D'n't own. Wish b't don't. I like Sw'den.

plain EPIC

Handsome, single, and very bored Norge Bondevik sits on the wooden deck, his legs dangling idly over the tempting water. Steam rises from the stormy surface, surreptitiously filling the evening air with scents of seawater and sweet boat varnish. The horizon is glazed over with the gossamer colors of a pearly autumn sunset, and the sea and quaint little piers seem to be part of a marine realm. It is very beautiful, he thinks, so beautiful it could somehow be unfair. He wishes he could paint that moment to make it his forever, and knowing he can't do that (even if he painted it, he could still not have it to his own) makes him, not only frustrated, but also slightly angry. With that passive kind of anger he has, that does him so little good.

With such gloomy thoughts in mind, he sighs. He should know that coming to Bergen isn't always the best of ideas, but sometimes, he can't help it. His uncle doesn't really care what he does or he doesn't, so he's really free here (free, that is, not taking into account those hideous fishing trips his uncle likes so much. But it's a little thing, really)… and… well, other than the sheer beauty of the fjords and the ocean, that's his real motivation from always returning to Bergen. Freedom. From life, work, and mostly, from himself and his stupid prejudices and stoicism. Here, all he has to worry about is nature and inspiration, always so glorious waiting for him, in the stone-tiled pathways or the dark forests that gracefully defy the waves by the cliffs.

The reason he is sitting alone on the deck is, that most of the townfolk are celebrating the Equinox with dancing and songs and mead; and he's too aloof to ever enjoy that sort of thing. He wishes he did, sometimes, but he just can't. Maybe if he knew someone…? Not even, because he knows himself already and too well, and he's that kind of antisocial.

He stares at the water, that sways and waves against the wooden deck vigorously, and he finds himself wishing he could see his reflection there.

"Yo there," a thick voice greets, breaking the silence.

Although it doesn't show on his perpetually emotionless face, Norge is startled, and he looks from side to side to try to see who talks to him. But the place is empty and the wind blows chilly, and he's alone as ever. He sighs. Hearing things, already?

"Yo, ya over there!" The voice again. Thick, lively; "Over here… down here."

Norge looks down, as instructed, and his eyes widen ever so slightly. The face of a pretty young woman looks back at him from amid the waves, grins at him.

"Yo," she repeats.

As it always goes, all his signs of acknowledgement consist of a stare. Of disbelief. The hell is the woman in the water for, it's the first days of autumn…!

She beams at him. Insistently.

"It's a nice day, huh?" In the water and making small talk. Norge frowns ever so slightly.

She amicably tilts her head and dives into the water, and he follows her every move (of course), and a vermillion scaly tale flickers in and out of the water in some opportunity. His eyes widen, this time, for real, and once she quiets herself to look at him just… teasingly like that, he feels he must come up with a rude remark to hide how very much bewildered he is.

"What's with the terrible accent?"… does the trick.

"Geez man what's with your terrible attitude…!" she complains, "and terrible general culture! Come on!"

Norge stares at her blankly, unamused.

"It's Danish," she finally explains, reluctantly, between her teeth, "Darn, man, everyone knows mermaids are Danish!"

"…If you say so." Somehow, the fact that he is talking to a mythical creature doesn't offbalance Norge as it would anyone else. That she is unnaturally drop-dead-sexily gorgeous doesn't either. But one thing one he has to give to the perky mermaid, and that is that she's piqued his curiosity.

Although it obviously doesn't show.

She is beaming at him her most dazzling smile. If she'd been human, it would've been a sincere, carefree smile- but being what she is, the young man guesses he could never be completely sure.

"Look… I'm here, you're here, let's be friends!" she offers.

"…" Is all she gets as a reply.

"I'm Mathias! What's your name…?" She tries again, poking his pantleg.

Norge contemplates her with condescendence. "That's a man's name," he states, trying not to be judgmental, and, of course, failing.

She dismisses the comment with a laugh. "That's a silly human for you," and she dives into the water and comes out again, all soaked all over again. "We take up the name of the first man we kill. Of course."

She is delighted to find her light-hearted comment has not failed to cause an impression on the impassive (and terrifically handsome, if she can point out the obvious,) young man.

"…kill."

"Yup," she says conversationally, "as in, eat. You know, when you're hungry? Sailors are the tastiest… You wouldn't happen to be a sailor, right?"

Despite himself, Norge shudders, and all he can find in him is to shake his head slowly.

