Here it is- Chapter 3! Sorry if this feels like a bit of a filler, but more exciting things will happen soon :D (please review? Just a single word so I know someone's out there...)
He stood atop the highest tower, watching the lazy slide of the sun beneath the horizon. The sky here was huge, swallowing up everything from the edges of the earth and spreading its colours as far as the eye could see, from eggshell blue to gilded pink. There was not a cloud in the sky, and so the weather was fine and sharp, sending fingers of ice to crawl beneath Norway's cloak. A warm fire awaited him back inside- but he had come here to think. Tomorrow would mark the tenth year of their Kalmar Union. King Eric, as Denmark had predicted, found vivacity with his crown, but lacked all the political nuance of his great-aunt. And Queen Margaret's grip on him lessened with every passing day. But her energy does not. So desperate was she to strengthen the union, Margaret made Eric marry an English princess, tossing aside all of the enmity between their two countries. Norway grimaced, recalling the awkward affair that the ceremony had been. He and the others, forced to smile and be polite with England, shake his hand and compliment the prowess of his people in war. We cannot let go. We still remember. Though perhaps the queen was right; it might be best to put aside old hatred. He inhaled deeply, breathing in cold autumn air, and ventured inside.
It did not take him long to locate Denmark. He stood in the middle of their rooms, directing servants carrying iron-bound chests and occasionally stopping to swear under his breath.
'What's all the fuss?' said Norway, slipping off his cloak. Denmark's face instantly brightened, frown unfolding to be replaced by his signature wide smile.
'We're leaving, did you forget? And everything has to be ready. Sweden's over at the new place, sorting out the furniture.' Norway let out a well-deserved sigh. Of course he had not forgotten. To mark the anniversary (but mainly the continued success) of the union, Queen Margaret had bestowed upon them a house across the other side of the city. 'To thank you for your long services to the crown', she told them. Yet Norway knew better. Ever since King Eric was notified of their existence, he had harboured a burgeoning resentment that only grew with each day- a resentment for their immortality, their eternal youth and strength. For all his charms, the king could not bear to think there was someone more powerful than him. This so-called gift was merely a distraction, something that would take them away from court, and from the king's displeasure. Although he had not confided in anyone so far, Norway could not help but feel apprehensive about moving. These ten years brought change with them. Denmark, grown giddy on power, thought nothing of asking Sweden to saddle his horse, or making Finland write letters for him. They were treated almost as servants- servants who lived in rich rooms and commanded even the queen's respect- but servants nonetheless. It was only made harder when Denmark exerted his natural generosity, buying Sweden and Finland expensive presents, or allowing them more money than they would ever need. But he was very firmly in control, whether he knew it or not.
Norway, to his own shame, felt as though very little had changed in his own life. At least not for the worse. Denmark had become even more affectionate, if that were possible, embracing Norway at every chance he got and no longer bothering to hide their relationship from Sweden. I am iron, tempered in blood and the sorrow of half a dozen centuries. I shatter glass wherever I go. Yet he acts as though I am made of it. He pitied Sweden, it was true- and forgot that pity whenever Denmark's arms wrapped around him. Norway led a charmed life. He only wished that he could do so without guilt constantly worrying at him. Careless of the servants scurrying everywhere, he reached out and gave Denmark a brief hug. Denmark laughed, somewhat confused.
'Nor-'
'Storebror?' a little voice called from the doorway. Iceland stood there, dressed in his nightclothes, pale hair falling into fatigue-huge eyes. Norway felt his chest clench with love. His little brother was one of the few innocent people left that he knew, and the only one to whom there was no guilt attached.
'What is it, lillebror?' he said, picking him up. Iceland kneaded his eye with a small fist.
'I heard people walking around. They woke me up. And they kept dropping things, and Dan was bring loud-'
'Hey!' interrupted Denmark. 'I wasn't that loud!' He ruffled Iceland's hair, making him squint in tired surprise.
'You were.' muttered Norway. 'Come on, I'll tell you a story. But you need to go back to bed now.' Iceland nodded reluctantly.
'Tell me the one about the children under the sea,' he mumbled, already drowsy. A wicked grin split Denmark's face.
'I think you'll find I know that one better than your big brother, Island.' Iceland was too tired to argue otherwise. He let himself be tucked into bed, eyes barely open. Denmark began the story. He had copied it out into their blue book of history, but knew it by heart anyway.
