Forgotten Mermories

Disclamer: I don´t own this. Please don´t sue.
Requested by: ~Hoshi-Zuuri
This story was written as a part of the APHetaLIT meme on DA.
Warning: Hints of Norway + Denmark

"Men have forgotten this truth," said the fox. "But you must not forget it. You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed." (Le Petit Prince)

The leather was worn and faded, the pages yellowing and on the front stood, in large bold print; Snowland. Norway felt a tiny smile appear on his lips, this was Iceland´s first proper name, although he would answer, a bit reluctantly if Italy would slip and call him Thule. The back page was damaged by fire and ash fell out as he opened the book.
Suddenly a crystal clear image of his little brother, hands and face covered with dark grey ash, throwing books into a caravan outside the burning Kobenhavn library. The island nation had broken into the library with his natives, grabbing every significant script or book he could, for this library kept the history of his land.

The former Viking adjusted his barrette and opened the book slowly, as the wind began howling loudly outside, shaking the last leaves of the tree in front of his window. On the first page was a picture of the country, in great detail, vibrant green and earthy browns and of course the striking brightness of the glaciers. Norway leafed through the pages, which contained stories of Vikings, poems of independence and the glory of nature, drawings and paintings. The very best of the ancient stories of the Nordics, all on a few pages in an old book, placed in his brother's library. Secrets were written in small print, on the backs on drawings and in Icelandic demanding that the one reading it should squint and remember old forgotten words, a language they had cast away as time passed and the world no longer spoke it.

There was an unspoken, darker, more fragile reason Iceland kept his most priced books with the other Nordics. In case he will be forgotten, or dies, these books will survive along with his friends.

The blue clad nation stared at the last page, so absorbed in its contents that he did not notice Denmark open the door to his study. It was a watercolor painting, each stroke lovingly done. Iceland had immortalized the Nordic family; Denmark´s grin, Sweden´s faint blush as he watched Finland smile, and the care in Norway´s eyes as he patted Iceland´s hair. They were all standing in a field, under a blue sky, and the grass was a wonderful emerald green. Denmark observed the painting over his partner´s shoulder and placed his axe next to the bookshelf. He picked up a stray paper that had fallen to the ground, eyes widening. The drawing was of Denmark and Norway, in their full glory, clad in wonderful royal garments of velvet and linen, power radiating off them. King, the drawing seemed to proclaim as the Dane held it closer up to his face, king.

"He was ours, he was our child", Denmark growled, "no one hurts him". Norway looked at him, suddenly not as distant or whimsical and said slowly, his voice raw from disuse; "The old times have passed, Anko, you know that just as well as I do." Denmark took the book from Norway´s hand and waved it grandly in the air. Perhaps it was time for a different method. "We could invade", Denmark said, his voice strangely silky, tempting and sounding so unlike himself. "I have retired", Norway said slowly, "from being a Viking and so have you and don´t even think about calling Berwald." So he glances at Norway, ready to let this slip and try to persuade him to let him sleep over. Norway´s eyes were glued to a small drawing.
It showed Norway and Iceland holding hands, Iceland was still a child. Denmark towered over them, grinning broadly. It was drawn in crayon, innocent and childlike and somehow it was precisely what made it so reassuring. The paper was wrinkled and there were a few petals of Mountain avens still sticking to it. The Norwegian neatly folded it and placed it in his inside pocket. Finding Norway´s true mood was like trying to interpret a foreign language, but because Denmark had known him since childhood he knew that Norway was sad. He wanted to fix that.

Meanwhile, Iceland sat in the waiting room, holding an old copy of a magazine, barely skimming trough it. It was late, the sky had already turned midnight blue.
He was not supposed to be kept in a waiting room; the Icelander thought angrily and turned the page. After a few minutes a tall man in a suit came to a halt and looked straight at the silver haired boy. „Do you have an appointment with me?" he asked, eying Iceland´s silver hair and bow with a tiny smirk. „No", Iceland said, raising his head and looking directly into the man´s eyes, "I have an appointment with your boss". The politician looked insulted at such a tone and gestured to the boy to come with him. The politician looked briefly at Iceland´s brown jacket and shirt and then kept going. Iceland could see how clearly the man thought this was a waste of his time, he had damage control to do. The public did not waste a shred of trust on politicians or bankers these days. And those violet eyes! What was the kid thinking, putting contact lenses in such a ridiculous color on before meeting an important leading figure as himself. Iceland narrowed his eyes, irritation seeping through him.

The silver haired boy stood up, his fingers grasping the handle of the sofa, fingertips aching for the touch of wood, a spear, anything that would remind him of his strength as his boss gestured at him to come into the study. The man sat down beside the oak desk, polished to perfection. Snowflakes fell outside the window and brought back memories of trudging through the thick blanket of snow towards his brother´s house. The image of Norway brushing the remains of slush out of his hair flicked by, but the island nation was interrupted by his boss, who had turned on the lights inside the office. His boss explained that they had decided that the country should focus even more on making money and severing ties with other nations, almost bordering isolation. He said it politely, his speech formal and confusing, designed to confuse the one the one who it was told. But Iceland was not fooled. He had already spent months in his house, and at times his boss had locked him inside, and Iceland had become livid with rage, screaming hoarsely, becoming once again, at the height of his anger, as wild and uncontrollable as his nature.

