Chapter 10: To be or Not to be
After meeting up with Níðhöggr , the absolutely terrifying but friendly dragon, Sweden and Norway rowed everyone back to the cottage. They almost flew over the fjord's deep waters, and no matter how much Iceland stared at the rippled, navy blue, he couldn't get tired of it. There was something about these waters that the ocean did not have, nor the many geysers and streams in his land. The fjord's waters teemed with something that Iceland could not put his finger on.
But now, two weeks after that, Iceland was in Oslo, floating in a tiny green dinghy on the ocean. Denmark and Norway rowed as Denmark made nice conversation with anyone who would reply.
Oslo looked very nice that afternoon, as the bright emerald trees gleamed in the gracious August sunlight. The buildings were colorful cakes mounted on a platter of cobblestones. Iceland was actually quite hungry. Hungrier than normal, anyway, since hunger seemed to be an ubiquitous visitor due to his age.
But he would rather be in Reykjavik. He was only there for five days before Denmark showed up and abducted him. Indeed, Denmark had showed up at Iceland's house one morning looking spiffy in his military uniform. Denmark had flown in from Nuuk, Greenland (he was supposedly conducting business there, and not the good kind—Denmark looked drained and haggard, but masked such feelings masterfully). He charmed Iceland's maids, who let him in and served him cake, even though Iceland had given a stringent order to never let anyone in the house. Iceland went downstairs for breakfast, and the next thing he knew he was soaring over the North Atlantic en route to Oslo and sitting in first class next to Denmark. Denmark attracted many looks in his well-fitted uniform, and was blissful with all the attention.
Iceland's brooding was interrupted by Norway.
"Níðhöggr liked you," Norway said out of the blue.
"Is that a good thing?" Iceland questioned, raising an eyebrow. He wasn't sure he wanted a dragon of death hovering nearby because of fondness.
"Of course," Norway replied loftily.
"Wait. Isn't Níðhöggr the one that almost killed you?" Iceland asked.
"I've been almost killed many times, Iceland," Norway said evasively.
Sweden leaned close to Iceland and whispered, "Níðhöggr did alm'st kill Norge."
"Back in the day, Norway was crazy." Denmark explained with a pompous wave of his hand. Memories shone in his bright blue eyes. "He'd kill anything that defied him."
"That was you, Denmark." Norway said flatly.
"No way—I was nice." Denmark replied. "Sweden was the ruthless one."
"D'n't g pointin' fingers," Sweden said darkly, glowering at Denmark over the rims of his glasses. "'r I'll be pointin' sw'rds at y'."
"Oh, really?" Denmark smirked. "Challenge accepted."
"Yeah, whatever. No one cares that you people conquered the seas or whatever." Iceland mumbled. "Man, I expect to hear something about Hyrule or Ganondorf or Zelda next."
Strike two for Iceland. The oars "slipped" from Norway's hands, Denmark stopped rowing altogether and turned his whole body around to face Iceland. Sweden simply balled his hands up into tight knuckles and went a little red in the face. Finland had, long ago, declared neutrality in these matters. He had proclaimed neutrality some eight or nine centuries ago when he committed the faux pas of actually saying that he didn't believe in the Norse gods out loud during a rather rowdy bacchanal. Not only was he almost slain, burned at stake, and stabbed, Finland was chased out of the village. (Finland escaped the fatal torture because the partygoers were too drunk to run after him—and Finland was a notoriously speedy runner).
"Do we have to show you a faerie, too, or should we throw him into the sea and call Jörmungandr?" Denmark snapped.
"I'm not saying I'm a nonbeliever," Iceland said calmly. He suppressed an eye roll. These people were so touchy about their Viking days. "I'm saying that you guys are fighting over who was the most badass. Newsflash: you're not Vikings anymore."
Iceland was met with mutinous silence until Norway spoke up.
"Once a Viking, always a Viking." Norway said somberly. This phrase was well received by the others, and while he spoke it, Norway made sure to aim a glowing, foreboding gaze at Iceland. Iceland lowered back evenly. He wasn't going to let Norway win this one.
"I second that." Sweden and Denmark said in unison. "We have battle scars to prove it."
"Not this again…" Iceland groaned.
Iceland felt a warm hand touch his arm and looked up to see Finland, staring pointedly at him.
"Drop the subject. Just trust me on this one." Finland chuckled.