'Down below the white-crested waves, below where light can pierce, there is a kingdom amongst the coral. Few have seen it, but the palace is carved of rose and diamond...' Norway felt his own eyes growing heavy. Contrary to appearances, Denmark had a gift for storytelling. Once, Norway had caught him singing, in a quiet, mellow voice, and filed the event for future blackmail. He let himself be carried away on those imagined waves, savouring a piece of childhood he had never really known.
'No one has seen the sea-children and lived. But sometimes, you might catch a silver fin, a green eye...a pale hand. And you will know they are still there, beneath white-crested waves.' Denmark faded to a whisper. For a moment he stayed utterly still, holding Iceland's small hand in his own. Their eyes were closed, though Denmark still smiled, awake. Norway held his position by the door. Is this what I want? Iceland lulled to sleep by stories every night, the three of us together, one happy family? He did not think he could bear to watch Sweden crumble from the outside as it happened.
'Nor.' He let Denmark take his hand, touch his face. And when the inevitable kiss came, he returned it with all the passion he felt but never spoke, seizing the moment utterly before guilt set in. Norway could feel Denmark's smile beneath his lips, and parted from him a little. 'I lo-' He reunited their faces before Denmark could finish. Hands fumbled at the collar of his shirt. Norway covered them with his own, pushing away gently.
'Not now.' he muttered. He gave Denmark a final kiss, chaste and on the cheek, before stalking hurriedly to his own room and bolting the door. Norway collapsed onto the bed. His heart fluttered like the frantic flaps of a butterfly. What am I doing? It was wrong, unfair, but oh so beautiful, something that felt completely right with every touch. He thought back to the sentence Denmark had never finished. I do too. So much. More than you will ever know.
The fine weather of the day before broke, replaced by snow that stuck to the ground as soon as it fell, hardly melting. A good thing we leave today. Norway had woken that morning with the taste of dark ale in his mouth- an all-too familiar taste. He washed it away surreptitiously, as though there was someone watching and judging.
'Ice?'
'In here.' came his brother's voice. Norway swept in, wrapped in blue-grey wolf fur and with finely tooled leather boots to his knees. Iceland was not so elegant, however. Someone had smothered him in so many layers of sable his face could barely be seen, from above the ball shape he now resembled. 'They said it's going to be cold today,' he piped up, somewhat muffled.
'And they were right,' replied Norway, stifling his laugh. 'Come on, the others are waiting.' They made their way down to the courtyard. Denmark was already ahorse, magnificent bearskin cloak spreading out around him. Norway faintly recalled him killing that bear, some twenty years back. Sweden and Finland eyed him with faint distaste. They broke out into smiles (or at least Finland did) when Norway approached with Iceland.
'I'm glad we're going,' said Finland, ever the diplomat. 'It'll be good for us to be together.'
'And maybe Den can find someone else to sort out his horse.' muttered Sweden. Denmark chuckled good-naturedly.
'Cheer up, Sve. I'll find someone else if it pleases you- it's just you were always the closest person! Anything for my lillebror.' He grinned; Sweden gave a sharp nod.
'I wish you good fortune in you new home.' came a cordial voice from some way back. It was Queen Margaret, stood alone in her fox-fur stole. So the king did not even deign to show his face. 'King Eric sends his regards, and regrets that he could not be here to bid farewell to five of his most loyal subjects.' She smiled down at Iceland, who squeaked in fear. To him, she was the great fire queen of Denmark's stories, someone to be feared. Not the aging woman Norway knew she was now. She let Norway kiss her hand, shook Sweden's, put a friendly arm around Finland, pinched Iceland's cheek. Then she went to Denmark, staring up at him on his great warhorse.
'I do not expect we shall see each other again.' Only Norway was close enough to hear her words. Denmark looked pensive.
'There's always hope. We can visit.' Queen Margaret's smile was almost motherly.
'I doubt that is a good idea. The king- well, yes. I suppose there is hope. But I feel my years beginning to fall away. Husk mig når jeg er væk, Kongeriget Danmark.'
'Of course.' He gripped her hand tightly in his own, then was gone, riding off through the gates ahead of all their luggage wagons and carriages.
'Into the carriage,' Norway told his brother.
