Disclaimer: Do not own. Do not own.
"Numbers. That's what it is all about, isn't it?" Denmark asks as he bends down and picks up a cool, damp pebble. The tide has brought it in, would have taken it out eventually if it had have been left. He is smirking, always smirking, because he has a point that he believes in, that he believes will help others he still cares about.
Norway shrugs as he watches the Dane bend over to pick up the speckled pebble from the ground, the ground of a shoreline almost entirely covered in rocks of all sizes, from something like sand to boulders to outcrops of the grey mountains. He then wonders that there might be something about this particular pebble that has attracted Denmark's attention, but he cannot be sure.
"Not even once has Iceland ever considered it," Denmark remarks coolly, turning the stone over in his palm, "but you're involved in some committees already. Just take the plunge!" And with this Denmark laughs and tosses the pebble, watches in triumph as it skims once, twice, thrice, before running parallel to the water's surface and sinking; in a few moments the disturbance is gone. "Look at that."
The European Union is on so many minds these days, in charge of so many things. It can trade air, define what is what and toss away hundreds of years of unspoken knowledge. But they, the members, all agree, so it is okay. And the European Union is good, so good, because things, some things, have become more efficient. Barriers are down. Trade is streamlined more than before, and maybe someday every European country will be trading just as much as they want to. War would be too complicated, so there are many more dialogues.
There are other issues it deals with, too, and Norway helps with these, sometimes.
Strangely, despite this, some think that Norway is a bit out of touch, bucolic. He's patriotic, more than others, and they don't know why.
Norway watches as Denmark poises himself to pick up another pebble. Then Norway stretches his arm out quickly, a gesture more violent than ever expected of him, in front of the other and to hold him back. To this Denmark throws an abusive, questioning glance to the smaller man and swiftly stands up.
Sure he has been rebuffed, Denmark says, "What the hell! Worried about your precious fish?"
"Mine," Norway simply says as he crouches down and points to a sliver of something that has a texture so much different than the rocks and pebbles around it. Gingerly, with the back of a small, pale hand, the Norwegian brushes away erosion's rubble.
There is a silence, and the sound of water. Both look at the mine, expecting it to do something.
But it is so old.
"It can still explode, probably," Norway says as he looks to the side. When Denmark, puzzled as to why Norway would boobie trap his own rocky, virtually inaccessible coastline, Norway adds, "England's doing."
"During the occupation?" The poignant mix of acute gratitude and keen surprise is beginning to wear, so Denmark is smiling again.
Norway shakes his head. "Maybe, maybe later. This was his resistance, because...this was how it worked out."
"Haha, what a will! That's right, I remember that! Couldn't have you. He's the same now, too, so stubborn. He prefers his Pounds to Euros, even though so many more people are using Euros now..."
And then Denmark (whose exploits seem more and more political these days, advancing the European Union if it means butting heads with the world) continues on about the viability and vitality of the Euro, and Norway has used some Euros before, but the krone is his heritage, even if it used by the rest of Scandinavia. But the Swedish krone is the Swedish krone, the Danish krone is the Danish krone, and the Norwegian krone is the Norwegian krone, and each are worth what they are worth.
But it's not a matter of specie, it's something more--and as he crouches over this mine he knows, and when Denmark pulls him away and further along on their walk, he knows.
It's the story of his nationalism, the story of his people, of who he is now.
Not very many people understand Norway. That is because he cannot hear them, their mundane introductions and plaintive cries, because he only hears the ocean.
Those who also hear the ocean understand him somehow, more than others.
Germany never understood the sea, not really, too busy conquering and expanding and living better than others on his large, large kingdom. (And Norway is a kingdom, but he has suffered, and he been displaced much longer than Germany.)
England hears the sea, too, but he hears so many other things too – he can even hear the echoes of the strange and eldritch creatures, but their similarities end there, mostly. So much of his wealth comes from the sea, too, but England uses the sea as a cradle for his (now collapsing) empire.
And because of this, in the first Great War Norway tries to stay out of it all, but he helps Britain (because he is pressured) and earns the title of The Neutral Ally.
In the next war he tries to stay out of it again (it's for the best, it's for the best of everyone) but it's just not to be.
--
On an April morning, Ludwig shows Norway how he wants him, how much power he has, just as he has shown so many of Rome's descendants.
England and France would have invaded and harassed Norway to pressure Sweden, but things never quite pan out.