"They're kind of strange." Iceland said. He felt idiotic for not acknowledging their eccentricities earlier. The whimsicalities of Sweden, Norway, and Denmark had passed right over him before because hadn't spent as much time with them. But now, since he saw them quite often, Iceland had really begun to notice quirks and habits that made them undesirable to be with in public. He wasn't going to forget Norway's stripping just to show some fancy scar from a dragon.
"It's endearing, though, isn't it?" Finland said with an apologetic gleam to his eyes. He gestured toward Norway, who was staring intensely at the horizon as if some dream or drug trip was unfolding before his eyes.
"Not really, no." Iceland said. "They're grown men."
"But young at heart, and that's very important for nations like us." Finland pointed out.
"I guess." Iceland reluctantly agreed. Then something else came to mind. "But wait a minute—Finland, do Moomins exist in real life?"
Moomins were Finland's other obsession, besides Hanatamago, salmiakki, saunas, and Christmas. It then struck Iceland that Finland was pretty weird himself. And Finland only smiled in response to the question. Yes, it was one of those smug, uncharacteristic smiles that rarely appeared on Finland's face.
"Now, Iceland, after all this mess, would I really tell you?" Finland said. But then, Finland looked depressed. "I miss Tove so much."
Luckily, the voyage ended right as Norway moored dinghy to a small dock. Iceland was reminded of the fjords, where, upon returning from visiting the dragon, they still had a craggy cliff to scale. But up top was not a cottage but Norway's actual house.
The wooden boards bent under Sweden's weight, but nobody seemed to notice the splintering sounds as they walked over each board. Iceland followed the others through a thicket of foliage and up to the back entrance to Norway's house. After fiddling with the keys for a while, the door was finally unlocked. But as soon as Norway eased the door open, a morbidly obese imp scampered out of the house, wailing and prophesying something, hysterical. And nobody was remotely surprised by this at all. Finland said hello, Sweden glanced at it, and Denmark laughed when the fat imp tripped over its own feet and fell on its face. Not even Iceland was unsettled by seeing an hysterical imp scamper out of Norway's house like a bat out of hell. The imp rolled around on the ground for a bit, speaking in garbled Old Norse, until Norway commanded it to shut up and go away.
All in a day's work.
Norway's house was quite popular for three reasons: he had tasty food in his kitchen, his house smelled really good, and there were plenty of secret rooms and places to explore. The final reason had been to fed Iceland's ears as well as curiosity by Denmark, who promised to take Iceland on an adventure in Norway's house. Iceland planned on bringing the sensible Finland with him just in case.
Norway gave them a basic, absentminded tour of the house. It was then Denmark asked to visit Norway's room, so Norway reluctantly agreed and led them to a room at the end of the second floor's Western corridor. The door was ajar, and Norway simply tapped the door with the toe of his boot to open it wider and let everyone in.
At once, Finland and Sweden began to fidget with discomfort, as the two were notorious neat freaks that balked at the sight of a cluttered house. But Iceland didn't mind, although he certainly didn't expect Norway's room to look this bad.
It was spacious yet comfortable. The walls were a deep, crimson red. All the furniture was made of some dark wood, walnut, Iceland assumed. But Iceland knew exactly what made the room feel so homey and welcoming. There was an incredible amount of clutter in Norway's room. Clothing, ranging from military uniforms to sweaters and designer jeans were slung around the posts of his king size bed. Norway's bed was a wreck, with the sheets coming off, revealing the mattress. Blankets in varying shades of dark blue, heaped at the foot of the bed, threatening to slip off the bed as they hovered above the spotless, smooth wood floors. Pillows had been set or drifted at strange angles near the headboard, and Iceland counted seven pillows.
On Norway's bedside table a lamp stood precariously close to the edge, for books and tomes alike were stacked precariously on every available space on the table. Like the star on a Christmas tree, a glass of white wine topped a particularly high stack of books. The books were timeworn, featuring yellow pages and tiny, grainy font. Iceland was able to note this because there was a book resting open on Norway's bed.
Large windows let light slant freely into the room. No curtains, as Norway was a firm believer and fond of the 'early to bed, early to rise' and 'the early bird gets the worm' maxims. Rarely did he sleep in past seven or eight. Norway used the morning hours as a time of uninterrupted meditation and reflection.
