Chapter 3: Stroke, Stroke, Stroke

Iceland found himself on a small boat bouncing cheerily among the choppy waters of the Baltic Sea, sitting next to Denmark, who with a beer in his hand and a smile on his face enjoyed the gloriously sunny day. At the prow, Sweden, with a familiar gleam to his eye, as he surveyed the sea he had navigated for thousands of years. Norway, on the other hand, insisted on hiding the little smile that turned his mouth as the boat soared over dark blue water—he knew the northern oceans better than any map, but he seemed captivated by the waves anyway, as though he sat on a boat for the first time.

But before they had stepped on Norway's boat—Norway decided that traveling to Oslo was top priority for sailing as soon as their time as visitors at Sweden's house expired—Finland raised an important subject: lifejackets.

"Lifejackets?" Norway raised an eyebrow. "We didn't have life jackets when we were Vikings, did we, Sweden?"

"'Course not." Sweden said stonily. Even then, a life jacket wouldn't save him from bumps and bruises when the ocean's violent swells threw him into the about in the boat. Once or twice—no, many more than that—the tempestuous seas knocked him out of the boat. Norway too had, indeed, been thrown out of a boat by cruel, resentful waves, nearly killing him numerous times, but now that he remembered those moments, he found himself yearning for that sort of excitement.

"W-Well, I'd like to point out that you two are excellent swimmers…" Finland said nervously. They had to be, more out necessity than habit or well—Sweden, Norway, and even Denmark swam very well, with distinctly powerful strokes and efficient breathing techniques.

"Don't worry, Finland." Denmark gave Finland a hearty pat on the back, huge grin gleaming in the warm sunlight. "Lifejackets are for pansies. I'll save you if anything happens. I'm a pro at all this Viking stuff, believe me." To emphasize his point, Denmark added a charming wink.

"I know that…but still." Finland said diffidently, stepping onto the boat.

And so the escapade began.

Three minutes into their voyage, Denmark busted out the alchol and sipped beer as he happily reminisced about the good old Viking ages with Sweden and Norway. Denmark always had riveting stories to tell, and whether they were from three days ago or a thousand years ago they were always fresh and exciting. Finland and Iceland listened, utterly fascinated, with the tales the three had to offer. Iceland privately thought that Denmark had the potential to become a wildly popular author. Write under an alias and give a recount of his times as an epic Viking in stunning detail

"Yeah, this one time I was attacked by a huge ass…" Denmark frowned and waved his hands around, searching for the word. "Well, I don't even know what to call it."

"Grendel?" Iceland offered. Finland caught the reference and chuckled.

"Nah, worse than him," Denmark waved a hand. "It was a fish, four times the sizes of a man, with claws and razor sharp teeth. He attacked my boat but I carved his eyes out with my axe as he tossed us around. The sea turned red— and I mean crimson red, a wondrous shade of red—and I never saw him again."

"Good work." Sweden said with a sincere nod. He, like Denmark and Norway, was uncannily familiar with the nuisances commonly encountered in the northern seas. It was Norway, however, who faced the strongest, strangest monsters, seen the deaths of hundreds, and ruled the seas from his place at the bow of his boat, sword in hand. Iceland privately thought that was the main reason he was impossible to faze. And also why Norway, even though he was the designated captain of the boat, didn't pay attention to where they were going—not that he needed to.

As Iceland studied the three, it was difficult to believe they were once Vikings. Norway sat primly with his legs crossed, uniform spotless and pressed, not one blond hair out of place. Swede's tidy, short haircut and stylish glasses perched on his nose sharply contrasted the idealized look of a typical Viking. Even Denmark, "King of Northern Europe," looked too clean cut to have been a Viking, with that smile of straight white teeth (thanks to four years of braces) and glowing face. Iceland tried to picture them with long, scraggly beards and giant, rippling muscles. The thought of Sweden with a beard made him snort with amusement, earning him a few looks from the others.

But now that Iceland thought about it, Norway as a Viking was just as neat as he was today. Then again, he was too young to remember much at all. He did remember one bit, though, but it was a memory faded to the point where Iceland wondered if it really happened. It was a freezing day what would soon become Reykjavik. Iceland recalled being snuggled by Norway, who had tucked him under a thick, impermeable cloak, and held the trembling Iceland close to his warm body. Iceland wondered if Norway remembered, too, or if it had all been some feverish dream. Oh, but of course Iceland was not even going to ask.

"Man, we were a fearsome, wild bunch." Denmark said with a content sigh. He took a long swig from his beer. "What happened to us?"

"Common sense on humanity's part." Norway muttered.

"Modernization." Sweden answered.