All at once there is a clangor and a clamour, ships' firing the tocsin of war and its emergency, and the ports, vital centres of trade, are being attacked. Rushing in and so superior, the invader soon stands on wound newly ripped. His soldiers running about, romping and claiming. But a ship goes down because of something some would call dump luck (but is good bravery), and Norway can escape, and Arthur makes sure he is does.
Because while Denmark too is also under attack, British, French, Polish, and his Norway's forces are putting up such a valiant resistance.
Norway sees this all, from his perch. He also sees the land. The spring has begun to bloom in, the white becoming lush in its virescence, dots and swathes of colour beginning to blossom over the hills. This is the time of reverent nature and dying nations.
Two months is how long it lasts.
When the fall comes, and France will know it soon, England curses, and all of that effort wasted. But Germany has such a loft goal.
But who – how now can pressure be put on Sweden, the other recluse?
Norway finds his hand grabbed by Arthur. He digs his heels into the rocky, grey beach and shakes his head. His place is here, in the North, in the harsh country, with his waterfalls and granite crags that at every turn promise a hint of something so sublime.
"Come on," Arthur insists. He yanks, gently, though it is isn't needed – he's so much stronger than Norway, and Norway knows that Britain is the only safe haven he can reach.
"No, I'm staying. They can't win here..." Norway looks away.
Arthur understands what the blond means, and has means he believes can correct the problem. "Come with me. I've got something for you."
--
"Help me," Arthur says as he hands another mine to the other, smaller man.
Norway, without a word but with a look that communicates so much more, delicately takes the mine and places it on the ground. With a brush of a small, pale hand it is covered in damp pebbles and shale.
If he looks over his shoulder he will imagine seeing fifty other mines waiting to protect a phantom nation, all indiscriminate about identity.
"Isn't this enough?" Norway asks quietly as Arthur wipes his brow and surveys his work. He can imagine the mines already clogging the sea out there.
"Your other ports will be next – and bases and other things. And –"
"And I think this is enough." Norway shakes his head. "Can we help some other way?"
And that hits Arthur in a certain spot, because for a moment he sees that little, curious nation under his care so long ago in front of him. But that is wrong, so wrong – or maybe not, because both of them are almost single-minded, Arthur thinks.
"Come on," he says, and his face falls because he is sympathetic, "I think it is time to go. I'm feeling a bit peckish."
"All right." And so Norway follows England to his house because he really has no other choice.
As it turns out, the mines really aren't all that helpful.
--
Norway wonders a while about inertia, just like his people must be.
Of course there is an usurper, and opportunists trying to work with Germany, but so many people resist the changes.
They have such an exquisite inertia, Norway thinks.
And, unlike that great, great nation over the dangerous, steely pond, he will take all refugees that can make it into the mountainous, ice-wrought land.
--
Norway wonders if France would understand him. They both have fragile, schizophrenic governments.
But he never bothers to ask because he doesn't trust that loud, loud nation.
Also, he is too busy shipping contraband and precious aid.
--
Because England used to know the sea, he knows it powers and influence and its paramount importance to the lives of men. So there is to be a blockade.
Norway, because he has ships and England has granted him so much, is obliged to help. And if he doesn't England is so good at applying pressures after all his years as an empire.
At the helm of his own ship Norway observes the scenes and waits, and as the days wear on he wonders about all of the people that are suffering and affected. And eventually his thoughts run through so many circles they begin to spiral into intimate territory.
He wants to talk to Iceland, but Iceland is so far away now, unreachable because of circumstances he is too small to have ever been able to prevent.
But neither of them are dead, and he will not die under England's care, and Iceland will not die under America's care. Norway won't because his people are still strong, and that will burns in him and keeps the ice from consuming his heart and body.
For the first time in a long time, he can smile.
Even if this blockade wears him out and Germany tries to win his people, and England is the home of his head and his contacts are dispersed, he is Norway, and always will be.
Then he thinks, maybe, after the war, he will gain some kind of compensation for all of this beyond his control. Already he has earned the title of the Neutral Ally.
--
When Denmark almost trips another mine, he laughs and continues on, dragging Norway with him by the hand. And Norway allows it, both humouring Denmark and because it is somehow so ingrained him to yield to the taller man.
But he knows, and knows it so well, because it was true before and always will be --
He is Norway, the northern land carved by ice, haunted by auroras and dead dreams, united by a sense of identity found uncrushable.