Musical suggestions: Era "The Mass," "Ameno," and "Divano."

Warning: Mild gore


A Matter of Time

By: Dr. Cultural Studies

Chapter Twenty-Six: Threads


"In a life and death struggle, we cannot afford to leave our destinies in the hands of failures." – Clement Atlee, on the British handling of war in Norway


I ran as fast as my legs could carry me, maneuvering over the obstacles that blocked my path. By this point, I was in a blind panic. My sight blurred into a darkening tunnel and there seemed to be nothing more than the sheer instinct to escape. I had to escape. I had to get out. If I didn't escape, then what was the point? Maybe there was no point. A tingling sensation cascaded from my spine to my fingertips, goosebumps arising on my skin. Gasping, I stumbled down the hallway and came to the end. Dead end. The end.

No.

No escape.

There was a dull ache in my side from my rushed breathing as I turned around. It was coming fast. Almost too fast for me to fathom. The obstacles in the hallway were still as death.

Yes, death.

It was everywhere. It had taken everyone. How many had I stepped on to escape? Everything seemed to be a blur. I couldn't remember their deaths, just that they were dead. No time. There was no time for that. I had to escape. I had to. If I didn't—

Throwing myself to the left, I lurched into the nearest room and slammed the door shut behind myself, locking it as I went. My quivering hand could barely operate the latch. Rapid, shuddering breaths rocked my body as I leaned forward to place my forehead on the door.

What more could I do? I couldn't do anything.

Nothing.

Nothing!

Tears burnt my eyes, trailing like lava down the mounds of my cheeks. Why couldn't I—

Michelle.

Sucking in a startled breath, I turned around and pressed my back to the door. It vibrated violently as if something were trying to force its way inside. Across the room, a woman stood over a single red number, twelve, her hand out stretched toward me. Blood matted her lovely blonde hair down, a gash making the skin of her neck fold over a bit. It was sickening. Bile rose in my throat. Her other hand rose in a similar fashion and a smile pulled at her thin lips. Lips that I often saw in the mirror.

"M-Momma?"

Michelle.

My weak legs propelled me forward, muscles burning under the moving weight. It couldn't be her. I couldn't—It couldn't be my mom. Her arms were held out to me, welcoming me and calling me home. Yet she was deathly pale. The kind light that normally shone in her eyes was dulled. "Mom, what—"

Michelle!

My gaze skittered to the right. Donna. A crimson number appeared under her red patent leather pumps. One. She was bleeding from a wound to her stomach, which wasn't swollen with child anymore. Terror cut through me. That's right though, her baby would have been born by now.

Right?

She looked so sad though. She looked defeated and terrified. What if she—

I wanted to move, but I was unable. I wanted to comfort her, my sister. Glancing down, I found that my feet were held in place, blood red strings and twine wrapping around my boots.

Frantically, I pulled at the red masses—desperately trying to free myself.

What was happening?

Why was this happening? I had to help them! I had to help my family!

And then we had to escape! I had to get them out of this place. My breathing quickened and quickened and quickened, tears filling my eyes.

Shelly.

Corey.

No. Not him.

My head jerked up and I let out a sob, still pulling at the threads that tied me down. My little brother stood there, skin sallow and sunken. Two. There were so many injuries that I couldn't attribute any single one to his death. So many scratches and cuts and gashes littered his tan skin. One prominent one on his head seemed to be the worst, blood and pus was caked in it.

My scream was hysterical and shrill, "Corey! COREY!" His arms outstretched toward me in the same welcoming gesture that my sister and mother were extending. His head turned slowly, eerily toward his left.

I followed his dull-eyed gaze.

America, who bore no physical wounds. There was no blood, save for a red number that appeared beneath his feet. Three. His eyes were closed and his face contorted in pain. I couldn't move toward him. I could only stare in his direction; my tears were doing me no good. I was too tired to cry anymore. One arm rose and then the other, another welcoming hug. I released the red tentacles and stood straight, gaze transitioning to the fourth and fifth positions. My chest was hurting.

The threads were winding themselves up my calves now.

I didn't fight it.

Numbers appeared, Nations materializing over them. Britain and Canada. They looked the same as America, pale and eyes closed. No visible wounds, but pained expressions were clear on their faces. In chilling unison, their arms rose. A whimper escaped me as I spun around, eyes wide. Egypt and Russia over numbers eleven and ten. Eyes closed, mouths slightly open.