'But I want to ride with Dan!' A cold hand clutched at his heart.
'That's not- he wants to be alone right now. He's sad.'
'But why?' cried Iceland, and the whine of his voice cut Norway deeper than any knife.
'Island, do as I say.' They climbed in and closed the door, watching Sweden and Finland ride off ahead. For a fleeting second, Norway wished he could be out there with them. He wanted to feel wind in his hair, snow on his tongue, warmth in his heart. But his little brother had to come first. So they set off slowly. And perhaps that was better- to be away from Denmark until his grief cooled, away from ever-frozen Sweden and silent Finland. Once again, Norway closed off his heart.
Joy reigned in Finland's heart. He rode beside his best friend, free from stuffy council rooms and those rude people who hardly hid their disdain for his accent. Sweden was quiet- he was often quiet these days. Finland prided himself upon his ability to read people, and what he saw was discontent. That puzzled him. Everything they needed was right here. Brothers, friends, a home for them all somewhere along the road. Why should Sweden be unsatisfied, when he had all that? There was only one thing Finland could think of. He gathered that some time before he had come to live here, there had been unease between Denmark and Sweden. They were the oldest, with equally strong personalities that were always trying to overrule the other. And Denmark had Norway. That alone was enough to clench Sweden's hands into fists, set his blood boiling. For all his stoic pretenses, he was breaking down inside. He needs someone to hold him together. If only to match Denmark. Finland had done his best to be that someone. He spent time with Sweden, talking and drinking, probing carefully until he could say he knew the man better than anyone- than the two who called themselves his brothers. But it did not seem to be enough.
'Ruotsi.' That seemed to make Sweden happy- speaking to him in a tongue only Finland understood. 'Were we told how far it is to the house?' Sweden was silent for a moment as he pondered.
'An hour, maybe more.' That brought the brief conversation to an abrupt end. Finland gave himself to the snow, tipping back his head to feel the white flakes caress his skin. The cold is so beautiful. Snowflakes, icicles, a frozen lake one chilly morning. There is nothing better. He grinned at old memories- memories of leaping into those lakes clad in nothing but his own skin, then sprinting back to the warmth of the sauna amongst friends whose faces had blurred with time. Everything good in his life had come through cold. Meeting Sweden- how that had changed things. I learnt that I was not alone. And that meant more than anything.
They rode on in companionable silence. Finland made several attempts to rekindle the conversation, all soon extinguished by Sweden's monotone replies. But he did not care. Surely Sweden would see sense soon, would reconcile with Denmark and Norway before they drifted away forever. They need each other. They cannot exist without each other. And that was the sad truth of it: they might accept Sweden, treat him as a treasured friend, but at the end of the day, they could manage without him. Finland could imagine nothing sadder. You are wanted, he thought desperately, trying to transmit his thoughts to Sweden. You are needed. I need you.
He became so engrossed in those thoughts, he hardly noticed when they came through the gates of their new home.
'Fin,' mumbled Sweden. 'We're here.'
'Oh, yes!' He dismounted, resuming his place at Sweden's elbow. 'I hope they've set out the vodka, like I asked.' That at least earned him a smile. Finland stared up at the house- mansion, really, his jaw dropping in amazement. It was beautiful, a four-storey wonder of polished wood and carven stone, leaden windows glittering here and there. A set of polished marble steps led to the front door, which was guarded by two sentries. Finland made a mental note to write his thanks to Queen Margaret as soon as possible. Even the royal castle was not so luxurious as this. They entered, only to find Denmark pacing up and down the hallway anxiously.
'Nor and Ice here yet?' he said when they came in. Sweden shook his head. His eyes were rather dull, boring into Denmark like deep blue spears. 'Anyway, I'll show you your rooms! Sve, yours-'
'We'll go up ourselves. Thank you.' added Sweden, with a sarcasm that may or may not have been imagined. Denmark was not deterred.
'Cheer up, lillebror!' He threw an arm around Sweden's shoulders. Only Finland saw him flinch. 'You don't have to be my servant anymore. Happy?'
'Barely.' muttered Sweden, though it was lit with a little smile.
'Good! C'mon Fin, let's find that vodka!' Finland responded with customary enthusiasm, though inside a cold feeling of unease had settled. Please let this work. Please let them make up. Please. He did not think he had ever wanted anything more.
