17.01.2014 NM skiing, sprint

"Fandens jævla oldemor med ei satans spekkhoggerkukk i den forbanna rånefitta si!"he hit the space button as if it had personally offended him, pausing the sending after the fourth man went over the finishing line. The cheering from the other side of the room attracted attention, but Norway only registered it in the back of his mind as he rewatched the sprint. A scotsman. A brit. A foreigner. How could some... some foreigner just go and win! And the way he did it, outclassing his people so embarrasingly easy. He groaned and rubbed his face, then rested his head in his hands. Someone poked him in the side. Norway did not even bother turning his head to glare at the Dane.

"Ya okay, Norge?" the Idiot asked. Deep breath, in, out.

"Of course I am, why wouldn't I be," he hissed, too shocked to strangle him. Sitting up straight he looked over to the other side of the room where England and Scotland where leaning over the same PC, and by some miracle (fucking Musgrave) they were not arguing. England looked up and met his glare with a ceshire grin.

Ping! A message. He took forth his phone, handling it as if it was a deadly disease. He frowned at the message resisting the urge to look back at the insufferable smug bastards in the couch on the other side of the room.

To Norway

Remember the deal...

You may begin.

From England

'Faen brenn i Hælvete,' Norway thought furiously (not realizing how little sense that made) as he opened a new window and searched for the lyrics. 'How stupid is it possible to be... and such misfortune, the one time I actually bet and losing so spectacularly.'

He found the lyrics and opened a fiddle case, plucking the strings carefully to make sure everything was in order. As much as he hated what he was about to do he would not let his precious fiddle sound anything but perfect.

Taking a deep breath he stood up and worked the bow over the strings conjuring a hauntingly beautiful melody. He was the best fiddler in the whole damned world, if he focused on that then maybe it would be less torterous. Then he started singing and everyone in the room turned towards him.

"Oh flower of Scotland," he sang, his voice picking up where the music ended. A couple of strokes then he continued, painfully aware of the stares. He blushed faintly. "When will we see your like again?" Another stroke and matching his voice perfectly to the music. "That fought and died for, your wee bit hill and glenn, and stood against him... Proud Edward's army, and sent him homeward... Te think again..." He took a break, working the melody on the violin.

"The hills are bare now," He picked up again, a bit of magic in his voice to convey the right amount of sadness. "The autumn leaves, lie thick and still... O'er land that is lost now, that those so dearly held who stood against him, proud Edward's army... And sent him homeward, te think again..." He did not look at anyone, staring at some very interesting point at the wall, just where it met the high ceiling.

"Those days are past now, and in the past they must remain," he song with feeling, glaring briefly at a the red-head before directing his gaze towards same far-away spot again. "But we can still rise now, and be that nation again! That stood against him, proud Edward's army, and sent him homeward, te think again..." How embarrasing. The whole room was silent as he changed the tune. Several nations raised an eyebrow or two as they recognized the melody.

"God save our gracious Queen,

Long live our noble Queen

God bless the Queen.

Send her victorious,

Happy and glorious,

Long too reign over us,

God save the Queen!" Then he stopped, letting his fingers run over the strings to create some sort of natural closure to the strange performance. Finally he sat down and hid his blushing face in his hands, but not before seeing the smug looks exhanged between the Englishman and the Scott. They'd never let him forget that one time a Scott won the sprint in the Norwegian Championship.

Faens Skotte.

However, he couldn't be only Scottish? Scotts aren't that good at skiing, that's a fact. Quick as lighnting he whipped up Wikipedia and found Andrew Musgrave's page.

Hah!

He studies at NTNU, and goes for Røa! Citizenship is just a formality, if he trains with Sundby then he should be good. Now about that citizenship...

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Translations:

Fandens jævla oldemor med ei satans spekkhoggerkukk i den forbanna rånefitta si! - The devils motherfucking greatgrandmother with Satan's orcadick in her cursed boarpussy!

Faen brenn i Hælvete – The devil burn in Hell

Faens skotte – Fucking scot

author's note

This is my first story, I hope you enjoyed it. Please review.

I would like to clear up a little something. Norway is not angry because a scot won the Norwegian Championship (NM), but because he lost a bet he had made while drunk with England and Scotland.