rooms, making Iceland bury his face in the folds of his brother's long skirt as Norway softly prayed for their safety. The one time Denmark had kicked down their door had been the worst. The Dane had scanned their room with bloodshot eyes, axe gripped in his hand as he tried to find prey.
Being the hunted, they had nowhere to run.
Yet Denmark hadn't attacked. He had taken several ragged breaths, staring straight at them, before shuffling out, the sound of a shattered glass following shortly afterwards.
When the sun came up, he had visited their room again. This time, Iceland was asleep, cozily tucked into warm blankets. Norway would remember freezing, not daring to move in the face of Denmark's insanity.
But he didn't have his axe. Or the drunk look that had plagued his expression hours before. Instead, he had appeared worried.
"I'm sorry." was the only thing he said. He had avoided Norway's gaze, and after a few minutes, left the room without another word. At the time, Norway had wanted to scream. How much did a 'I'm sorry' mean after so many years of the same torture? 'I'm sorry' didn't erase the horrifying memories from Iceland's mind. 'I'm sorry' wouldn't make Norway forget anything that had happened.
That's what he told himself.
He had still forgiven Denmark in the end, just like he always did.
Deceiving himself. Telling himself that Denmark didn't mean to do anything bad. That his 'sorry' was a promise.
If so, then he was still fooling himself into thinking that Denmark cared. Either that, or Denmark was doing a really good job of tricking him into thinking that he did.
Norway's gaze shifted to the chest at the foot of his bed. He slowly went over, and opened it up.
Dozens upon dozens of bunny dolls lay inside. Whenever Denmark made a mistake, he would always try to make up for it. Gifts. Apologies. Saying 'I love you'.
What did any of that mean when they were used over and over again?
They were tiny trinkets Norway adored.
He wanted to continuing admiring the precious toy he had found at the bottom of the toy chest. He wanted to be enchanted by it forever. So, as he did every Christmas morning, he got up like this, and waited for his brother to arrive. Then for the rest of them. If he didn't invite them, they came in anyways. Such was the nature of the Nordics.
This morning, he didn't sit there and wait. Norway stuck his hand into the chest, digging towards the bottom for the oldest doll he could find. When he felt the familiar coarse cloth, he knew that it was the one. Pulling it out, he found himself staring at the same doll Denmark had given to him when they were children.
"Silly bror." he mumbled, throwing it next to the Norway-doll on his bed.
Eventually, he managed to find a scrap of black cloth that he could use. Unlike Denmark, he hadn't done this as many times. Carefully, he folded the piece of fabric into a crude hat, with one side higher than the other. There was a hump arching out of the middle as well. No matter. He straightened the old bunny, propping it upright, and did the same to the Norway-doll.
"Silly, silly bror." As well as he could, Norway positioned the makeshift hat on the right side of the old bunny's head. Then he moved back to behold his work.
It was childish.
It was ugly.
It meant nothing.
But Norway just yawned, getting up to brush his teeth. Christmas morning was here, and he had an entire family to annoy him for the rest of the day. The least he could do was get ready.
Who am I kidding? It's the middle of summer here. Oh well.
I don't own Hetalia!
Correct me if I made any mistakes, Norwegian-wise, English-wise, or historically XD
-bw