Denmark shrugged and finished his beer, sighing once again. Acceptable, but underwhelming answers.

"'S nice t' be one h'ndred percent civ'lized." Sweden added.

"I like being in one place." Norway said. He meant it very loosely—Norway frequently visited the fjords or went boating. Unfortunately, Denmark regularly forced him to visit him in Copenhagen, which foiled Norway's plans of solitude; then again, the next best situation was subtly teasing and insulting Denmark. Most insults passed right over him, which brought a wonderful thrill to Norway as he witnessed—that is Denmark's idiocy in action. Luckily (for Norway, at least), Denmark enjoyed traveling all over central Europe, hunting for nightlife. Even when he stayed in Copenhagen, Denmark spent very little time at his house, preferring instead to go out and about on his bike, visit old friends (literally—he was friends with a ninety five year old man that he met during the crisis of World War Two), hang out at cafes and shamelessly flirt with pretty Danish women.

As for Finland, he tended to roam around Helsinki and mingle with the locals or visit his best friend, Estonia, in Tallinn. Sweden typically limited himself to Stockholm, where he lived in a modern, tasteful house. However, he allowed himself pleasant getaways to the countryside once in a while. Iceland was highly skilled at ostracizing himself from humanity, which is what he normally did back home. Once a week he'd make a quick trip to the inner city…if he felt like it. Iceland rarely ran out of things to do in his house. He could play video games, read, browse the internet, daydream, walk around outside with his puffin buddy, daydream some more, draw, write, do a puzzle…it was common for him to discover new crevices in his large house that prompted his imagination to start forming a scenario as to why such a room was hidden in the first place.

"What was the worst part about being a Viking?" Finland asked, tilting his head to the side with curiosity. Denmark and Sweden exchanged glances with Norway, as if they were telepathically agreeing on the negative parts of sailing the seas.

"Cloudy nights." Norway said. Sweden and Denmark nodded in agreement. "It's difficult to see the North Star and distinct cloud formations when it's cloudy. That's what I mainly navigated by."

"The best part is all the fighting!" Denmark said enthusiastically, finishing his second beer. He owned anyone and everyone with that massive axe. Despite the massive size of his trusty axe, Denmark managed it like it was extension of his arm; and with grace and elegance he cut down his enemies. "And exploring the new land, the exhilarating feeling of claiming what's yours. But about the battles—I was slashed in the side one time by this one guy. I still have the scar." Denmark lifted his shirt and pointed to a thick, knotted scar that arced neatly inches under his last rib, running from back to front and highly conspicuous. "I lived, but barely. It got infected and I didn't walk for two weeks. I'm pretty sure I was in a coma for the first week. My right hand man had my burial prepped." Fever-induced delirium rendered him oblivious to the otherwise unbearable pain, and Denmark hardly remembered anything than the blood and pus that seeped from the festering wound.

"An' the North Atlantic's brutal." Sweden put in. "'Course, our boats were made f'r that. But the sea was so vicious 't seemed alive." He remembered a time when a fellow shipmate was picked up by a wave as it if had fingers, claws; and swept off the boat, never to be seen again.

"The sea was alive." Denmark said in all seriousness, blue eyes glinting ominously. "This sea right now is not the one we sailed. See how calm it is?"

"It's ridiculously calm." Norway said, rare conviction and disgust tingeing his voice.

Iceland wanted to object—the sea was choppy today, roiled by the wind, and Iceland began feeling to feeling the effects of the pitching and rolling in the form of a headache. Naturally, neither of Vikings noticed.

"I think it's because you three are so used to the sea that you don't notice it anymore." Iceland said reasonably. Denmark raised an eyebrow and studied Iceland critically before grunting noncommittally and glancing at his fellow former Vikings, once again having a telepathic conversation.

"Could be." Sweden murmured.

Denmark, unsatisfied with Iceland's opinion, shrugged. He wanted the boat to become airborne with violent waves, to get a bit of a rush of excitement in his blood as his stomach leaped with the boat.

"Iceland may be right." Norway said with an indecipherable scowl. He paused to look out at the horizon, deep blue sky against the dark waters, waves topping with chalky white sea foam. Sweden leaned over the starboard and dipped a few fingers in the sea. It was warm today, about eighteen degrees Celsius or sixty five degrees Fahrenheit.

"Guys, not going to lie, it's really choppy today." Finland said tensely. Denmark pulled Finland into a friendly noogie, laughing at his comment.

"Y' think?" Sweden said, resting his arms on the starboard rail. He too disagreed.

"Yeah. The boat's not going to flip, is it?" Finland asked. He gazed fixedly at the hazy shore far, far, away, a sad look to his eye if wishing they were closer so he could enjoy flat land.

