He can't specifically remember when he left. He can't particularly remember making the decision to leave. He can scarcely remember standing up from his sitting spot and walking out the castle doors. All he remembers for certain is that he indeed left.
It must have been a summer day, Denmark thinks, because he was wearing relatively light clothing, made of cotton instead of heavy layers of thick robes. His boots padded curtly against the wooden halls until he opened the gates. He doesn't even remember looking back. Looking back on the event, Denmark could only assume he received strange looks from the people around him, seeing as he didn't even ask for his horse. He wielded no armor, money or weapons, except a hunting knife he always had kept on his person. He probably walked right past servants and other communal members of the castle without so much as blinking an eye.
He wasn't positive, but he vaguely recalled a small, tentative Iceland tugging at his sleeve, quietly asking where he was going. It was safe to say no response was given.
Denmark didn't remember feeling a spike of intense ambition or motivation. He can't recall being washed away by a strong sense of eureka. He can't even say he felt any sense of urgency.
The Dane just knew that he utterly missed Norway.
For years he had been struggling, personally, with the absence of his old union-partner and personal companion. A looming sense of loneliness and isolation brewed in the pits of his stomach ever since the day Norway was forced away from him by the neighboring Swede.
The moment Norway was ushered away, being forced to turn his back to Denmark, the old Viking's heart shattered. He had used all of his willpower from crumbling to his knees. He was so close to scrambling over to the Swede to beg on his hands and knees. The Dane was more than willing to kiss his feet and claw at his long trench coat, pleading for any other way to settle their differences. He'd pay a healthy sum, he'd marry off any of his nobles, he personally would be under the heel of the Swedish monarchy-just don't take Norway away from me.
But he couldn't. What was done was done, and nothing could have changed the outcome.
Whatever remained of his shattered heart was now rotting gruesomely. Each day, a bit more of his being was drowning under the gloppy waves of a tar-ocean that was his grief and pain.
Denmark missed Norway. He just wanted to see Norway. Each passing day, his desire was denied.
He supposed, on that particular summer day, he had had enough. His deep sorrowful melancholy had pushed him to the limit. He was going to ignore his political duties as his own country and selfishly prioritize his own personal wants and needs.
He was going to see Norway.
How long did he walk? Days? Weeks? Months?
How long had that boat ride been? How did he even pay for a ferry to take him across Øresund?
Denmark would have loved to ask someone, but sadly all those who could have even recalled his little journey were long dead.
Despite the length of time it took him to stride across the vastness of Sweden's place, the Dane walked.
Denmark only stopped for food in the local villages, often staying a night to offer labor in return for the food, seeing as he had no money. He continued on though, reassuming his journey each morning before the sun even began to stain the sky pink. Sometimes he didn't even stop at the villages, persistent on keeping his walking a non-stop journey.
He went on mindlessly, it seemed. It was a hazy time for Denmark. He didn't care to take in the scenery, he didn't care to think or perceive the concept of past, present nor future. He had little sparks of ideas, but no real tangible thoughts actually settled down in that skull of his. Either way, any thoughts that he had managed to develop were, inevitably, forever forgotten. His ultimate goal forced his mind to confine strictly to a tunnel vision-like way of operating. It caused his mental state to go numb in a sense, controlling him to focus on his one and only priority.
He was going to see Norway, and nothing was going to stop him.
He kept to himself, never really speaking to any strangers that may have traveled the same road. He never found any reason to agree to any offers made by kind strangers with wagons or carriages with an extra seat space. He'd kindly dismiss them and look at his feet as they sped away.
It was an evening when he finally arrived at the outskirts of Stockholm. It was strange. His feet weren't sore, and his body wasn't tired. He seemed physically unfazed by his long, tedious journey.
He wandered his way into the streets. Businesses were drawing their curtains and closing their doors, porch lights were being lit and workers were hurrying to finish up their last minute responsibilities. Few wagons and carriages rattled down the wide streets. He noted the periodic "click" of doors being locked. Only a few taverns and drug stores' lights were on. The city was getting ready to sleep.
Denmark meandered the streets for a time, not entirely sure where he was going. As he continued, his eyes scanned unfamiliar buildings on streets with unfamiliar names. He slowed down.
This was wrong. This was all wrong.
A daunting sense began to consume the Dane, and the hairs on his neck stood on end. He looked around a bit frantically, the severity of his situation weighing down on him as if death himself were caressing his face. His eyes became hollowed and it was suddenly much harder to breathe. His head throbbed and his ears began to ring. A stinging sensation stabbed at his eyes, and Denmark's knees began to buckle as he faced his new, solid reality.
He had absolutely no idea where Sweden lived.
Denmark stumbled as he pressed to the side of a brick building. He slid down, lifelessly dropping onto the wet cobblestone. He was shaking. He raked his fingers through his messy, dirty hair, eyes widening.
Was Sweden living with his monarchs in the palace? Or was he in a house on the other fucking side of Stockholm?
Denmark desperately racked his brain for any dismissed information or memories that had been hidden in the folds of his memory. He choked a bit as one realization hit him after another.