A massive bookshelf scaling from floor to ceiling claimed a significant part of the northern wall. Books were jammed tightly together. It was starting to become increasingly obvious that Norway was an avid bookworm. Iceland expected this, since Norway had the characteristic dreaminess but firm grasp of reality that writers often displayed. And since he was the one that penned Norse mythology and other tales, Iceland wasn't surprised at all. Conveniently placed, there was a sitting area close by. A dress shirt was flung over an armrest and a pair of black leather boots rested on the floor just by the leg of an armchair. Mounted on the opposite wall, a shelf displayed odd artifacts.
A sleek laptop resided on Norway's desk, barricaded by stacks of official papers, letters, and folders and some more books, with pens and pencils strewn all over the desk. Kroner acted as paper weights on determinedly crumpled banknotes. There was a plate of food from earlier that morning at the desk's edge. The final touch was majestic Norwegian flag, pinned against the wall. Funnily enough, Iceland had the Icelandic flag set up the same way in his room.
A mirror hung on the wall, just over a dresser with more untidiness. Clothing, clean and folded. An umbrella, along with an unopened bottle of beer, car keys, and if Iceland's vision wasn't tricking him, a relatively nondescript sword some one hundred centimeters in length. But his eyes were drawn away from the dresser by a particular painting on Norway's wall.
Iceland crept closer to the date painting. Iceland would've laughed because Norway was wearing tights if the subject matter of the painting wasn't so striking. A teenage Norway—appearing gravely stolid, perhaps even more than today— sat in an elaborate, high backed chair. A beautiful sword, with a markedly elaborate crossguard and jewel-encrusted pommel leaned against the chair. In the chair, Norway managed to look extremely dignified, borderline haughty, in white tights (Iceland thought this was wildly hilarious), some elaborate pants that cut well above the knee with intricate detail—they were deep blue, of course—paired with some strange, poofy coat-cape chimera that matched his pants or shorts or whatever they were in color and detail. To top it all off, there was a rather flat hat bearing a small feather and matching the rest of his clothing perfectly, perched at a jaunty angle on his head.
And in Norway's lap sat Iceland, some five years old, wearing similar clothing. He looked like a pitiable child, for his eyes sparkled with wariness in the painting.
Iceland didn't recall this ever happening. On second thought, the sword looked familiar.
"Norway, when was this pic—"
Norway frowned at the term.
"Sorry, painting—when was this painting painted?"
"Fifteen forty six."
"I don't really remember this happening." Iceland ran a hand through his hair and scowled in deep thought.
"Why d' y' look so mad, Norge?" Sweden remarked.
"I don't know." Norway admittedly. "Iceland is the one that looks mad."
"That's probably because I was sitting in a weirdo's lap," Iceland said with a wry smile. He dodged a halfhearted swat from Norway, which prompted Denmark to finish the job.
"Now I get to harass both brothers," Denmark said as he rubbed his hands mischievously.
"I've been dealing with this treatment for over millennia," Norway said in a rather flat monotone.
"Norge, c'n I 'ave that beer?" Sweden asked, gesturing vaguely to the beer bottle on his dresser. Sweden's reasoning is as follows: if a beer bottle wass anywhere outside the kitchen and unopened, it was his duty to drink it so that the beer does not feel awkward and alone. Actually, he just wanted to get to the booze before Denmark. In fact, Denmark was making a beeline for the wineglass. So Sweden made sure to trip him, which put Sweden in the lead. The first sip was his, and it was delicious.
And after Sweden downed the beer bottle, Norway pulled the first drawer on his dresser open and withdrew yet another bottle of beer. He was straight faced, but in those dead cadet blue eyes there was a spark of mischievousness.
"Clever," Sweden grunted with a nod of approval.
The beer was quickly dispersed and the five of them just loafed around in Norway's room, which smelled extra good. Denmark watched funny videos on Norway's laptop and praised the lightning fast internet. Finland was, surreptitiously as possible, trying to clean Norway's room. Throw a few things into drawers, move some books to the bookshelf, and the ultimate challenge: pick all the clothing up. He tried to hide an armful of clothing as he sidled out of the room, but failed. When Norway asked what he was doing and where he was going in a surprising mild tone, Finland just laughed nervously and dropped the pile of clothes by the foot of Norway's bed.
"This is like a bachelor pad," Iceland observed. "With all the clothes everywhere, leftover food, and beer in drawers and stuff."