"Egypt!" My yell was choked and desperate.

He lifted his arms. Russia followed suit.

This couldn't be happening. It couldn't be happening.

Michelle.

Chills raced down my spine. I turned around even further. Across from America was an unbelievably pale France. Same as the other Nations. My gaze scanned further around, neck creaking with the effort. Numbers on the floor: eight and seven. Hungary and Italy. Eyes closed and arms raised.

I tried desperately to see who was occupying the last space, but no one appeared. One final number: six. My efforts renewed as I tried to see them. I was growing frenzied in my effort to get free from the threads. They were creeping up my thighs now, growing tighter and tighter. I continued to jerk myself around to see the final space.

Michelle.

I stopped, turning back to my mother. Another presence. Between Momma and me stood Germany. He was quivering, shaking violently. It was as if he were trying to hold something back, something terrible. His head finally jerked upward and he leveled a hateful glare in my direction. "You did this." My head began to shake, but I couldn't respond aloud. I couldn't find the courage. I was scared, so scared. "You did this!"

Your hands.

My fingers released the threads and I held them out flat. I saw the blood that coated them. The scream I let out was nothing short of soul-wrenching. It held every terror, every fear, every worry, and every tear. I couldn't do anything to help them. None of them. My legs were bound. I couldn't even move. What was I supposed to do? And yet their blood was on my hands. Warm, sticky blood. Fresh. There was nothing I could do.

And yet I could do everything.

Wake up.

Hearing the voice from behind me, I looked around and was suddenly awake. I was blind, unseeing. I surged upward in bed, legs kicking about in a frenzied rush to be free. I whipped my hands on the sheets, desperate to rid myself of the blood that coated them. "Off, off. It has to come off. I can't—I can't—" I started crying, not able to do much else.

Then, cool hands were on my cheeks and I was looking into a pair of wide brown eyes. For a few moments, I couldn't register that he was trying to comfort me. Instead, I threw his hands off my face and scuttled backward on the bed. My back hit the wall and I breathed heavily, trying to understand what was happening.

Italy looked scared.

And sad.

His hands were still held up, frozen to where I had thrown them.

Hands up, as if reaching for a hug.

I trembled at the memory.

It was too real.

Far too real.

"Michelle," Italy whispered in an effort not to spook me. "What—What happened?"

"I don't—I don't know." My head shook and I didn't make any effort to move. My eyes were still wide, seeing and unseeing. It was like I couldn't focus. My mind was still suck on the images of my nightmare.

What was happening?

He held up both hands and slowly sat on the edge of the bed. Ever so gently, Italy held out a hand to me. No matter how much I wanted to accept his kindness, I knew that I couldn't trust him. I couldn't trust anyone.

Even if I felt the world was crashing in on me, even if I couldn't take this anymore, I couldn't do it. I simply stared at his hand for a few moments before he lowered it to the sheets. It made me sick to see his hurt expression, but I couldn't. I couldn't accept it. "I'm so sorry. This is our fault."

"I—I don't think this is…your…your fault." And I didn't. These nightmares weren't connected to my torture, or at least, I didn't think they were. Some sort of psychosis perhaps or the pressure of being behind enemy lines? Or it could have been something else entirely. Something more unsettling. Still, the Axis didn't cause this. "Italy, what are you doing here?"

"I snuck in," he smiled broadly. Normally that would be extremely amusing, but I couldn't quite smile in return. "You know me! I hear the word 'no' and I do it anyway. Germany once told me not to ride a tank like a stallion, but I did it anyway. They will tell stories about it for years! The tank's name was Baldo! I rode it until Germany made me get off and ride with him in the truck. And besides, you are my friend and as soon as I heard that you were a guest in Germany's home, I rushed over to see you."

So…he just decided to drop whatever he was doing and take a trip to Germany's? Yes, I could certainly see that happening. My shivering was diminishing and I could feel myself gaining more and more control. "You just decided to drop in? We're not that close of friends, Italy."

He jerked, eyes going wide. "What? You don't want to be friends with me?"

Sighing, I could feel a headache coming on in place of my quivering. Blood pressure, most likely. My hand rose to lay flat against my forehead. "I'm not in any position to be your friend, Italy."