Sure he had been to Stockholm before, but he hadn't actually been here in decades. The city was much larger now, with more buildings and more people. Denmark couldn't even distinguish which direction was North, so how on earth was he supposed to remember where Sweden lived? Hell, Sweden could have moved houses at any time.
The Dane's stomach sank even further as another serious possibility socked him right in the face. Sweden was in no way obligated to live in his own capital.
The old Viking continued to tremble, burying his face in his hands, biting his lip so hard that it bled.
How could he be so reckless? So careless?
He had completely discarded his duties as a country and international politician to go after his own desires. He had selfishly trampled over countless rules and laws to fulfill his personal wants. There was no benefit to this "journey". None of his people would have extra food on the table or be happier by this. His relations with other countries wouldn't be promoted by this either. It was completely fruitless.
He couldn't do anything right could he?
All Denmark wanted, was to see Norway. All he had ever asked, was to hold him once more, to speak to him and just see for himself that he was okay. Was that truly too much to ask?
He scoffed.
Apparently it was.
Time rolled on, Denmark still propped up against the side of this…God what even was this building? He kept his head low, trying to work through the sticky process of "What Does Denmark Do Next?"
A particularly loud clatter caused Denmark to look up. The pitiful country looked up to see a single carriage rolling past. It was a fairly nice carriage, one with a waxed wood and oil lamps nailed to the side. Lamely, Denmark gazed into the window.
A stoic face peered out from behind the curtains. His eyes were icy and glazed, his face long and sharp. His hair was neatly combed in a high class style, and a pair of wiry, rectangular spectacles were nestled high on the bridge of a pointed nose.
The carriage wobbled around the corner into the inky blackness of the city's shadows.
Norway was softly singing an age old tune. The song was so old, he himself barely recognized the lyrics. He slipped on his night gown and his bare feet silently took him across the carpet to the large, solid bookshelf. There wasn't a single empty space left.
He continued his singing as he squinted his eyes. He lifted a pointed index finger and skimmed rows of spines. His brows furrowed. Ugh. All of these had been read too many times. He continued to skim until the conscious decision of choosing a book forced him to forfeit.
Norway closed his eyes and promptly picked a title at random.
He pulled the book out and glanced at the volume. His heart fluttered.
The Princess and the Pea.
He tsked. What a shame… He never was able to meet that brilliant Danish author he admired so much. He smiled to himself as he strode back to the other side of the room. He settled under his covers before leaning over to turn up his oil lamp for a little bit more functional lighting.
The book was opened and he began to read.
Tap…tap…tap-tap…tap….
The Norwegian frowned, trying to drown out that annoying sound. He pulled the book a bit closer to his face.
Tap! Tap! Tap-tap-tap! Tap!
He groaned and slammed the book shut. It better not be one of those windy nights again! Norway snapped his head to the side to glare at the window. Two brilliantly blue and excited eyes stared back, an all too familiar grin to match. Norway nearly fell off the bed.
"Oh my God!"
Instantly, he threw off his covers and raced to the window, only tripping once on his way there. Once he reached the windowsill, trembling hands struggled to unlatch the locks. He threw the window up so hard the frame shook.
Norway flung out his arms.
Denmark wasn't even half way through the window before he managed to snatch an aggressive hold on Norway. He tumbled through the window, forcing them both to slam into the floor with a dull thud.
A loud sob immediately exploded from the Dane, his arms clinging to the Norwegian. He buried his face in the other's shoulder, his noisy sobs becoming muffled. For the second time that night he found it hard to breathe.
Norway was no better, clutching and clawing at Denmark's back. He cried softly, a few tears managing to roll down his pale cheeks. He gasped between hitches of breaths, hiccupping and pressing himself desperately against his dear. They held each other, restlessly readjusting their firm holds, almost as if they were testing to make sure that, indeed, the other was truly in their grasp.
They parted slightly so they could finally look each other in the eyes. Denmark sighed in relief as familiar warm hands cupped his face.
"Wh-What are you doing here? Why are y-you here?" Norway blubbered, blinking multiple times to keep his blurry vision to a minimum.
"I-I came to see you...! I missed you, Nor," the other exclaimed, "I wanted to see you so I left to come see you!"
Norway shook his head, sputtering.
"No! No! You can't do that! You're supposed to be home, you're not allowed to do that! You'll get in so much trouble—"
He was cut off by a powerful, long awaited kiss. Their frenzy suddenly ceased, and time slowed down. Their lungs decided to abruptly hold, their minds allowed them to relax. Norway found himself kissing back without hesitation, arms coiling around Denmark's shoulders. He felt a hand push against his lower back, pulling him closer into their kiss, another warm hand's fingers weaving through his hair.
Their worries melted, and their overwhelming sense of loneliness dissolved into each other's presence. As their lips danced together, the world didn't seem like such an unforgiving place.