Iceland sat in the chair facing he man, eyes ablaze and balling his fingers into firsts, half moon marks appearing inside his palms. Half an hour later Iceland stepped outside of the building, the feeling of anger worn away as the tiredness took over. He could still hear his boss´s words, they echoed in his mind; "We have lived here for a thousand years, this is our land, he had said.
"We are going to fix it ourselves."
Iceland sighed and pulled his blue, hand knit scarf closer to his neck and shuffled towards his house, kicking up snow in the process.

The government house is still lit, and the president pulled on his gloves just outside the door. A man wearing a long black coat with red cuffs steps into the light, his blue eyes glinting dangerously. Iceland´s boss looks at him, a gleam of recognition in his eyes as the Dane comes closer.
"Dealing with any you was not a part of the job description", Iceland´s boss said wearily. Denmark smiled, but it was not his usual friendly grin. This smile was the smile invaders had seen as their ships caught fire, as they were tossed into the sea. "Let him be free, allow him to do what he wants", Denmark said casually, but with the self assurance of the one who holds all the power in the conversation. "You are not supposed to harm him", the blond adds, his tone changing, becoming darker and lower.
"And what are you", the politician spat," in the mind of a nation that writes everything down in books and can never forget anything? You deserted him, left him wide open for a pirate attack and almost killed him!"
"We are his former kings", a blue clad man said, his tone venomous. "We are the memory of absolute power. We are his protectors, and above everything, we are his friends". The politician looked at their determined faces, eyes narrowing.
"I cannot be threatened-"
"We are not threatening you,sir", the blue clad nation said calmly, his dull blue eyes focused on the man. The Dane and the Norwegian turned on their heels, and walked to the next shop window, at ease with the world. The politician rummaged around in his pockets for his cell phone and drew it up. He began dialing the Prime Minister´s number and walked away.
Denmark looked at Norway, not accustomed to this behavior, this harshness; he had not seen it in ages. He had forgotten the sea soaked explorer he had seen through the salty drizzle as he sailed past. The Norwegian had been clad in a dark blue cloak, eyes gleaming as he steered his ship. He adjusted his black coat, brushing the snow away, when he noticed his surroundings. Denmark observed the landscape, lit only by starlight and felt a deep sense of nostalgia. He opened his mouth to say something about the cold and place his hand on the smaller nation´s shoulder when Norway slipped his hand tenderly in his own. His hand was soft and warm against Denmark´s large and cold one. Norway had clearly forgotten his surroundings, forgetting that they were not united as he stared at the waves lapsing over the large rocks in the sea. The Dane watched him, a tender expression on his face as memories, memories he had locked away in the far corner of his mind burst forward.
They had danced, and grabbed each other fiercely in fear and anger at their inability to express their feelings, they had screamed at each other, they had cooked together, and they had fallen asleep on the same sofa after a long, tiring week. Their union had been a fiasco at times, but they had needed each other. Sometimes, when the world was dark and he wanted out of this bloody union, Norway had despised Denmark with burning passion for a few moments and when he lay down on his bed been startlingly aware of the fact that he did not know how the world would be without the Dane.

So they strode towards Iceland´s house, holding hands and knowing that they should let go but not wanting to. Norway loosened his grip, guilt spreading out in his chest. Iceland came to the door, sleepy but smiling widely, and led them to the guest bedroom. They slipped beneath the eiderdowns, their hands still warm.

Author notes:

Mountain avens is the national flower of Iceland.

Snowland is a former name of Iceland´s. First it was called Garðarshólmi, then Snowland and then finally Iceland.

The great fire in Copenhagen in 1728, reached the library, but the Icelanders decided to wait to see if the fire would reach the street. They broke into the library when they saw the fire at the end of the street and tossed the books and scripts into caravans outside. Many books and manuscripts were destroyed, but there were copies of almost everything scattered around Europe. Still, it was considered a great loss.
The Danes returned many scripts and documents to Iceland when Iceland became independent. Icelanders consider this to be a very kind gesture, and remember it with great fondness.

Iceland was attacked by Ottoman pirates, and 300 Icelanders were put into slavery. Denmark did not protect Iceland from them.
Norway and Denmark were the kings of Iceland for a long time.
"In the mind of a nation that writes everything down in books and can never forget anything" is a reference to Iceland´s Bell by Halldór Laxness.
Icelanders consider it to be a normal thing to go and study and live in Norway or Denmark. Going somewhere else is considered a bit strange.
I do not mean to offend anyone by this fic.

Thank you so much for reading.