"Ve, don't worry about that!" My brows rose. Don't worry about it. Again with the 'don't worry about it.' "You are concerned about me reporting anything you say and do to Germany, right? So we won't talk about anything having to do with war! I think it helps to calm the mind and spirit when you talk about things you like. I like to talk about pasta and cooking and opera. And other things." He grinned as if he were sharing some huge secret to warfare. "That's why I talk about pasta so much. I like pasta and war can be so very tiring and scary. Sometimes it's fun to just sit back, relax, and enjoy the fine company!"

The reason he talked about pasta so much wasn't necessarily a character's verbal tick or an obsession, but his way of overcoming conflict?

"A lovely sentiment, Italy!" I jumped when France waltzed into the room. It was the oddest thing when he tossed a red rose in my direction. I made no effort whatsoever to catch it, knowing that I didn't have the reflexes. It fell onto the blanket. Where in the world—Roses were out of season! How did he get a rose in November?

France wasted no time in cross the room to sit on my bed. He unceremoniously scooted himself back until he was leaning against the wall with one knee raised up. He looked ridiculously model-like when he pushed the hair from his face. He shot me a leering expression, a smirk curling on his lips. "Ever imagine us on a bed together, mon colombe?"

My eyes widened, but I couldn't respond before he kept talking.

Waving a hand toward my clothing, he tutted, "Wearing that ragged uniform to bed? No negligée? Oh, I know! We can talk about all of my wonderful experience in—"

"—musical composition." I finished for him.

Even if I was still dazed from my dream, I wasn't foolish enough to let France speak of unsavory things in front of Italy (even though I knew that Italy was likely very much aware of that sort of stuff). Italy himself must have thought my intervention was adorable because he snorted a laugh and smiled sweetly in my direction.

I could almost hear my mother saying 'bless her heart' along with his expression.

Momma.

Blood.

No.

Bloodied and dying. A number under her feet.

"Musical composition?" France questioned curiously. "Well everyone knows that I have the best composers."

"No! I have the best composers!" Italy immediately argued back. "You cannot argue with Verdi and Monteverdi and Puccini."

My head nodded, a smile pulling at my lips. I couldn't quite get it to appear fully, but the lilts of violins as I studied for my comprehensive examination did bring back good memories. For nearly all of my exams, I would listen to Puccini or Verdi.

"Stradella, Scarlatti!"

"Vivaldi," I supplied appreciatively. Italy threw me an ecstatic smile, bouncing on the edge of the bed. He was acting far more dramatic than he needed to, most likely in an effort to make me loosen up.

It was working.

France looked scandalized, a hand coming up to rest on his forehead theatrically. Under the surface, I could feel the tension from our previous conversation still lingering. Though maybe that was just my sensitivity at the moment. "Oui, oui. All very impressive in their own right, I agree. However, you should prepare to be amazed. How can you argue such names as Debussy, Bizet, Massenet, Mouret, Offenbach, Stravinsky—"

"He's Russian," I interrupted.

"Non! He claimed my citizenship."

"And he just moved to America a couple years ago. What's your point?" I countered immediately. "Do all of you lay claim to him?"

"They can't because he's my citizen. Russia lost him. And the only reason he's living in America at the moment is due to this war! I claim him and all of his patrons would balk at any argument to the contrary." It looked as if France had found something to be argumentative about because he crossed his arms petulantly over his chest and stared in our direction. "I claim Stravinsky."

My hands—not blood-covered—rose in surrender. "Alright. Please forget I said anything."

France sniffed and looked away.

Italy turned to me and smiled broadly. "You know classical music?"

"I do," I said. My eyes glanced toward France again. "Admittedly, my favorite was Bizet. Though I will say that I'm also a huge fan of Verdi and Puccini. Aida was a beautiful tale." Every now and then, my hands we would shake and I couldn't stop the movement. "Your music has always been fantastic." France sent me a sad smile. Almost as if he were unsure he would ever produce another melody. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I lowered my gaze to my hands. "Your music will always be beautiful."

Someone cleared their throat and I twitched, muscles flinching. That dream had me on edge and it was clear for everyone to see. I was paranoid, scared that every movement was something to remind me of the nightmare.

Even if I hadn't taken his hand before, Italy rested a gentle hold on my shoulder. I didn't look at him. I couldn't bring myself to. "It's alright. It's only Bavaria."

The blond Land gave us a glance, settling a tray of food onto the table. "Only Bavaria…" His muttered words could be heard clearly in the silent room. "Wouldn't be much of a war without 'only Bavaria.'"

