Once, long before things had become difficult, before there were words that were best left unsaid, Norway had a home of his own. It was simple, small: large enough for two people to live together comfortably, if they didn't mind having little privacy. But in those days, who did?

Then, things began to change. Humans grew greedier, and with them, their representatives. He was called to another port, far to the north, where he lived when he wasn't ruling the high seas.

Another era came: one of pestilence. He grew weak. His home was abandoned. A new place was offered, and he had no choice to accept. It was the first time he'd lived away from his own land. It was not home.

A few more centuries passed, and he seemed to live in an ever-confusing mess of new houses and new company. The familiar faces were pained by loss and grief.

Finally, FINALLY, when he thought at last that he would cease to exist, a chance was given to him: freedom.

And that chance was cruelly snatched from his grasp.

Almost a century went by…and then, he was given another chance. And he did not let this one go.

When he arrived on the shores of his own land for the first time as a free and independent nation in -what? Six hundred years?- he was told that a house had been built for him.

He had not expected to like it.

He loved it. It became a symbol for him, it's severe Victorian austerity softened by the wildflowers that grew in the gardens (unlike Sweden, he'd never had much interest in gardening).

And he'd loved it for 35 years, until the Nazis blew it up.

Another house had been built for him, but it was not the same. Too much function, and not enough form. But it had been enough for a man living by himself.

More than years passed. A lot happened, of course, but here is not the place to recount it.

That house stood until it was destroyed- this time by Americans.

And, for the last four years, he'd lived in an apartment not too far from downtown Oslo.

But now, here he was, standing in the entryway of his lovely Victorian house that he never thought he'd see again after 1940.

"How-?"

"Does it matter?"

"No, but-" Norway pulled his eyes away from the architecture. "It's perfect. Thank you."

"Are you crying?"

"No."

"Would you like to see the rest of the house?"

"Yes."

"After you."

Norway stood on tip-toes and kissed Denmark on the cheek. "I love you."