Then
I still remember the days when we all got along so well. As the youngest country of the group, I was constantly watched over by Norway. Finland would be like the mother hen, rushing around and doing chores. Denmark and Sweden were our big brothers, our protectors. All those years of bliss and peace were carved straight into my soft, impressionistic heart, making them unforgettable.
During the summer, we'd nap on the green meadows of grass and run through tall fields of corn. Denmark would chase me around large boulders, earning a dirty glare from Norway if I fell down. When I was tired, there was always lemonade waiting back at the house.
When the weather grew colder, Norway would often be out grocery shopping for Finland would often be far too preoccupied with Denmark's growing need to attack the decreasing food population in the refrigerator. Sweden would be keeping the fire going with dry wood we had saved from autumn. Everybody was so busy, but I didn't mind.
I watched Finland gently scold Denmark as the latter cheekily slapped away the frustrated nation's hands. Sweden would often be going in and out of the house fetching wood. Norway would return, sending in a gust of icy wind as he kicked the door open, his arms full with large brown bags.
At this point, Denmark would be squatting by the fire, depressed that he would have to wait for another hour for his dinner. Norway's cheeks and nose were a shining red as he sat the groceries on the table top. I reached up for a hug, and the older nation would gently kiss my forehead, tousling my silvery hair. He would pick me up and carry me over to the fire, giving Denmark a rather brutal kick as he placed me on the warm rug.
Handing me a mug of warm apple cider with cinnamon sticks, Norway sat himself beside me as Denmark crawled pitifully back to the fire's side. Lifting me up onto his lap, Norway's hands linked around my stomach as I sipped my winters-day drink. Sweden would slip on the other side of Norway without making a sound, his glasses reflecting the light of the dancing fire. Finland followed carrying a large blanket.
The five of us huddled together underneath the blanket by the fire, my cheek pressed against Norway's chest. Finland would fall asleep, his head resting on Sweden's shoulder, and Denmark would be lost in a daydream.
I was protected, I was loved. There was nothing more I could ask for.
Now
They don't stop. They won't stop. The sounds of shouting and cussing won't stop.
Finland has lost a visible amount of weight, and our dinners were simpler: salad with mashed potatoes on hot days, and chicken broth with lettuce on cold ones. I missed the meat pies that we used to have for tea; but now, Finland was far too tired and preoccupied with the fact that Denmark and Sweden were giving each other verbal abuse and occasional beatings.
I turned to my old source of comfort – Norway. Although our brothers always fought, Norway would always be there to comfort me, trying to stay out of the fights for my sake.
Before I slept, I would always hear loud arguments and a series of colourful language. Putting my hands over ears or smothering my head with a pillow didn't help. Tonight was no different.
Curling up into a fetal position, I hugged my knees and wept softly into them. With salty tears stinging my eyes and trailing down the curve of my cheeks, I bit my lip to stop myself from crying out loud. It wouldn't stop. It couldn't stop.
The door of my room creaked open. A man with fair hair entered the room. Even with what little light there was, I could see the unmistakable iciness and pain in his blue eyes.
I rubbed away my tears, unwilling to let him see me cry. I could tell that he had been put in a difficult spot. His mask of ice was drawn up to hide the pain that now became so visibly raw.
"Ice?" he whispered, sliding into bed beside me. He fitted his knees behind mine, pressing his chest against my back, forming a perfect S shape with our bodies.
Resting the tip of his chin against my mop of silver hair, he linked his arms around my stomach, the way he had done when we were still young. "Do you want apple cider?" he asked softly. I said no.
Norway sighed, folding me even closer to him. I could feel his heartbeat against my back, a reassuring steady thump. "Do you ever wish that we were young again?" he whispered, tucking a lock of my hair behind my ears. Nodding my head, I took hold of his hands with my own, noting the slight difference in the length of our fingertips. I flipped Norway's hand to allow his palm to face me. The skin on the underside of each fingertip and near the base of his thumb was rough; fine, white cracks raced down the sides of his fingers and down to the heart of his palm. I placed my palm over his and examined it – soft, ivory coloured skin which had never seen the sun or heat stared back at me – a reminder that I had always been under protection.
Letting go of my brother's hands, I turned to face him and buried my face into his chest, attempting to fit so tightly to into his larger figure that I wouldn't feel so helpless and small. "Really, how old are you now," I heard Norway murmur as his arms closed around my back, "Because you still act the same as you did when we were children… you haven't changed at all, Ice –"A loud string of profanities cut off Norway in mid-sentence as I instinctively shivered. Sensing this, my big brother pulled me into an even closer embrace.
There was a long pause and silence outside. Somewhere beyond my room, a door was angrily slammed shut. The air grew heavy and thick, choking me, but my brother's voice pulled me back.
"…maybe," he continued, "It's not such a bad thing that some things remain the same."