"You're talking to yourself again," France drawled.

Bavaria just sent him a dark look before his eyes flickered to me. I felt my brows pull down in question. He just shook his head, a blond mess of hair falling into his eyes. "You had the whole house convinced you were being murdered. Your screams could be heard out in the garden by sheer volume."

The 'sorry' I murmured was reflex. He just snorted, turned, and walked out the door. It probably wasn't the right response and Lord knows I didn't feel the least bit contrite about it. It's not as if I could help my nightmares.

Italy practically leapt from the bed, running to the tray of food. He took a dramatic sniff of the air and sighed, beaming toward me. "It's jota!" Not knowing what that meant, I glanced toward France to find his cheeks puffed out.

He noticed my attention and dropped the sick expression, waving his hands. "It is a type of stew. Perhaps you might enjoy it. I have…classier tastes." Seeing the insult for what it was, I struggled to get myself over to the edge of the bed and stood, grabbing my cane out of habit. It wasn't as if I really needed it in such a small space. France stood as well, gesturing grandly toward the table. "You Americans like stew, oui?"

"Sure," I nodded. What kind of a question was that, anyway?

Italy flailed his arms. "Ah! this is my recipe! I created it while I was living with Austria and Hungary! It's got potatoes and sausage and beans and sauerkraut. " He pulled out the chair and had me sit down, echoing a time when we once shared a table in Austria's home. I wondered if he remembered that conversation. "Seems like so long ago, doesn't it?" He said in a low tone. I glanced over to see a frown on his face. "It—It—I'm so sorry for what happened. If it is any consolation—"

"Italy, do you regret joining the war?" I asked him as I ate a spoon full of the light-colored stew. It wasn't bad. The flavors melded together seamlessly, even when they seemed like they would not. When Italy froze and said nothing, I smiled into the bowl and then looked over to where he was standing. "I accept your apology, Italy. I just don't think that you should regret something that you can't actually control."

"Is that so?" France questions solemnly from where he is standing by the door. "Just because you seem to have no choice doesn't mean that you cannot find other means. That is like saying that you can only walk one path." I nearly had another spoonful to my mouth when he spoke again. "Germany did not have to storm into my capital and take me prisoner. He did not have parade around my streets and under my landmarks. In front of my people. He could have chosen a different method, but he didn't."

Tense silence hung over us as Italy looked between France and me. My heart was thundering in my ears as I chewed the stew. How could I respond to that? It was an impossible thing to respond to for anyone. I couldn't quite process the whole scale of what I was responding to, only that I had to say something.

"Two roads diverged in a yellow wood and sorry I could not travel both. And being one traveler long I stood and looked down one as far as I could to where it bent in the undergrowth. Then, stood the other as just as fair, and having perhaps the better claim because it was grassy and wanted wear, but as for that, the passing there had worn them really about the same."

I took a breath and settled the spoon back into the stew and looked toward France. He stared at me with wide blue eyes.

So many times my father would read me this poem. Even on his deathbed, he had read it to me from his book of American poets. That same book rested on a shelf in my office in that long-off, distant community college that I once worked at, at some moment in time. Poetry was my father's catharsis. That was why I knew things about Walt Whitman and Ernest Hemingway, why I could debate their traits with New York and America. Because my father read them to me as a child. This poem, though, was the one that he could recite by heart.

By heart.

Sometimes you have to learn to do things by heart.

Like this.

"And both that morning equally lay in leaves no step had trodden black. I kept the first for another day, yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back." I let out a breath and shook my head. "I shall be telling this with a sigh, somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood and I—I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference."

France stared at me for a few moments and I could feel the air thickening between us. I didn't back down or look away. I didn't cower from what I had said. I wasn't even certain that I understood my words myself. I didn't do anything except sit there and watch him. Italy stood at my side, slack-jawed. I couldn't see his exact expression save for in my peripheral vision.

"What are you trying to say?" France said at last, crossing his arms. "That Germany did what? Took the road less travelled by? I assure you my roads are well-travelled. He took all of them."

"I don't know. I have never seen the roads here in Germany or the roads in France. I've never walked his paths. Just the same, I have never walked your paths. I've never watched my capital be overrun with enemy troops. I've never endured that kind of hurt and pain. I've never watched my people be subjugated to a force that cannot be stopped. The only path I know is my own. And it's the only path that I can judge."

