The darkest hour had come. It would take some time for China and North Korea to mobilize -hopefully not more than a few days. He wasn't sure if his army could last that long.
The previous evening, Germany had not returned. Italy was inconsolable. Prussia and Hungary had disappeared somewhere -Norway really wasn't sure where, but he hoped he wouldn't have to deal with whatever holy hell they were raising. He really needed them; the battle lines were now at the outskirts of his camp.
He had to do something.
There was, perhaps, a single ray of light all day: Scotland had returned with a friend -France. The Frenchman had defected for love, apparently. But better love that hate, Norway supposed.
Still, the supplies hadn't been coming through. There weren't enough tents for France to have his own. Thankfully, Scotland had volunteered to share.
He'd had to smile at that. The almost dissolution of the Auld Alliance had hurt the Scottish man. They had sort-of fallen out of love. So, now, many years later, it was nice to see him head-over-heels again.
Still, the smile didn't last long. A group of Norway's soldiers were killed, all within a matter of minutes. He hadn't been able to feel his fingers, to breathe -all he felt was their passing.
There were so few left…
When the pain finally lessened, Norway found that Denmark was sitting next to him, holding a cup of coffee.
"Hey, Norge. Thought you might need this."
Gratefully, Norway accepted the cup. With his other hand, he wiped away his tears.
"I heard about that company. Died bravely. Took down a group of Russians twice as large as theirs."
"They are -were- my people. May Valhalla open its gates wide for them."
Norway took a deep breath and sipped his coffee. "Where d'ya think we go when we die?"
"I don't know. I suppose, the same place as everyone else."
"Maybe I'll see them again."
"Maybe."
Norway put down the coffee cup -it was empty. "Is there something you wanted?"
"I wanted to make sure you were ok."
"I am."
Abruptly, Denmark changed the subject. "Where are reinforcements needed?"
Norway looked at his map. "The south. Thor be with you."
Denmark nodded as he left. "And Odin with you."
A runner ran into the command tent. "Sir!"
"What?"
"Sir, Magnus Christenssen was defeated by Arthur Kirkland in hand-to-hand combat."
Norway felt the blood drain form his face. "How…bad…?"
"I don't know. My commander told me to tell you right away."
Norway didn't say anything to the runner. Instead, he ran for the lines in the south.
He never should have let Denmark fight. Of course he would try to fight England, the idiot.
Norway hoped he was okay.
Finally, he made it to the lines. A group -perhaps six- of Danish soldiers stood over Denmark, who was lying on the ground.
Norway sent a silent thanks to them for protecting the fallen Dane, even though they probably had no idea who he was.
He knelt next to Denmark and felt for a pulse in his neck. He found one; it was slow and weak, but it was there.
The apparent cause of Denmark's unconsciousness was apparent to Norway almost immediately: a large hole in his stomach. It looked as if someone had stabbed him, then twisted the blade.
Norway was fairly skilled at battle field medicine -after all, he had been the one to patch Denmark up after every battle during the 400 Years of Night. This, though, might be beyond his expertise. But if he did nothing, Denmark would die, country or no country.
First things first: he needed to get Denmark out of the middle of the battle. He looked around for help. Sweden was fighting nearby.
"Berwald!"
The Swedish man turned, saw Denmark, and ran over.
"Help me carry him back to the command post."
"'ll c'rry 'm. 't'll b' f'ster." ("I'll carry him. It will be faster.")
Many hours later, Norway was asleep in a chair next to the cot he had patched Denmark up on.
He'd used magic as well a needle and thread (he hadn't let the doctors lay a finger on the Dane; he didn't trust science as much as he trusted his own magic), and he was exhausted. There had been a lot of stitching to do.
He still wasn't sure if Denmark would pull through; he'd lost a lot of blood. That thought frightened Norway far more than he wanted to admit. Denmark had always been there. Always. His first memory was of Denmark finding him in the woods of Southern Norway, near the place that Oslo was today.
He awoke sometime well after sunset; the tent was dark, and the fighting seemed to have stopped. He wasn't sure at first what had woken him. With a thought, he lit a lamp so he could see.
Then he realized that Denmark was holding his hand. Was he awake now?
"Norge?"
"Danmark?" Norway was relieved. If he was awake now, he'd probably make it. "How are you feeling?"
"Like I've been stabbed in the stomach. That is what happened, right?"
"You -you don't remember?"
Denmark shook his head. "That last thing I remember was getting sleepy for some reason…Maybe England did something…"
England had used magic to defeat Denmark? That coward, that useless, son-of-a-
No. Norway would get his revenge. England's spells were no match against Norway's very old, very morally-ambiguous magic.
"I'm really tired, Nor. I think I'll go back to sleep."
"You're going to be alright, Danmark. Do you understand?"
The Danish man laughed softly, then winced as his stitches were pulled by his laughter. "I'm too stupid to die, Norge. You know that." He closed his eyes and, within moments, was sound asleep.
Norway brushed some hair off Denmark's face and soon, he was also asleep.