Denmark had heard about the existence of Norway for quite some time. Of course, ever since the Bronze age they had been trading, and he'd encountered himself the few Norwegian men (and some women) who ventured to Rome to join the army back in the Empire days, but the nation himself -an entity such as Denmark – had been as elusive as his people were rumoured to be. It was a source of continuous frustration to Denmark. He'd become well acquainted with his southern counterparts – the lofty Netherlands made up of several miscellaneous tribes, and the charismatic Rome. Norway was a short sail across the sea to the north, and he should have visited already, he would have, if it had not been his hesitation. Every nation he'd met so far, he'd felt superior to. Why wouldn't he? He was self-contained. Life was tough, but his people were tougher. They'd mastered farming years ago. Norway was further north, yet he still survived. His people had flourished, and came to tell tales of ice and fjords and wolves and mountains. Whatever valiant man Norway was, Denmark was afraid, he admitted it, that he would finally have met his match.
Thus, when he first set eyes on the other nation, he felt himself infinitely confused, a tad bemused and brimming with questions. Of course, they were all young compared to human's age; Rome was the eldest nation Denmark had ever met at twenty-five years. But Norway – he didn't just look young, he looked youthful. His skin was smooth and unmarred, like a noblewoman's or a cowardly man's. He didn't grow beard or stubble, and above sharp cheekbones was a softness of cheek. He was shorter and slimmer than Denmark, by far, and Denmark struggled not to tower over him with broad shoulders and muscular arms. This Norway was surely not fit to fight. He seemed barely able to draw the sword at his hip.
Regardless, Denmark had been taught hospitality, for it was one of the most important values one could have, and at the nation's appearance at his hall he'd opened the door with welcome, smiling, "come in, come in. You must be Norway."
The man turned to him, and in the evening sunlight his eyes were pools of darkness, only hints of blue revealing the pigment of them. "Each man should be watchful and wary in speech, and slow to put faith in a friend," the elusive man spoke, "so may we be friends, but with apprehension. Don't be deceived that I will trust you for many decades yet." He walked past Denmark into the hall, neck craning to take in the carved wood of the ceiling and pillars. A great table, carved from oak, took centre-place in the room, gleaming cunningly. Tapestry had been created of recent, and Denmark had had his favourite poems illustrated by the talented women of his nation – the poem of Atli, with Procne's hands running crimson with the blood of her children, the list of Rig, a stylised depiction of the class system in its infancy. They fluttered in the breeze of the autumn air, and shuddered as Matthias closed the door.
"You are spoken," Norway admitted as he observed the scenes. "What god to you follow as your patron?"
"Thor, when we need a good harvest," Denmark explained, "Freyja, when a woman is with child."
Norway raised a slender eyebrow. "Is that so?"
"And you?"
Norway was surprised by the question, but he hid it well. "Heimdall; Odin; in times of strife I stray to Skadi. I have had contact with Loki. I have had contact with all those to dwell away from humans."
"You sound much the heathen," Denmark observed disapprovingly.
Norway smiled. He had taken a seat at the head of the table. He looked up at Denmark through dark, blonde eyelashes, and if he were a woman Denmark would have accused him of trying to seduce him. "We're all pagan in this wretched world."
They spoke for much of the evening in flickering candlelight. Norway told Denmark of Sweden, his Westerly neighbour, and the Sami people, a bizarre result of migration and integration. They weren't much different from his settled people, he told Denmark, but for their quickly straying culture and language. Norway wasn't sure if he encompassed them, for they spanned the Northerly parts of Norway, Denmark and Finland, but he spoke fondly of the peoples, and Denmark eagerly listened to the man's tales. His way with words was immensely pleasurable.
When it came of Denmark's turn to speak, he told of his marginally better communication with the South, and of the Celtic lands in what the Romans had dubbed Briton. He told of the land of the Saxon's weakness, manned only by broken tribes made from his and Netherland's invaders, of the celts in the north and the island further west. In what he felt a moment of bonding, they laughed heartily (with the aid of mead) at the Christianity that had invaded the island like a plague, first joking, then plotting, at the wealth that could be acquired by plundering the heavy chapels and lightening them of their treasures.
Norway was heartily drunk by that point, and Denmark sufficiently tipsy, though it went against all the wisdom of the gods. They were alone, dwarfed by the immense hall, and strangers. Yet they bonded quickly through nation status and startling similarity in culture and language, and their equally ruthless plans to attack Lindisfarne, an isle to the East of Briton, with a wealthy monastery.
"Rich for decades!" Denmark slung an arm around Norway, which was not pushed off, "rich for centuries!"
"Rich until modernity," Norway giggled, a different person once drunk. He was docile, and quietly humorous, tolerant of Denmark's loudness, and strangely receptive to Denmark's touch (something Denmark had considered using to snide him of his earlier comment, but choosing, wisely, not to).
Denmark realised, with awkwardness, that his arm was still around Norway's shoulders, and went to pull away, only for a quick hand to grab his wrist, keeping it there. Denmark looked at the other nation in surprise, but Norway avoided his gaze. Quickly, things had become sombre and awkward, and Denmark worried that Norway would get drunk like a woman and burst into tears. He did not, only continued watching the fire dance in the fireplace, leaning further into Denmark's warmth.
"'S cold where I come from. 'M tired of dyin' of cold," he mumbled.
Denmark's hand found it's way to his hair, and he dared run his fingers through the silky locks. "Think you should be more worried about dying of loneliness," he observed. "How many nations you met yet?"
"Only Sweden, I don't trust folk," Norway said.
"Nations are the only ones who take away the loneliness; humans die too easily."
"…slow to put faith in a friend," Norway hesitated.
"Then be slow!" Denmark protested, making Norway jump. "Be slow, but trust eventually; I can only say to trust me, for I don't know of the motives of others. But I don't follow the words of the gods as strictly – my god is my instinct – and I have trusted you since the moment I set eyes on you."
There blossomed the beginnings of the intricate relationship between the nations of Denmark and Norway. It was one more tightly woven than many nations in the world, and one that survived centuries, conflict, and change. It began with courage, aspiration, and a night entwined in each other. Their friendship would not see so much intimacy for the vast majority of their time spent together, but what was enormous to both of them set the foundations of what they could be.