He snorted, a laugh coming from his mouth as he raised a hand to cover it. "This is rich. You are a fool if you think you can understand any of this."

His statement didn't hurt. Instead, I just nodded my head. "You're right. I can't understand it. I'll never be able to understand. I have never claimed nor will I ever claim to understand it. This is beyond my ability. Maybe it's my mortality."

France flinched at my tone, eyes widening. He hadn't expected that.

Hell, neither had I.

Where had my self-restraint disappeared to? I could understand France's blame of Germany, but…Something still felt off. Something about all of this still felt off. Part of France was collaborating with Germany, no matter how much he wished to deny it. A scowl slid onto my face when I caught a hint of pride in France's expression.

"When are you going to stop testing me?"

Not even denying it, Francis shrugged and gave me a saucy wink. "I am deprived of decent entertainment here. You have provided a break in the overbearing air of this house. Pardon me if I get enjoyment from challenging you." He twirled on his boot heel and began to walk out. "I am always here for you, my dear. Never forget that." He thought I couldn't understand him. "Au revoir." There was something odd about his statement of support, but I couldn't quite pinpoint what it was.

"France does not like to be in the same room as me anymore. I'm surprised that he stayed this long." Italy's voice brought me from my thoughts. He settled himself into the next chair over and smiled sadly. "I might have tricked him. It was for Germany, you know, and he was so desperate. He said that France was going to be difficult and I knew that France would listen to me. I…I wanted it to be quick and as painless as possible, so I helped to overtake him. They never think that I am capable like that, so they never expect it. No matter how many times the same thing happens."

Italy was confiding in me and I wondered if I had somehow become a sounding-board for these Nations. It wasn't as if they could share these hurts and frustrations with anyone else. Still, I didn't know how I felt about that.

He looked to me, desperate for something I couldn't give him. Trust. "Italy, don't tell me these things. I can't—"

"You do not have to say anything! Do not say anything. I do not want reassurance or a promise that everything will be okay. It will be okay. I know it will. Somehow. Everything seems so dark now. It all seems lost. Like there is no escape—" My eyes widened and I felt a chill run down my spine. "There has to be a way out. The war will end someday and we will all be happy again. Killing and hurting and fighting…I do not want that. No one wants that. So we will keep going until we are happy again. That's what I think."

I pressed my lips together and gave him a smile, keeping my thoughts to myself. This was the fearsome Italy that refused to hand over Jews during the war. This was the war-tired veteran who was simply tired of fighting. I closed my eyes and sighed though my nose, reaching out to take hold of Italy's hand. Just a squeeze and I released him. He flew into another rant about his witnessing Verdi's live performances as I continued to eat.


"He was so mad! Egypt had only invited the dignitaries and politicians and critics. Well, when the premiere was held in Milan at La Scala, he demanded that the general public be allowed to come and witness the performance. It sure was something to watch though! Romano was angry and said that he was a prick for demanding things at such late notice. I thought it was nice, to let everyone come see his work." Italy popped a piece of bread in his mouth while I laughed at the tale. "Everyone wanted to do Aida after that. It was fantastic. Romano just doesn't like it because it is based in Egypt."

"ITALY!"

He twitched before throwing himself to his feet. "Whoops! Looks like I've stayed longer than I should have. If Germany comes down here, he might get mad. I'll run up stairs. Well, walk fast or maybe just hurry. Anyway, I have to go. I will see you again, bella signora. I'll tell them to let you get some rest. You didn't sleep well. Do not give up." He moved faster than I could acknowledge and kissed both of my cheeks before bolting out the door. He slammed it so hard that it popped back open and sat ajar.

It all happened so quickly that I just sat there for a moment, staring.

The door…was open.

Within seconds, I was on my feet. My cane was held in my hand as I peered out into the empty hallway. There was no one in sight. Carefully, I eased the door wider and stuck my head out. No one. A thrill of excitement and fear raced through my chest. This wouldn't last for long. Not long at all. I had to hurry.

I didn't use my cane as I moved across the wooden floors. I didn't want the click of it to be heard upstairs. When I arrived at the staircase, I glanced up and noted that I could take my chances and try for an escape. Germany would be distracted by Italy's presence.

No, I would never get anywhere.

Not in the middle of Germany.

The mere thought of escape was ludicrous.

