Part two, finally. Also there is some time skipping.
Six months before sovereignty returned to the people—King Oscar stepped down, cut off his and his descendants' right to the Norwegian throne—Norway stood in Stockholm with members of government. He was dressed in a grey suit. Grey pants, grey coat, white linen shirt. The pants pulled in a bit, but no-one could tell. All garments made and tailored in countries further south.
The king was refusing Norway's ministry's resignation.
There's no way they would work unless there was a separate Norwegian consul service. So that Norway could officially deal with other countries.
He himself would like to send letters again, signed with his name only. The Kingdoms of Sweden and Norway was a bit tedious, and most of the time the letters had nothing to do with Sweden anyway. What did Sweden care about Spanish wine?
Sweden himself is present. Standing near the king but behind him, dressed in a grey suit too. The things that distinguish them are their face expressions and heights: Sweden, still taller though Norway has definitely become taller; Sweden, frowning more than usually, and Norway is as unreadable as ever. But this time his coolness is at least meaningful. He is displaying how much he has matured.
"Absolutely not," the Swedish and Norwegian king said. These two countries have shared a single consul for the course of the union and it has been what it has been, and it is still here. "I cannot accept your resignation now, as no other cabinet can now be formed."
No other cabinet. They heard this, paid it special note. In a way it was the best thing that could happen light of the king's veto.
The ministry refused—resigned anyways. Left for Christiania that day, knowing that if their king had declared he was unable to form a government, he was no longer their king.
Norway had watched Sweden throughout the whole encounter. The whole time a frown, becoming more and more a grimace. Over the past 91 years, that grimace had become more and more the expression Sweden had in Norway's presence.
And now, it meant nothing to Norway; Sweden could grimace until his nose fell off for all he cared.
Sweden realised this, but the way he acted—as if anything he had ever done had any of the intended effects on Norway. Not just the country, the person.
Norway's pace was normal, and his steps were silent on the way out. On the way back to his capital he thought about mountains, and who would probably congratulate him on becoming his own power.
xxx
The butterfly had died three days later, despite what had been a genuine effort to keep it alive.
When it had died Norway felt no regret—he had tried. What had happened was natural. By definition good, so why would he have felt bad about it?
Sweden never found out about it, but after that the only time he ever gave Norway gifts was for Jul. Things like a new fountain pen, wool socks, a bottle of saffron, a shirt from Italy that would lead to a discovery of foreign fashion.
In turn, Sweden was always given practical gifts. A paintbrush with a card: your bedroom is a terrible shade of yellow.
xxx
One time Finland had been to visit. Russia, never one to regard a guest list, was there too, stalking them even to the small dinner taken after an extended walk through Stockholm. Norway had opted out, was hungry by the time Finland and Sweden had gotten back.
Finland had walked in after Sweden, still talking and almost smiling. Still talking as they took off their boots.
"Y' sh'uld see it 'n spr'ng," Sweden said, referring to his capital city just then whitened and muddy by the season's second snow fall.
"Yes," Finland said, knowing that even then Russia was just a few rooms away. He moved his head in a certain way and continued, "I would like that very much."
Norway had seen it, had imagined Finland leaning into Sweden. Sweden would have gotten flustered, and Finland might have jumped into Sweden's arms.
Only he knew that that would never happen. They were countries, and he sat through dinner without a word as Finland's talk about snow and rediscovered Finnish recipes had filled the room out to the dust-free corners.
"Half a metre is quite a lot," and, "when was the last time the Sound froze over…"
"Do'sn't matt'r."
"Oh, but don't you think it's strange? The sound can freeze and the Baltic sea can become cut off! But you still have a way out, if you need it. You can just ship through Norja's ports. What a nice thing…"
"Tr''de's 'n 'mportant p'rt of th' 'con'my."
"Yes! It's interesting, with an economy it'-"
And the topics had not been consistent. Finland provided the bulk of the conversation, the bulk of information and rambling, and Sweden had commented time and again with something that made Finland derail with something else vaguely related. With no real hint that Finland had no idea how to respond to Sweden, could only talk about something he could say something about.
Norway had watched them talk around each other, not at or to each other. He also listened to the thuds coming from under the table as Finland occasionally kicked his legs out. The clinking of a fork being pushed around a plate.
xxx
Norway knew that Sweden didn't touch Finland once through the visit, just as Finland knew Sweden hadn't touched Norway once in fifty-five years.
They shook hands when Finland left, and Norway felt nothing, neither for or against him.
xxx
The man shows them the picture that has just developed, of the three them standing together. Denmark, smiling, standing to the right of Norway. Sweden, his face almost in profile and his eyes down on the viewer, where the camera must have been when the photo was taken. He is to the left of Norway. He is further away from Norway. Norway, in the middle, is looking straight at the viewer. His suit has the impression of being too large for him—the shoulders are filled out, but they can't be that high, otherwise his neck would be smaller.
And his face: he is smiling, but it would not be the first thing you would notice. Rather it would be Denmark, who dominates from the side, his arm around Norway's shoulder, a smile that looks like he owns the world. That is his usual smile but for the moment there was a reason for it.
"Ya look great, Nor—we look great!" Denmark says, holding the photo for Norway to see. At such an angle that Sweden must stand behind them if he would like to see it. "See, 'nd ya smiled!"
He points to Norway's small black and white, as if he needs to indicate, it's real, it's real! He hasn't seen Norway in almost ninety two years, that he can count, but he can't count how many it's been since he's seen Norway with a positive physical expression. Of any kind. And not just at he himself, but at anything at all.
Norway looks blank for a moment. Then he says, "I did. You can let go of me now, you."
Denmark, still smiling, looks down at Norway—not quite as far as he used to have to, but he still has to tilt his head and he doesn't mind. If there's one thing he minds about Norway it is this "new" language Norway has with words that don't sound like his but are. But he doesn't mind so much that he complains today. The weather on the ferry ride to Christiana was more stressful.
"Hey, 'nd Sweden's face—"
"He looks like usual," Norway says, and takes the photo from Denmark. He has a pen. Quickly he writes on it—Christiana, '05. Danish prince is Norwegian king and puts it away in his jacket so Denmark can't see it.
He puts his hand around Denmark's wrist and looks up. "Well."
"It w's a n'ce p'ct're," Sweden says. Sweden, who could have used his height to see Norway's quick memo. Who had looked away. "We 'll man'ged to st'nd st'll."
"Of course, ya bastard," Denmark says, lifting his arm up and taking a swing at Sweden—what looks like a punch until he clamps his hand down on Sweden's shoulder. "We needed it to look good."
"Y'rs was th' m'st 'maz'ng."
Denmark is all at once annoyed. Then it is gone, he laughs and hits Sweden on the back. "Yer the amazing one, ya bastard, ya managed to make Nor Swedish."
Sweden begins to become red, his brow furrows, and he mumbles something in Swedish.
Norway says, "it's amazing he survived me."
Now Denmark turns and pats—not slaps—Norway's back, and it soon happens that his hand is around Norway's shoulder and they are walking, walking in the general direction of the harbour.
Later on, after they get up from lunch at a cafe, Norway's keys slip in his pocket and begin to clink together as the nations walk. He doesn't stop to fish in his pocket to fix them because Denmark has a ferry to catch, and Sweden is already lagging behind again. Denmark doesn't want him to catch up when he has so many things yet to say to Norway. As they walk Denmark talks and Norway listens between glimpses of things the jingling of his keyes remind him of: glasses rattling in a train, the Sunday call to prayer, the bells of sleighs. The bells of sleighs, the sound of which fades as the sleighs travel away from each other.