Title// Distraction
Pairing// Denmark / Norway , Denmark / Iceland
Rating// Apparently, Fjortisalderen. j/k
Warning// Angst, gratuitous description and historical inaccuracy, implications of abuse/sex/etc.
--
The white of the narrow beach stretched out before him, slight frost creeping at the edges of the lake and making patterns in the ebb and flow of the freezing water. He dragged a stick through it slowly, knocking at the thin ice and watching it crack and split as it shattered, drifting away, swallowed by the depths of the icy fjord. Norway was by his side humming an old, sad song as he clutched Iceland's freezing hand desperately, almost crushing the smaller digits. His fingers were cold and gloveless; his eyes blank and tired as his pulse throbbed steady and numb through his fingertips. As the cold evening sun cast its light across the calm, they advanced, bracing themselves against the chilling autumn wind. The agreed meeting spot was in sight, in the far distance.
Denmark was there, already waiting, sitting lonely on a rock at the edge of the horizon with his stiff hair tossed and tousled in the cold wind. His injuries were obvious even from afar; the bruises fresh and the cast on his arm pricking at his skin, the white bandage stark against his dark clothing. Iceland remembered the swords and guns in their hands, the frenzied fighting at Norway's borders and fronts as Denmark grinned behind him, holding his hand and reveling in the carnage, joy, excitement and honour; the valour of the viking age reflected in his pale blue eyes as he spent himself in bloodshed. Yet, as all things came full circle, his health had faded and the enemy had overcome. They remembered Sweden standing victorious in the battlefield, blue and gold emblazoned on a banner over fallen bodies, cold gaze made colder in the midnight sun, focused behind tempered glass. Iceland cocked his head to the side, discerning the familiar features of the tired face in the distance. Denmark was not smiling now.
He remembered sights, sounds, smells; his eyelids shut against the setting sun and the images of the past burning behind his eyelids. There they were on this cold morning, breath misting and mingling as the pair walked towards the lone figure at the waterside. Their fingers were still laced and intertwined as they stood before Denmark, the twinkle not yet gone from his vision, the spark of ambition still strong. That dominance, sense of self-assured superiority was still there. The battle-scarred axe – ever his prized possession - was lying beside him, with two empty bottles of rough liqueur rolling at the ground by his feet.
"Island, kom til mig, her" he said, his harsh accent softened by the soothing tone, a tired smile turning almost to an ironic smirk on his lips, "Du er nu min. You are mine, now."
Two steps forward for him and for Norway, a step back. He felt the ice-cold grip tighten, just for a moment, before loosening and letting go.
"Ser deg senere, Island," Norway had said as he disappeared into the whiteness, shrinking into the horizon; tiny tears dripping into the snow and mingling with his footprints. It was whispered quietly, almost lost in the wind, "Remember: you will always be you, Island; my Island, no matter what they say."
The smoldering glare simply glanced off Denmark's indifference, as it always did.
Iceland thought he saw Sweden take Norway by the shoulder, far in the distance along the dips and curls of the fjord, but they were just two small blemishes on a sea of white and blue, with the last red and gold rays of sunlight sinking into the darkness.
He was cold.
Taking Denmark's injured hand silently, seeking warmth and comfort. He bowed his head, focused on the shadows that his footprints created in the snow, each jagged flake silhouetted on the whiteness, refusing to look up. Instead, feeling the other long-fingered, battle-scarred hand ruffle his white gold hair, he bit his lip as they turned south for the winter.
--
Back then, they said that children like him were too young to understand.
Too young to understand, perhaps, but not too young (he thought) to notice and store away in his memory Norway's furrowed brows and heated tears. They fell onto his pillow, warm and salty, soaking into the fabric of their shared blanket as he held him tight, whispering, 'Ikke vær redd, alt kommer til å gå bra,' over and over as if it was a prayer to god, to the heavens. Each night, back then, Iceland would reach up, would take Norway's freezing hands gently and hold them to his heart, breathing warmth onto their locked fingers, telling him in his own quiet way that he knew those words were not just for him. He wanted to repeat them softly, slowly, in Norway's language so that he would hear them back and be comforted; just enough comfort that he would not break.
In dark rooms he heard voices deep into the night, glimpsed blurry snapshots through the pale shaft of light through a keyhole. Norway's fists clenched tightly as he railed, thin arms hurling cracked glass, full of spiteful words followed by desperate pleas. "Why don't you understand?!" He shouted, "Why don't you think--?" before Denmark's hand would silence him with a touch to his lips and a soft kiss and a rakish smile as those tears that fell on his pillow each night stained the red and white brocade of the settee. Iceland never saw anything but Norway's face through the small opening, wincing as his back arched, his mouth open in a silent scream. He heard nothing but Norway's moans as he covered his eyes with a bandaged hand.
In time, Norway struck out on his own, through frustration; speaking of all and everything, vocally, spiritually, emphatically. He loved and hated passionately, yet Denmark was silent and uncaring as he paced the hallways, focused only on war: against Sweden, against himself, possessive and unwilling to allow others a slice of what was his. Iceland, alone, secluded in his own room within their shared house, could only overhear as he was starved of food, of trade, of company. He had been ignored and taken, by Turkey, ravaged by illness. As they fought and fought and fought, he knew Greenland was dying. He could hear her cries that fell on deaf ears, so preoccupied were each of them with their own troubles.
And yet now on this first night with Norway gone, Iceland lay in his place, spread-eagled with pale skin bare against the worn material of the old settee in that same house; an object amongst the dark walls and shuttered windows. Denmark looked Iceland over, their shared breaths shallow in the cold air, the steady tick of the clock on the mantelpiece counting the seconds of silence. "Hey Island," He whispered softly, almost lovingly with that childish, selfish need to know, "You don't mind staying with me, right...?"
Iceland just wrapped his arms around Denmark's neck, silent, pressing a kiss to his cheek.
He did not know the words of comfort in the Danish tongue.
--
During the long nights, Iceland relived his memories, alone in his small room with the lights out and the stars twinkling from open windows. He rested his chin on the palm of his hand, sighing as the chill entered his room and circled its rounds. Denmark came from time to time, with stories and fairy tales set in faraway lands. Stories of riches, of happy endings, of trolls and monsters and fairy godmothers that reminded him of the nisse, of the nix, of the tales Norway used to tell on nights like these when warmth was from fire and not the heat of another body. Some of them were the same. Some of them were different. Some of them were a mixture of both.
When they shared their warmth on the creaking bed, he would sing them softly to him, reading from a book and propped up on a pillow as Iceland laid his head against the Dane's beating heart. Sometimes he would fall asleep and dream them, a heady mixture of fantasy and memory, alone and wandering in the woods of the wide, wide world.
He wanted to leave. Even as the faint rays of the winter sun rose in the night air, even as he curled up in Denmark's possessive, casual embrace, he wanted to leave.
He did not imagine this, when Norway had let go of his hand on that cold day.
He did not dream this, when the white snow reflected the last red and gold rays of the dying sun and he took Denmark's hand.
Sjaldan verður ósinn eins
og uppsprettuna dreymir.
Seldom will the the delta be
like the dreams of the source.
--
AN//:
Translations by smiletokamera and lordchrisos on LJ
"Island, come to me, here" = "Island, kom til mig, her" (Danish)
"You are now mine" = "Du er nu min" (danish)
"Ser deg senere" = "See you" (Norwegian)
"Ikke vær redd, alt kommer til å gå bra" = "Don't be afraid, everything is going to be alright" (Norwegian)
The last two lines translated in the text are in Icelandic and quoted from Sigurður Nordal.