My eyes glanced downward and I started my journey to the lowest level of Germany's home. The lights seemed to get dimmer and dimmer as I moved into the depths, until I was in a space that was primarily formed out of concrete. The air was cool and damp against my skin, pressing in like it had when I was kept in that tiny little crypt in Austria's basement. These accommodations were better formed, but bore the same sort of feeling. The same oppressive air, the same stale thickness of old moss. Terror lanced through me as I edged forward.

There were no guards.

They never expected these people—these Nations— to escape.

My gaze flickered to a set of keys that hung on the wall and I pursed my lips, considering them for a moment before reaching up to take hold. I wrapped my fingers around and made sure that they didn't jangle together. My breath held for a moment as I took them.

I didn't quite know what I was getting into.

Large metal doors lined the corridor, painted a deep midnight black set against the gray of concrete. Just under a small observation window, a number was written. The closest was number ten. I felt a pulse of anticipation and my heart leapt in my chest. This had to be it. It had to be! My feet sped up under me as I hurried down the hallway as if that monster from my nightmares were on my heels. The only sound was the faint tap of my boots on the floor and the sound of my breathing.

Nine.

Seven.

Five.

Three.

There was a tingling in my chest, right between my breasts. Like all of my nervous energy was pooling there. This was it. This was what I was meant to be doing from the start. The war wasn't going to stop. It was going to get worse and worse and the effect of my mere presence…the future was being torn asunder. I paused before approaching the door carefully. My shaking hand moved up to the window and I peered inside, almost afraid of what I might see.

And there he was, sitting on the small cot at the corner of the room.

His gaze rose from the book that rested in his lap and he stared at the door, eyes narrowed slightly at the sight of me. He almost seemed to sigh. A moment passed before I looked away, toward the keys in my hand. There was a chance that I would only have a few moments. I had to make those moments count. Unlocking the door, I opened it and stepped inside. He was already standing, brushing the wrinkles out of his uniform.

Instead of the clothing that I remembered him wearing in the anime, Norway was in traditional military garb. Grayish-green fatigues and standard-issue boots. He seemed ready to go to battle in a heartbeat, even locked away in this cell. It was actually inspiring. No outward emotions, no showing of anger or sadness, just the quiet defiance of putting on a uniform. It was probably his own bit of protest while his resistance force built up their strength.

He had already shown his cleverness. By sneaking out from his cell (however he did it), Norway was already more than capable of escaping Germany's capture.

"You're wondering why I'm still here."

I couldn't help but to be surprised. His voice was far deeper than I had anticipated. Was it this deep in the English version? It didn't seem to fit with his smaller build and rounded face. He shifted then and crossed his arms, face darkening a little. Ah, well then. Now I could see the baritone voice. And he was blunt. This, I could deal with. "Yes, I am."

He shrugged, "Makes sense when you think about it a bit more."

So why not give me the answer and not waste time?

Placing my hands on my hips, I shook my head and decided to just let the matter go. He was going to drag this out just because he could. No dice. "I'm certain you have your own reasons. And they are honestly none of my business." His eyes widened only a bit before he settled back into neutral. He appreciated bluntness, it seemed. Might as well skip the fluff then. "You know why I'm here, don't you?"

"Of course I do." Norway was so difficult to figure out. There wasn't much inflection in his tonality, so I couldn't really tell where I stood with him. In truth, when placing him in contrast with Egypt, the African Nation was exuberant. "And I am willing to help you."

My breath caught in my throat and I went very still. "Wh-What?" He didn't bother to repeat himself and merely gave a small nod of confirmation that I had heard him correctly. Surprised that this had gone so easily, I almost allowed myself to give into my excitement. Logic struck me like a freight train and I stopped the smile creeping onto my face. Nothing was ever that easy. "Just like that? You don't even know me."

"Dr. Michelle Daniels. Age: unknown, likely mid-twenties. American citizen." His chin lifted up just a bit and there was a finally a note of something in his deep voice. Smooth as silk smugness. "Likely brought to this world due a mistake with Britain's magic. Details unknown. Shall I continue?" When I said nothing, he raised his brows. "You should know, I have one of the finest clandestine operation coalitions in the entirety of Europe. Hell, not even Britain can beat my agents. He just…doesn't know it."

XU, I realized (3). I could recall a discussion about it from a graduate class on resistance movements. Admittedly, I had paid more attention to the Greek and Hungarian resistance movements.

