Norway tells Sweden that the next time there is business to do in Copenhagen, he would like to go along. He's ready to face Denmark.

Over the years, the King of the North has changed, Sweden has noticed. No longer does he meet with Sweden in the lavish halls of the palace nor does he sit on his throne. Instead of the extravagant display of power that Denmark used to flaunt, they meet in a small side room, barely decorated. The chairs, with their dull, fading colors, sag and creak with age.

Denmark knows that he's been fighting a losing battle. He can't struggle against the world forever, and he's started to realize that there are more important things in life than land or military power.

Strength is from the inside. Sometimes, the right thing to do is admit defeat and failure.

Norway does not make it known that he is coming to visit. Instead, in the midst of Sweden's meeting, he opens the door, flinching as it creaks, and stands still with his back to the door. Denmark rises and walks over to him, pausing a pace before him.

Denmark stares at him.

Norway stares back.

"Hej."

"Hei."

Sweden simply observes as the two look at one another, taking into account the differences in each other's forms. But Norway's jaw is clamped shut and Denmark adverts staring into Norway's eyes as he feels the deep blue irises bore into his own.

Denmark reaches forward to touch Norway on the shoulder, but Norway moves out of the way before contact can be made.

Denmark frowns and tries again, but Norway again dodges his fingers and shakes his head. No.

Sighing, Denmark offers Norway a seat, but the man only takes it after Denmark has sat back down himself.

"It's nice to see you again, Halle," Denmark hesitantly speaks, nodding. He bows his head for a moment. "I'm sorry, and you know what for," he adds, before continuing his conversation with Sweden.

Norway sits there, still as a statue, and listens.

He rises with Sweden as the meeting finishes, but he pauses. Norway taps Sweden to his shoulder and motions with his index finger that he wants to stay for a moment longer.

Sweden nods and departs, leaving Denmark and Norway alone.

"You said you were sorry," Norway states.

"I did. I am sorry, Halle. It's the truth."

"You're an idiot."

"What do you mean?"

"You haven't forgiven yourself."

"I haven't."

Norway pauses.

"You have to forgive yourself before I fully forgive you," he tells him, turning on his heel to follow Sweden down the hall, to return on the road back to Stockholm.

That night, Denmark played a simple but sorrowful song on the piano that he never thought he knew.