"Nah." Denmark said. He was almost choking poor Finland. Denmark opened up a sixth beer and offered some to Finland. His intentions were good, but Finland politely declined. He wondered if Denmark was even capable of getting a hangover. He was on his sixth beer at the moment, and showed no signs of intoxication. But this was to be expected from someone with titanic alcohol tolerance.

"Hypothetical question—if we flip, then what do we do?" Finland inquired. "None of us are wearing lifejackets."

"Relax, already! Do you want me to flip the boat over? Because I can do that." Denmark said fiercely, rolling his eyes. The boat's size—a very small motorsailer—would make it quite easy to capsize. Change the position of the sail and place all the weight on one side. Norway would probably be able to explain the physics of such a phenomenon.

"Seriously!" Finland insisted, flailing his arms about. "I have a feeling we're going to capsize. Are we supposed to swim to shore or what?"

"No, we float in the ocean until a shark eats us." Denmark said with scathing sarcasm. "If it capsizes, we pull it back up. There's a little thingy on the bottom called a keel that Norway can stand on, which will flip the boat upright. Plus, we're not going to capsize. So have a beer and be quiet."

Iceland then noticed something. The waves were rough, rocking the boat from side to side, and the the boat was unbalanced—four people sat on one side, now that Norway had relocated next to Finland for better a better view, leaving Iceland alone on the opposite side of the boat. Iceland had noticed a bit of tipping with the weight of the others, just enough to stand out among the pitching, rolling, and rocking of the old, tiny boat. The Vikings hadn't noticed—they continued to dazzle Finland with stories. Then, Iceland looked at the sails, were full and taut with the maritime wind. What would happen if the boat did capsize…?

Surreptitiously, Iceland decided to take a seat next to Sweden, placing all of the weight on one side of the boat. The boat tipped further, but Finland was so enthralled he didn't notice the sea getting closer and closer, waves spraying him. Norway was reading a book, heedless to the ocean nearby. Denmark and Sweden were exchanging adventures, also ignoring or immune to the tipping. Meanwhile, Iceland smirked at his own mischievous endeavors, but that smile was gone the second he was dunked in frigid, brackish water. Upon coming up for air among the tough waves, his stomach sank to see that Sweden, Norway and Denmark had foreseen the capsize, and were nice and dry, holding on to the opposite side of the boat.

"Not to worry!" Denmark called out with a hearty laugh. He swung a long, muscular leg over the side of the boat in unison with Norway. Meanwhile, Sweden deftly loosened the sails, and so they, like the boat, floated sideways in among the sapphire waves. And then, without a word between the three of them, Norway and Denmark placed their weight on the protrusive keel and flipped the boat upright, vaulting over the rail lithely as the boat returned to its Norway position. Sweden, in this process, had timed his release of the rail so that he landed firmly on the floor of the boat as it shot out of the water. The ordeal took less than twenty seconds and they were dry as they had been before the capsize. Not only that, the three of them had performed the procedure with masterful skill and lissome grace. Had they really been Vikings? Iceland couldn't put the words Viking and graceful in one sentence.

Sweden easily pulled Finland out of the water, and Iceland didn't even notice his brother's gloved hand thrust in his face, in a gesture to pull Iceland back on the boat, because he was awed by their skill.. He grabbed Norway's warm hand, and in a single, fluid motion, Iceland was sitting down comfortably (but freezing). At once, Norway busied himself with raising sails and steering in the direction of land. Iceland felt envy thrum within him, but at the same time he wanted to learn to sail and right a boat just as well as they did.

"…And that's how you right a capsized boat!" Denmark laughed. Finland, freezing, found not an ounce of humor in the situation, and fixed such an impassioned lower on Denmark than even Iceland found himself a bit threatened.

While Denmark tittered and moved away from Finland, Sweden shed his jacket and wrapped it around Finland's shoulders. Denmark and Norway followed suit, but Denmark, instead of wrapping his shirt around Finland's shaking shoulders, laced it tightly around his neck. Once again, Finland was nearly asphyxiated by Denmark.

"Another thing I learned as a Viking. The neck is the weak spot for weapons and weather." Denmark said, wagging a finger. Sweden nodded in agreement. Iceland then noticed Norway giving Iceland a cadet blue stare through narrowed eyes.

"This won't do." He said. Norway's eyebrow quirked downward in disapproval. He too removed his jacket and tossed it to Iceland. "Put that on and fold your arms against your chest. I will find you clothing once we are back on land."

