W'rning: m'ntions 'f pag'nism.

Norge wakes up several hours later, cold because he's been stripped down to his underwear. It's very dark, and the lights of the large bonfires, coming from the glade where the equinox celebrations are taking place, burn so high he can see them from the waterside. He hears the merry people and folksongs from afar.

He groans, sitting up, because he's cold and his head throbs and his lips sting where the damned mermaid kissed him unconscious.

You don't s'ppose you could kiss me, right?

Damn her damn her damn her.

Lukas

Damn her, DAMN. He's not been THIS angry since… since forever, and he's actually scowling and he looks ominous and intimidating, or he would if there was anyone there to see him, but they're all singing in the beautiful glade, and dancing, and drinking,

and celebrating, and not only he's not, but also he's about to catch some seaside cold all because of a cursed (but beautiful) mermaid and… Something in his mind tells him it might be his fault for being so antisocial. If he'd been in the festival she would not have found him, right?

He chooses not to think about that, as he stands up shivering and tries to figure out what to do next as he runs to some place where he is sheltered from the wind.

It's dark save for the yellow streetlights that line the stone-tiled waterfront.

He takes cover in a narrow alleyway that winds up the mountain slightly and towards the rows of houses that overlook the fjord, and he frowns, if he walked up that street he would soon reach the glade.

He would. He chuckles in a sinister way, and thankfully, there is no one around to hear him, only the scrambling seagulls by the docks, the silvery fish underwater.

Norge realizes he would usually reason through the situation, just as he realizes he doesn't want to reason in this particular predicament. He only wants to hunt that damnable mermaid, a woman now, and rightfully choke her with *his* tie. Which is red, by the way, and it's a lovely tie, however much people don't seem to agree with him.

It's cold, confound it, cold and windy as he walks up the slope towards the festival. It's taken place in that very same glade since time immemorial, and a great carved stone sits in the middle of it, probably a relic from Viking times, or older. The local people believe it to be magical (but everything is magical there, and now, Norge knows it is even true), and they sing and circle it and decorate it with flowers and offerings, and light bonfires around it, and celebrate the coming of the following season.

Despite the beauty, Norge feels in his foulest of moods. Despite the fragrant smell of pinewood and early dew, of mead and gingerbread and roasted boar, despite the traditional attires and folksongs. When he comes to the edge of the grassy clearing, he is an obscure silhouette against the foggy marine landscape below by the sea; tall, silent, lean and almost naked.

Therefore, no one pays much attention to him. And no one would be honestly judging him that particular night either, because he isn't the only one in that state of undress; no one cares, it's all about alcohol and joy and tradition, and he does go unnoticed.

Shivering and irritated, his eyes scan the jolly multitude for an untame mane of blonde hair and a striped shirt. He walks around a bit. Someone pushes a wooden cup of mead into his hand; he sips from it, absentminded.

He doesn't see her, he is dragged into a dance by an unfamiliar face, then returns to his search. His eyes fall on her, eventually, though.

By the sacred primeval stone, a huge mug of beer in one hand, goofy-tipsy smile, she sways to the lively music of fiddles, making small talk with a dozen youthful men. Norge feels anger rise in his chest, for seeing her flirt so openly wearing his clothes, having made a fool of him like that.

He comes up to her with stealth, ripping her away from a man that looked much like his barbaric ancestors. He scowls at her.

"Hej hej, Norge!" a someone behind him calls, but Norge is beyond the point where he gives a damn about this situation he's in. He doesn't reply.

"Norge!" A hand falls on his shoulder, honest, friendly, "Don'tja snuggle her all to yourself, man! She's got spunk….!"

(he's rather disgusted…) "I've business here," he dismisses, and the man retreats muttering how he is no fun.

When he turns, Matthias (flushed. In the light of the bonfires, she looks absolutely delightful and unearthly) grins, she is grinning broadly at him, broadly, smugly.

"Hello again!"

He glares a deathwish at her, grabbing her arms and yanking slightly her frame towards him,

"Listen, you-" he begins, but she brushes him off with a terribly ill-intended question,

"Trying to get in my pants, Norge?"

He loses the calm he never actually had. "Those are MY pants, you idiot," he says under his breath, trying to overpower the shame that comes from knowing he's blushing, actually blushing.

The Dane grins a goofy, sloppy, drunken smile. "We can share-" Norge isn't exactly sure what she means by that, but her actions make her words clear immediately, and suddenly, suddenly a traitorous emotion wells up in the young man's chest and he just… he just hates himself for being… himself.

"Wait," he says, steady and defeated, "Button that back up, you idiot." She looks at him from where she's busied herself fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, puzzled.

"You're a moody one, eh Norge?" she says amused, obviously oblivious to the other men around, who began to flock towards the two of them when they sensed what was about to happen. She, however, doesn't proceed to further unbutton the shirt. She does not button it up either.

"…" Norge doesn't grace her with an answer, only stares at her, unfathomably.

She giggles. "Okay, take two," and easily lets his pants fall to the dewy grass below. Norge figures he can spare her a scandalized look.

"The hell, woman-?"

"Relaaaax, Norge," she chides, and picks up his item of clothing. "There you go. Moody and indecent, geez," she mumbles, and the young man isn't sure now if she's drunk or he'd just forgotten how damned nonsensical and downright idiotic Matthias is. Reluctantly, and not without some degree of self-consciousness, he puts his pants back on. He can't say he isn't glad to, though, and she does nothing to hide she's ogling him. His shirt is rather long, actually, and reaches about her mid-thighs, so, well, though his chivalry isn't pleased, it's appeased, but he's scowling.

"Don't they look better on you," she comments in *that* tone of voice Norge just doesn't want to dwell in, and she adds, "They didn't fit this spectacular body anyway, too narrow."

Yes, he must admit it. He's never blushed this much, or generally displayed this much emotion in….

… in, probably, his entire life.

And, to make matters exponentially, infinitely worse, half the population of Bergen, that had been watching the exchange in sheer tipsy amusement, roars with laughter.

A/N:

Well, after conversing with FlyingMintBunnies, I realized I couldn't just LEAVE the story there. It had potential for more violence, gore, and, knowing Denmark and Norway, that could only lead to fluff, right? Cause they're warped like that :) Also, I quote myself: "I kind of can't leave the story here, not without exploiting the idea of an angry!Norway storming into a fest full of drunkard nordics in his underwear alone :)"

…

Also.

I guess now I'll have to write a third chapter?

Send me some ideas, please. This is me here, begging on my knees :S

…

(Insightful reviews that make me think work just as fine, too)

EDIT: Fiiiixed the typos!