"No, no," Sweden corrected with a stern shake of his head. "'T's pract'cal 'n well-planned."
;;;;;
"Sweden was famous for the ships he built. People came from all over to have one made." Finland explained. "A bunch of them are in museums today."
Iceland took a long swig of his juice and nodded, rather bored. He woke up an hour ago—much too early, at nine in the morning—and now ate his breakfast in silence. Norway's kitchen was particularly sunny and was the stark contrast of his room. Norway's kitchen was spotless.
"They were the best boats ever," Denmark agreed with a nod. "Such beautiful curves and designs."
"That reminds me, Iceland—if I am to call you a brother of mine, you must learn to row." Norway said authoritatively, snapping his book shut. He looked rather spiffy that morning, wearing his usual navy uniform. Fresh from the shower, a very pleasant but manly scent hung around him. His sleek, soft hair was already starting to wave and wisp the way it normally did.
"Y're right, Norge," Sweden agreed. He turned to Iceland and squinted as he sized him up. Iceland raised an eyebrow at him.
"What? Is there a problem?" Iceland prompted, gesturing vaguely to himself. He knew he looked like he had just woken up because—newsflash—he had. "Deal with it."
"I th'nk y'll make a good row'r," Sweden said quietly, cautiously. He excused himself from the conversation and decided to shovel food into his mouth so that no one would bother asking him questions. And if they did, he'd just chew really slowly.
"Get ready to feel better than you ever have in your life, Iceland." Denmark said, leaping up from his seat.
"Okay." Iceland shrugged.
"Don't eat too much. You'll be rowing." Norway nodded in the direction of the plate of Iceland's food.
Iceland didn't reply. He was imitating Sweden, though Sweden didn't know it, by eating at top speed. Norway ignored these antics and returned to his book, which seemed to be utterly enthralling at that moment.
Denmark bounded down the stairs a few minutes later, wearing shorts and a T-shirt and ready to go. Unfortunately, everyone was taking their time. So he went to go watch TV. But when the time came, Norway led the procession back down the steep cliff and onto the little dock. He lithely stepped into the little dinghy and everyone followed. Iceland hopped into the boat, just for kicks, but he quickly regretted that when he felt himself lose his balance. Norway's fast reflexes allowed him to grasp Iceland wrist and pull him onto the seat.
"First things first," Norway began. He settled himself next to Iceland held the oars firmly in his hands. The oars seemed to fit perfectly, with his graceful fingers curling gently around the cylindrical wood. "Rowing takes practice."
"Well, yeah." Iceland said with an irritated sigh. "Can you just, like, cut to the chase or something?"
"Fine." Norway said thinly. The oars were thrust into Iceland's hands, and he staggered back with Norway's force.
"Calm down." Iceland snapped.
"Start rowing." Norway commanded. "Push the oars forward with your hands, and lean—do not let your arms do the work. Abdominal and leg muscles will be involved as well as shifting your weight."
He leaned against the starboard and rested his legs atop the port, crossed at the ankles. He pulled a beer bottle from what seemed like nowhere and took a sip, gazing at Iceland coolly. And once again, that stupid book made another appearance, though Norway held it closed in his lap and watched Iceland with those guarded blue eyes.
"You're kidding me, right?" Iceland murmured.
"You wanted me to cut to the chase, so start rowing." Norway said.
Well, then. Iceland shot Norway an incredulous glance, but Norway was already deep in the book. Whatever, screw him, Iceland thought. He let a long, irritated sigh escape him and did as told. He leaned back and took the oars with him. They oars felt so foreign in his hands and they seemed to be pulled to the water by some invisible magnet. Iceland decided he'd need to push down to bring the oars out of the water. He did so, very slightly, as he leaned forward, keeping his abs tight, and repeated the motion. They were moving!
"That was good, Iceland." Norway said impassively.
"Th' oars feel weird n'w, but soon they'll feel w'ghtless." Sweden added. He sat behind Iceland, grasping a set of oars himself. Iceland's heart sunk. It was Sweden that had the boat moving. He, like Denmark and Norway, was an adroit rower. He did not have Norway's poise but had a certain thrill of power with each fluid motion. Determination was present on his stony countenance as he relived his Viking days. Somehow, Iceland knew he wasn't seeing the little dinghy, but a massive longship, with the obeliskoid, elaborate prow, sails full and fat with swirling winds. And on the horizon, a unnamed, unknown boat that would be plundered within minutes.