Norway was dangerous: not just for the frontal resistance that his displaced military and political forces put forward, but also for the undercover work that his operatives performed.

"You have an agent in the Britain's home?" It seemed like the only rational conclusion.

"Not quite," he actually smirked. That single action sent cold chills down my spine.

A Viking, that's what he was. A conqueror. This wasn't some downtrodden Nation who was going to take the battles lying down. No, he was positioning himself to be like a cancer. That's why he was staying in the German household—mirroring the work of his citizens. He was gaining intel and passing it to whomever he needed to. If anything, he was a saboteur—playing with the strings and then cutting them.

Suddenly, Norway seemed a lot bigger.

"Do you know who else is housed down here?"

My head shook.

"My brothers." He moved forward, pushed past me and shut the door with an ominous 'clang.' My heart leapt into my throat. "Privacy. I don't want them to hear." That wasn't quite what I was worried ab— "I can reopen the door at any time. No problem. Have a sit."

Hesitantly, I made my way over to his neatly made cot and lowered myself onto the edge. I kept my senses as sharp as I could, keeping an eye on him at every movement. He sighed a little and made his way to the opposite wall, lifting one booted foot to rest it against the wall as he leaned back. His arms crossed and his head bent forward.

"Denmark was occupied in April of last year. Same as me. Same day. His government remained within his borders and developed an…uneasy relationship with the Germans. He is housed down here because of his potential for resistance. As annoying as he is, he is very good at getting his way and he's realistic. He saw what happened to France." His blue eyes closed and he sighed. "Well, I never said he was smart."

"Spies," I murmured in understanding.

His eyes opened and looked at me. "Spies. I have heard that a large percentage of British intelligence concerning German activities hails from Denmark's group of rebels."

"Hence his presence in one of these cells."

"Not enough to walk free, but enough to be dangerous. Germany knows that if the resistance—violent or otherwise—grows in Denmark, he will have to label the territory as 'hostile,' which I believe he wants to avoid. Denmark is supplying a large number of volunteers for the war with Russia. It'd be stupid to lose that resource too soon."

Norway was speaking far more than I had ever believed he would. War was clearly something that he knew a lot about and I felt as if I were in a classroom again, listening to the inner workings of a distant time.

His head shook and I realized that he had been thinking all of this over for weeks or months. Ready to reason it out aloud, but unable to do so. It must have been torture to sit in silence, unable to help your people or your family.

Something similar had driven me to the brink of insanity.

And I still wasn't sure that I was back from that brink.

If the dreams were any indication of my mental health…

"Iceland is here as well," he said at last.

I froze, stomach lurching.

"Wh-what?"

That couldn't be possible.

"Iceland," he stated clearly, "is here as well."

"But Ice—Iceland never fell to Germany. They…I mean, he was invaded by Britain and was officially neutral throughout the war. America-"

"Perhaps that was once the case, but no longer." Norway frowned, pushing off the wall. He strode over to stand in front of me, the oppressiveness of his proximity and stance made it difficult to breathe.

That, and the fact that another change was coming to light, one that I couldn't fathom. One that couldn't—This shouldn't be possible. It was something that I had never considered before. I had never heard of Iceland being overtaken in this timeline. There were no official reports of it. I had scoured the newspapers for evidence of changes. How could Iceland have fallen?

Never. I had never even seen him or anything close to his land.

Most of the changes were limited to the North African front, so how—

"You," Norway muttered. His tone wasn't harsh or hateful. It was measured and exact. Clinical. Robotic. "The threads of this world are all interconnected. All of the threads of past, present, and future connect together (4). Because of your presence, those threads that once existed are no longer there. New threads have taken their place. One of those new threads has been wrapped around my little brother's neck." He looked down at me. "You want to know why I will help you. Don't be a dumbass and figure it out yourself."


Footnotes:

(1) Jota is a type of Italian stew in the northern region of Italy. Italy doesn't only eat pasta, just like America doesn't only eat hamburgers.

(2) The Italian dictator actually had a Jewish mistress and refused to hand over Jews to the Nazis. That didn't stop Germany from killing hundreds of thousands of Jewish Italians anyway.

(3) XU was an intelligence and sabotage organization in Norway that was organized after the invasion.

(4) This idea of "threads" is connected to Norse mythology. The Norns control the threads of fate. It is a common world myth that I felt would connect everything together. The myth itself is a fair bit more complicated. More on this will come to light later.