"Yeah, well, I'd already guessed you weren't, anyway," she says, eyeing him in a fashion that anyone who'd not known her eating habits would, still, thoroughly appreciate. "Not that your build gave you away, you just don't have the hands."

…Hands? Norge can't but look at his hands- pale, slender, of course not a sailor's hands. Well. Now he isn't entirely sure he feels as proud of his good figure as he's been all his life. Secretly proud, mind you.

Next thing he knows, she's pushed herself up from the dancing waters onto the deck with a notorious inverted splash, and he's half soaked and annoyed and (surprised), and when she amicably places a hand on his shoulder; what little's left dry of him becomes wet as well.

"Do you mind?" he asks, and he doesn't really care that he's being obnoxious to a creature that shouldn't exist, it's just how he is.

"You know," she says conversationally, and one would say they're at a bar or something, and not alone on a wooden pier of sorts in a desolate Nordic setting, "You're too stuck up for a cute human, but I like you, what's your name again?"

He sighs. He won't admit defeat, but man, this mermaid is dense.

"I never told you."

"Aw," she says, "Come on." When all that answers her is the chilly breeze coming from the fjord, she shakes her head and informs, "Whatever, I'll just make up a name for you. You look like your name should beeee…" and she looks at him intensely, evidently trying to put a name to his face as he fights against an inconvenient (and terribly slight) blush that's threatening to result from her stare.

"Stop doing that," he quietly requests, but she ignores him.

"Yeah, I think you look like you could be Lukas. I met a mermaid once called like that, you know, Lukas. She was kind of a stick in the mud… sober."

Norge can't say he saw anything she just said coming. And it somehow feels derisive to be pet-named like a mermaid (and he is starting to seriously doubt the masculinity of male human names…) So, of course, he feels compelled to ask:

"… you can drink…?"

"'COURSE we can!" she says merrily, slapping his back, which in turns makes a slippery sound and makes him shudder, "Best thing your species ever invented, I tell you. Booze. Oh, yeah." He figures she shouldn't look that dreamy-eyed when talking about alcohol, but, honestly, what does he know about mermaids?

…

He's not going to even try to answer that. The part of his mind that's not accepted this as something utterly natural is telling him not to bother.

"Look, Lukas, you don't s'ppose you could kiss me, right?"

The question takes him aback even more than everything else she said. "I… what?" Too crazy a request to even allow him a clear, concise, blunt and not-nice reply.

"Yeah, it's kinds of sucky, but you see," she runs her hand through her short, wild blonde hair, that has begun to spike in all possible directions as it dries, "If your lot kisses us we can become human. And I want to go to that festival over there, so… do me the favor?"

As her voice fades, the sounds of merry folksongs invade the silence between the rolling of the waves below. Norge reckons he's not been this confused and/or embarrassed for a long, long while.

Luckily for him, perhaps, this oddly-named Mathias mermaid takes matters into her own hands, because she firmly clutches the flaps of his jacket and pulls him in- into the most wonderful (and heavily magic-infused) kiss.

Trying to deal with himself and his skewered sense of pride in the aftermath, he hardly cares when he hears her exclaim,

"YES! Now I'm so gonna go to that fest and get SO DAMN WASTED it's gonna be plain EPIC!"

And Norge doesn't even have time to feel his world go black.

As she stands on long human legs, Mathias chuckles in amusement at the sight of the handsome young man lying there on the deck, unconscious. He'll be raging when he wakes up, in a couple of hours. But, a greater good usually requires a sacrifice, huh? She steals his clothes, of course, and even if his pants don't fit her too well, everyone's gonna be so drunk no one will really notice.

She beams in anticipation, and, sparing Norge a (sort of) sympathetic look, she happily skips towards the town in a crooked tie and a striped shirt.

A/N: CRACK IS GOOD, and this is probably the crackiest I've ever written. But honestly. If Norway and Denmark were to have a straight relationship, I SO don't see it working with a Fem!Norway. Noooooooope!

Also, the idea of mermaids taking the name of the first man they eat isn't mine. I read it in a *hilarious* and *super advisable* POTC fic where Syrena's real name was Theodore

:)

Also, reviewing is nice and prevents you from becoming one with Russia. Ergo, it's a rather important thing to do :P

Edit: fixed some typos. Also, I'm working on a second chapter. In fact, I'm half-done. So be on the lookout ;)