«Ja?»
He looked so sad. Not disgusted like most people. No one really cares anymore, I understand them well. People die everyday, from the very same illness i am infected by.
Half of my people are already dead. I envy them. They are dead, they no longer feel pain. But again, no one buries them. The ones who comes to close, gets infected theirself, and eventually the one who buries their corpses will follow them, into the afterlife, into Heaven, if there is one. So now the corpses just lay around, rotting in streets. I should die the same way as my people. That's a promise I made with myself long ago.
«Please. I beg you. Fight me.»
«B-b-but you are sick! I can't fight you! I won't!»
Stupid dane. Why must he care at all?! He's been with me since I got sick, watching over me every day, every hour. I tell him to go, to leave, and let me die in peace, but he refuses.
«Then leave. And don't come back. You wouldn't like a rotten corpse. Stinks too much.»
It's a long time since I saw him this serious.
«Norge, this is no time for joking. I won't leave you here! I won't allow you to die alone! And I won't fight you either!» He is standing by my bed, nails digging into palm. I can clearly see that he isn't entirely well either. «And what reason do I have to fight you!? You are my best friend, and you will always be!»
«Can't you see that always may not be that long? I am getting sicker everyday, racing towards my own grave!? And you! You are also sick! Why won't you go and try to get better again!? It's to late for me!»
He looks at me like a mother at her sick child, and sits down besides me on my bed. His hand brushes gently away the hair that sticks to my sweaty forehead. I can't deny, he's good to have here. I feel more calm. And safe. Death can't hurt me now. I don't have any regrets.
«But why fighting? What you need is rest! Fighting will just drain you for energy, the little you have left!»
«I want to die in battle.»
«But Nor! That won't help you a bit!» He looks away. «And not me either…»
His voice is trembling. «I won't be able to live with myself if I kill you!»
I see now that his eyes is overflowed with tears. Stupid dane. No need to hold back his emotions. That is my job.
«Let it out, it's okay to cry.» He looks at me as I pat his back. As if he suddenly realized something.
«Y-you want to die in battle because you still have a small hope to come to Valhall, don't you. Norse mythology. 'A man who dies in battle, will come to Valhall, and dine at Odin's table.'»
I find myself tearing up. This is not the time to cry, I am not afraid! I will welcome death with open arms! I am the Kingdom of Norway! If I am gonna die, I will die battling, like the viking I once was!
«You want me to kill you. You are desperate. In pain. But Norge-!»
Tears is now streaming down his tired face.
«Jeg elsker dig!»
Not sure what to do, or say, I rise from my bed and walks towards an old chest, painted with flowers. I haven't walked in a long time. Only laid in bed, not having the strength to stand up. Where this sudden strength comes from, I have no idea.
Strong hands holds me suddenly from behind. I can see that one of his fingers is turning black. Like mine already are, all of them. It's a reason why they call it the Black Plague…
«Let me go.»
I feel him inspecting me for more buboes. Judging by his expression, he found new ones. Or maybe the ones I already have has gotten bigger and angrier. Who cares. I am going to die afterall. Maybe in some days. Or maybe today, if a certain dane can just fulfill my death wish.
I open the the chest, and find what I look for. Two swords. They are still as beautiful as in the viking ages. Well, that era was just 2-300 years back.
«Here. This is the sword I want you to kill me with. I am sure you remember it.»
Denmark nods. «Gamlanautr.»
I give him a small smile. «Yes. I will fight with Sætarspillir.
So you do remember their names?»
«Ja, of course I do! It's hard to forget such good swords.»
«Good.» Kissing his cheek, I feel his tears falling again. «Look me in the eyes. Don't cry. I am the enemy now, imagine that. And you are mine.»
Retreating, I place myself in figthing position. «Imagine I stole something from you. I don't have to imagine, myself. Because you HAVE stolen something from me.»
We both raise our swords. Denmark looks confused.
«You stole my heart, stupid dane.»