England sipped his morning tea (a nice Earl Grey) as he sorted through the reports on his desk. Apparently, camp guards had caught an albino German and a Hungarian sneaking into hi camp a few nights ago. They had been thrown out quickly and efficiently.
Another report caught England's attention. Norway had made an alliance with China and North Korea and had asked them to invade the Middle East.
The Middle East problem had been resolved! Why had Norway interfered?
Still, England could not ignore the Middle East. He signed orders for the Russian troops to go.
"England, you coward!"
England's head snapped up. Was that…Norway?
Sure, England had injured Denmark, quite possibly mortally, but that was no reason for Norway to be homicidal. After all, one colony -sorry, province- was much like another.
Sighing, he left his tent. Sure enough, Norway was stalking through the camp, using his magic to throw soldiers in his way about, completely willy-nilly. He was carrying his sword.
Bloody. Hell.
He had to face Norway. England has seen that look on Norway's face exactly once before. And it had been a very bloody day. If he didn't face Norway and defeat him now, Norway would hunt him until the end of the world, and quite possibly after.
He grabbed his own sword. It was very old, and very special to England. Norway was better at magic, but England was better at fencing. He hoped.
Norway eyed England -not warily, but vengefully. Remember that his childhood was filled with Viking raids. Vikings did not believe in fear, but they did believe in vengeance.
However, he did not let himself feel his anger. It would only distract him.
England, on the other hand, was very obviously terribly angry. Norway stood in his way on the path to world domination.
It was his anger that drove England to strike first.
Norway parried him. Quite easily, truth be told.
England tried again, this time for a low line of attack. Again, Norway parried.
It was after England's third such attempt that Norway launched his own attack, and thus the dance began.
Both had long histories of war. They knew the craft. Both were equally fast, equally strong, equally driven.
It was England who scored first blood. Norway had just been an instant too slow in his parry and England's blade had gotten through. Thankfully, it missed Norway's eye, which England had been aiming for, and left only a cut across Norway's cheek.
It was Norway who scored second blood, and third, leaving a red-rimmed hole in England's sleeve, and a similar cut across one cheek.
Somehow, despite England's obvious anger (or perhaps because of it), Norway slowly began winning. He was older, after all; he had more experience. It would not have been an obvious victory to those who were watching, but both Norway and England could fell the infinitesimal ways the Norway was now just a little bit stronger, a little bit faster. It would not have mattered, except England was getting tired.
He tried something desperate: he attacked with magic. Sure, he did not have his wand, but his sword would conduct magic the same way a wand would.
Norway sidestepped (Why waste magic when avoiding it would work just as well?), and was not hit by the spell -fortunate, as it immolated a tent about 30 feet away. Unfortunately, Norway's footing was not steady (Never let anyone tell you that Norways have good balance; it's a lie.), and he stumbled, then fell.
England grinned maliciously, then stepped on Norway's wrist. His sword clattered from fingers he could no longer feel.
"You are finished," England hissed, aiming his own sword at Norway's heart, a spell on his lips.
Norway stared up at England. He could very clearly see the dark aura around him; it was as if some thing had taken up residence in England's mind.
It was hopeless. Why should he struggle now? Denmark might already be dead; the others would soon follow. Perhaps it would be better to die; after all, death in battle meant a free path to Valhalla.
Why should he want to continue to live?
He could feel the blood running down his face. His side felt wet and sticky -perhaps England had stabbed him as he fell. England still stood on his wrist. It was probably broken.
He was so tired. The world grew dim and grey about the edges.
Norway had never been quite this close to death before. In the 1300's, during the Black Death, he had been very sick, and had almost died, but…it had not been this close.
He didn't like it. He didn't like feeling helpless; he never had.
He had to protect his family. Family came first. He had told Denmark that on more than one occasion.
He knew what he had to do, even if it killed him.
He tried lifting his hand (not the one still under England's foot), and managed to raise it a few inches before it fell back to earth. He tried again with similar results.
He tried again. This time, he reached his goal: the cross-guard of England's sword. He tugged, and had just enough strength to pull England off balance, and that was just enough to make him step off on Norway's wrist.
The instant he was freed, Norway jumped to his feet. He twisted the blade out of England's hands.
The bastard was surprised, as most normal people would have been, but that did not stop him from trying to apparate.
Norway stopped him by grabbing the front of his shirt. It's difficult to turn in a circle when you've got an angry Norwegian making sure you don't.
Norway pulled the Brit close to him. (Their noses were literally two inches apart.) "Who was your mother, England, that you insult, exult, and all at once, over the wretched?" he hissed.
(On a scale of 1 to 10 of how real things were getting, with 10 being "extremely real", Norway quoting Shakespeare was an eleven.)
England kicked Norway in the shin and tried to run away. He could not, and for a moment, he could not figure out why. He glanced back at Norway.
The other man had a creepy smile on his face, as in a "Mr.-Russia's-getting-out-his-magic-cane" smile.
The color drained from England's face. "You-you don't n-need s-sp-spells…"
"And you always thought spells made magic more convenient. When will you learn?"
With a flick of his wrist, he released England.
"Are you going to kill me?"
"No." Norway remained expressionless.
"Then-?"
"I haven't decided yet. You are a coward, and cowards, according to the old ways, do not deserve to live. However, I am a reasonable man. Surrender and I won't kill you. Realize the error of your ways, and I will personally guarantee that no one else kills you, either. The choice is yours."
"I -I…" England had a hard time saying the words. It had been a long time. " I surr- surrend - surrender."
As soon as England said the words, two people -Prussia and Hungary, Norway was surprised to see (What were they doing in England's camp?)- came forward and escorted England away.
As for Norway, the pain form his broken wrist (he could feel the bones scraping together) and the blood loss from his other wounds were starting to get to him. The world once more turned grey around the edges, and then it went completely dark.