The sails were adjusted and they were propelled back to shore, soaring over the waves. Denmark got his share of boat leaps on the way back to the dock, as the choppy water had broken into rough waves the set the boat into a arrhythmic, up and down motion. At one point, Denmark had timed his own jumps with the random pitches of the boat, catapulting him higher into the air.

"How are you feeling?" Norway asked Iceland out of the blue.

"Fine." Cold, but other than that, Iceland felt refreshed. "This is fun."

That remark elicited a flicker of enthusiasm to light Norway's dull eyes. He gave what Iceland thought was a highly reserved, restrained smile. Norway brushed hair out of his eyes and gazed fixedly at Iceland, prompting him to elaborate. Iceland hated it when Norway did this…he felt like he was in a classroom.

"It's exciting. And the water is pretty. Also, it's fun to go fast." Iceland felt his bullshit answer wouldn't pass, since Norway is the critical, judgmental type, but Norway gave a stern nod in agreement.

"Any time you'd like to visit me we can sail." Norway offered. Maritime wind lifted his soft, wavy blond hair from the side of his face.

Iceland tried to smile, but he gave up, as it felt too awkward. He appreciated the offer, but coming from the vague, myserious Norway, Iceland didn't exactly know how to react, much less the protocol for accepting his offer.

"Um, sure." Iceland replied.

Iceland liked Norway, he really did—the landmass, at least, with its nice weather and foliage. But being around his brother still sent spasms of tension down Iceland's spine. He had no real reason to feel so uneasy around Norway; they were on good terms, after all, but lacked the glue that held siblings together, which caused Iceland to balk at the idea of socializing or even being seen in public with his big brother, especially since the two had spent many years apart while Norway raided the seven seas and claimed continents as his own during the crux of the Viking Ages. That, and Iceland knew very little about Norway—they were blood relatives but Norway was still a stranger. Iceland knew his age and his birthday, which passed about two weeks ago, but that was about it. Iceland couldn't say anything for sure about him. It was safe to say that Norway loved the ocean, or at least sailing, but Iceland wouldn't make any deductions.

"I love the ocean." Norway said impassively, turning his gaze to the sea. With his markedly jaded drawl, it was impossible to take his words to heart when he spoke of something he liked as if he were about to fall asleep.

"I like it too." Iceland replied.

Once on shore, they trekked to Norway's house. His house was on a green hill, overlooking the sea. Interestingly enough, Norway's house home was very orderly and strangely inviting, and Iceland caught an aroma of detergent and light whiff of paper as he stepped into the foyer. Iceland also noticed a definitive, primarily blue color scheme when in the décor. For some particular reason, Iceland noted the minor details of a person's house, such as smell, decorations, scuffs on the floor, and even temperature. If Norway hadn't been so firm in telling them to stay in the foyer, Iceland would've wandered upstairs by now and taken a peek in every room.

Norway returned, holding neatly folded clothing for both of them. For Iceland, he had navy slacks and a white dress shirt. For Finland, he brought a dark blue dress shirt and gray slacks. Iceland, who resembled Norway in figure and height, would fit into his clothes. Finland, four or five inches shorter than Norway, would be rolling up his pants and shirt.

"What about underwear?" Denmark sniggered, sporting that classic look of Denmark-smugness. He waggled his eyebrows at Norway and shifted his gaze to Sweden, who looked deadpan as always. He and Norway were too mature to even smile at the situation that Denmark clearly found amusing.

"That's their problem." Norway said coldly, unfazed by Denmark's remark. He pointed vaguely down the corridor and said, "Bathroom is down the hall." Norway drew breath to speak but then cut himself off. He paused, deliberating, making a decision hidden behind those guarded blue eyes. He almost grimaced, and then forced out the words "Go ahead and make yourselves comfortable. You may stay one night."

"They'll need underwear then, am I right?" Denmark said, smirking.

"Fine." Norway harrumphed, shooting an irritated look Denmark's way. Denmark replied with a goofy, radiant smile and made a move to scamper off to the living room to catch some cheesy Norwegian TV shows— but before he did so, he turned to Norway and popped the most important question of the night.

"Great, so when's dinner?" Denmark inquired, grinning widely as he kicked off his shoes. Norway winced as if he had been stabbed by ten needles of various calibers as Denmark's heavy black boots slammed into his wall. Denmark, oblivious to his faux pas, rocked back and forth with pent up energy on his socked feet as he watched Norway expectantly. Sweden and Norway scowled at his blatantly mismatched socks.

Denmark's inquiry made Norway realize how overly generous and idealistic his offer was, and the cruel reality that Norway couldn't stuff those words back in his mouth. With a heavy sigh, he lumbered to the kitchen with Denmark and Sweden hot on his heels.