They eventually pulled apart. Their chests heaved as they pressed their foreheads together. Norway mumbled, taking his finger to trace his love's jaw, around his chin, and back again. He couldn't help but notice a subtle, satisfied smile gracing Denmark's lips.
"I miss you, Denmark," the smaller of the two finally whispered, "I miss you…so…so much…"
He felt a kiss on his forehead.
"I miss you, too. Unbearably so…"
"You really shouldn't be here, you idiot…"
"I know. But when did rules ever stop me, hm?"
"Never."
"And look where we are now."
The two later found themselves wound around each other, deep in the sheets of Norway's bed. They were warm, happy and for the time being, loneliness was not in their vocabulary.
They lay awake, limbs woven around each other, until the sun began to leak through the curtains. Dust sprinkled the air like pixie dust, golden and glowing. They had re-explored each other in every aspect of the term. Their conversations were lengthy and in depth, quip and flirtatious. Their bodies had fit perfectly into each other's curves. It was as if they learned about each other for the first time all over again.
It was also as if they had accidentally stumbled and fallen in love with each other all over again, too.
Norway readjusted Denmark's collar one last time, using it as an excuse to touch him just a bit longer before he slipped away from his life again. Many more kisses were shared, and a few others were peppered on like a surprise.
"Do you think Sve will know I was here?"
"You're leaving now, so it isn't like he can do much about it."
"Ah, again, you're right."
Denmark smiled.
"But I can't promise you such a lucky fate once you return home… What will your monarchs say? You've been gone for God knows how long without so much as a telegram."
The large oaf shrugged.
"Hey, they can't really punish their own country, can they?"
Dull blue eyes gently glared at the man.
"Do you not remember our beloved Queen Margaret and the time you accidentally spilled wine on her dress?"
Denmark frowned and the memory sent a shiver down his spine.
"Well maybe my dear King won't be quite as harsh?" he squeaked out.
A roll of the eyes was the reply. Norway leaned up one more time to give a lasting kiss. Both felt the melancholy bitterly trickle through their bodies as they pulled apart. The Dane squeezed Norway's hand.
"It won't be that long, again, Nor. I promise."
"…You can't promise me that."
"Yes. I can."
A pause grew between the two. Denmark looked to the window then back at Norway. He didn't know how to leave.
"Jeg elsker dig."
"Jeg elsker deg også."
Norway bumped open the door with his hip, the grocery bags overflowing in his arms. He grumbled. He kicked the door shut and carefully navigated his way to the kitchen.
He set the bags on the counter to find Denmark singing loudly as he sprinkled on powdered sugar onto his freshest treats. Norway leaned against the counter and crossed his arms.
"When I get drunk! Yeah I know I'm gonna be, I'm gonna be the man who gets drunk next to you! And when I haver~! Yeah I know I'm gonna be, I'm gonna be the man who's havering to you!" Denmark sang a bit off key.
Norway lifted a brow, half disgusted and half intrigued. He kicked Denmark lightly. The happy Dane turned around and unplugged his music.
"Oh! Hey! Velkommen hjem!" he scooted over and gave Norway a quick kiss.
"What are you doing?"
"Makin' some cream puffs!"
"Ah…and uhh…your music loud enough for you?"
"You bet! Can barely hear myself think!"
Norway rolled his eyes so far into his skull, he was surprised he didn't see his brain. Denmark finished dusting his pastries and plated one up, handing it gingerly to his darling. Norway muttered a barely audible, "Thanks" before biting into the delectable pastry.
He chewed it slowly and then awkwardly coughed.
"Do you uhh…remember that time you actually walked nearly five hundred miles to see me…?" the smaller one questioned.
Denmark looked up from his pastry and wiped some whipped cream from his lip. His brows raised. He swallowed.
"Of course I do. Why?"
Norway set the pastry down, his ears and cheeks beginning to redden significantly.
"I…I just don't know if I ever told you…how much that meant to me…" he honestly admitted, "And…how much it helped me get through the rest of those years…"
Denmark blinked, setting his own plate down. He walked over and placed his hands on Norway's waist. The latter didn't look up until the taller one began to speak.
"Hey…I was more than happy to do it," a mischievous grin widened, "After all… I would walk five hundred miles, and I would walk five hundred more, just to be the man to walk one thousand miles to fall down at your door."
OKAY. LISTEN THE FUCK UP, KIDDIES.
I ACTUALLY LOST OVER HALF THE ORIGINAL DRAFT LIKE A DUMB DUMB BECAUSE I HIT BACKSPACE UNINTENTIONALLY AND IT EXITED OUT OF MY TAB.
So I rewrote over 3/4 of it right after that infuriating thing. Tbh though I think it's better so it worked out in the end BUT STILL.
A LOT OF EFFORT WENT INTO THIS DAMN FIC.
500 Miles is definitely the Dennor song tho, and I just-you can't argue it should totally be their song.
By the way, it's assumed that Den left from Copenhagen to Stockholm but that's only about 400 miles so pretend that it's a little bit further or he left from another place in Denmark ahahaha...
This takes place in the late 1800's 'u' probably around 1880's?