"So, you guys pillaged and plundered villages and ships and basically everything." Iceland said. He felt kind of lame for being so out of breath. "What exactly did that entail."
"You see, we simply playing a song on the ocarina, waved our Master Swords around, turned into wolves, and drank ourselves into comas." Norway responded. There was no way sarcasm could have carried a more bitter tone. Norway was clearly very offended by Iceland's little comment from yesterday, and Iceland was beginning to notice that Norway held grudges for the littlest things.
"Wow, you're hilarious," Iceland said with a forced, dry laugh. "Seriously, though."
"I'll explain for Norway. He's being rude today." Denmark cleared his throat and lifted his index finger, waving it in a very scholarly fashion as he spoke. He seemed to be quite fond of that maddening, demeaning gesture. "I liked plundering ships at sea. We rowed up to the boat, which was pathetic compared to ours, and jumped into it, killing people and throwing their valuable junk in our boat. Before any of this or while it went on, Norway would climb the prow like a tree and slice the enemy's sails. Then he'd join us. Sweden was usually the first one in the enemy's ship." Denmark laughed, hint of nostalgia tingeing his giggles. "Ah, I really miss those days…we ruled the seas back then."
"W' rule the seas," Sweden corrected.
Norway nodded somberly in agreement and initiated a telepathic conversation with Sweden. Iceland honestly didn't understand how the two understood each other since they never talked. Meanwhile, Denmark rambled on about hierarchy on the longship.
"Basically, we had the helmsman, which was usually the head of the group. He sat near the bow of the boat." Denmark explained. He pointed to Norway. "Your brother was helmsman most of the time. Sometimes, we switched, and we weren't always plundering together. In those cases, I headed my boat and Sweden headed his."
"N'xt t' th' 'elmsman sat the strokesm'n." Sweden explained. "Kinda like th' coxswain. 'e kept th' pace, us'lly shoutin' 'Str'ke' or bangin' 'gainst the st'rboard."
Two hours passed. They were far from the coastline now, floated on a smooth blue ocean rippled with little waves. Iceland would've been dead if he didn't have so much stamina—courtesy of swimming, soccer, and running. But his arms were heavy and his abs ached. He was dreadfully thirsty and the skin on his palms was peeling with the leftover blisters. He had kept his mouth shut to prove himself to Norway, who had deemed Iceland an adequate rower by not correcting him.
"I'm done," Iceland said, letting the oars fall into his lap.
"You're not. Keep going." Norway said flatly.
"But my hands hurt," Iceland murmured. He briefly let go of the oar to examine his blistered, bleeding palms.
"In our days, we rowed for months." Norway said loftily as he bit a glove off his hand. Norway held his hand out to Iceland, displaying the calluses from centuries ago, along with a few other curious scars. "Deal with it."
"Guess what? I'm not a Viking." Iceland snapped. He winced as a blister split and wet his hand with water and blood. He wanted to knock Norway senseless with these oars.
"If you are my brother, Iceland," Norway said in a scary vibrato, "then you most certainly are."
"L't m' see, Isl'nd," Sweden gently took Iceland's hands and held them, palms up. Iceland cringed at seeing his hands. Bloody and wet with popped blisters. Raw, rosy skin underneath white flaps of skin, tender. Iceland suddenly felt a pang of discomfort strike him. His stomach felt uneasy and he began to sweat. Sweden hummed thoughtfully and held Iceland's hands out to Norway.
"Norge, give 'im a rest." Sweden said. "Denmark 'nd I'll row us back t' th' house."
Sweden took the oars without awaiting Norway's answer, something that made Iceland smirk with glee. and within one hour they were back in Norway's house. Once he arrived, Iceland flung himself out on the couch and sullenly watched TV. He didn't feel too well. Iceland was warm and groggy and miserable with raw hands and maybe even a mild sunburn. His stomach hurt and his head spun. And before long, he fell into a fitful slumber, only to wake four hours later.
Norway seems like a hoarder. His room actually sounds like mine at the moment...OTL.
Very rushed, I know. I'll edit this when I don't have 6 projects to do.
Kind of random chapter. Oh well. Reviews, please.
OH! And I get a good amount of reviews, I'll draw fanart of this fic.
ladyrever . deviantart .com