Denmark knocked again.
And a third time.
And a fourth time.
Still no answer.
"For fuck's sake, Faroes, I know you're in there! It's important!"
The door was violently wrenched open. "What?"
A young woman- no, a girl, really- stood in the doorway. She wore mostly white, with a purple scarf. She did not look to be more than 16.
"Faroes, look, I need your help."
"Well, that's a new one. Never needed my help before, Old Man."
"Oh, come on! He's your father!"
"Yeah, well, he shouldn't have left me in such…incapable hands, now should he have?"
"That's not his fault."
"It's his as much as anyone's."
"Look, if you don't come to his birthday party, I'll ground you."
"Oh, now you'll be a responsible adult?"
"I'm quite serious. How would you like me to impose an embargo on your trade?"
"You-you wouldn't!"
"Don't test me."
"Uh, fine. But I bet it's going to be the lamest thing ever, since you're throwing the party, Old Man."
"As long as you're there, I know it will be the most enjoyable evening I have ever had." It was really ludicrous, Denmark's acidic and sickly sweet repartee with his …almost daughter (?). Adopted child…? What even was the politically correct term?
Well, whatever. The point was that he fully intended to have every single one of Norway's kids at his birthday party. If it killed him. Or if they killed him.
Every. Single. One.