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Post by Denmark on Jun 14, 2011 2:38:05 GMT -5
The house of the Kalmar Union had borne witness to some spectacular fights, but tonight had possibly caused it the most damage yet. No light showed in any of the windows and the star-less night sky cast an air of gloom. The door hung open, revealing the uninviting dark interior and a trail of destruction. A hat stand lay across the marble entrance hall, portraits on the walls hung askew or had fallen off their hooks where something had hit the wall with force. The mess continued through the ground floor, with up-ended or broken furniture, smashed keepsakes, cracked plaster and occasional smears of blood.
One of the windows in the living room was broken and the curtains, flapping through the new hole, were being shredded by the remaining shards. Mathias’ hand moved of its own accord to pull the curtains back in, and wedged the material behind a chair. Moonlight shone through a gap in the cloud cover and revealed the projectile that had caused the damage, a wooden carving of a Viking helmet, in the garden a few metres away.
Mathias stared at in blankly. Had Berwarld thrown it, or had he? Whichever one of them had, it would have required a lot of strength to make it break the glass and clear the lawn. Probably he had, then, though he had no memory of it.
Come to think of it, Mathias could remember very little about this fight. They all blurred into one massive brawl, and he was sure it wasn't just the fault of the few drinks he had earlier. Looking around the dark lounge and seeing the damage was like seeing the remnants of a dream. As bad as the aftermath looked, Mathias knew that there was a lot of damage that escaped the eyes; the walls of this house were weakening. Sooner or later, if this kept going, they would crumble.
He turned his back to the window, and sat down heavily under it.
What was this fight even about? He scooted back to be half hidden by the chair and curtains, and leant back against the wall. Seriously. What were we fighting about this time?
There was no one to ask. Berwald was long gone after placing the punch that had broken Denmark’s nose, and the other Nordic nations were upstairs, sleeping. Well, probably not sleeping, Mathias admitted as he drew he knees into his chest to be more comfortable. Perhaps cowering and pretending they didn’t hear the two stronger nations trying to beat the other into seeing reason. Or maybe they were so used to it by now that they simply rolled their eyes at each other and went back to sleep. Actually, now that he thought of it, they could have all run off during the fight and Denmark would have been too busy trying to pummel Sverige to notice.
God, I need a drink.
Whatever had been the catalyst, it was just another excuse to address the issue of control. The more Berwald tried to defy him, the more Mathias was forced to try to strengthen his choke-hold on all of his brothers. His boss was more than happy to egg him on.
The self-proclaimed King of Northern Europe wiped worst of the drying blood off his lips with his hand. That punch to the nose had hurt, but at least it had stopped bleeding now. Without realising, he ran the same hand through his hair, leaving bloody streaks.
So, here he was… the Brave King of the north, no longer gallantly expanding his territory but instead slowly destroying the one thing he had ever wanted – and he couldn’t even remember why. He wrapped his dark trench coat around him more tightly to ward off the cold. This was idiotic, the most moronic thing he’d ever done. So why does it keep happening?
We’re brothers! We should be taking on the world, not each other! Why is Sve so... so... stubborn?
(A smaller, more neglected inner voice wanted to know why Denmark couldn’t be more reasonable, but it was weak from disuse and easy to ignore.)
The situation was so ridiculous that Mathias couldn’t help but laugh. The sound, mirthless and surprisingly loud, echoed through the dark house. He stuffed a fist into his mouth to quell the sound but couldn’t quite stop the laughter.
The amusement passed as quickly as it came, leaving in its wake a hollow self-loathing. Overcome, he jerked his head so it smacked into the wall behind him, angry at the defiant Swede and himself.
Stupid!
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AN: Sorry, no talking yet, but I've hope I given you enough to work with. Let me down gently, O Mighty Nordic Admin.
Hooray for random Danish titles
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Post by Finland on Jun 14, 2011 10:33:01 GMT -5
How long had it been silent now? Fifteen minutes? Thirty? An hour? Tino couldn’t tell anymore. The fights were becoming so frequent that they all ran together into one long war. It was the same thing every time – verbal at first. Always verbal. One would say something the other didn’t agree with. Their voices would rise. Tino didn’t mind that; voices couldn’t hurt anyone. Voices couldn’t spill blood or crack bone.
But it was never just voices. Violence came next. Always violence. Punching, slapping, biting, throwing things, clawing, pinning each other down, pushing each other into walls, choking, cutting each other with shards of glass, axing… And then it would be over.
Calmness followed. Always calmness. No, not complete silence right away; there would be a few taunts thrown back and forth between the Dane and the Swede. These were harmless, like mild aftershocks from an earthquake. Tino had begun to see these playful jeers as a sign that the brothers would continue to accept each other. It meant they’d work together to sweep up the glass and to set up the overturned furniture before sorely limping off to their bedrooms to rest up. It meant that in the morning, everything would return to the status quo. Mathias would be all smiles and laughter and Berwald would be his usual quiet self, both of them bearing the bruises and scrapes of last night’s brawl as Tino attempted to make idle chitchat to avoid the topic of their battles completely. Yes, the taunts were a good thing.
But they didn’t always happen. More and more often now, the house would become deathly silent after a fight. Silence meant something much worse than taunting. No post-fight words signified an unwillingness to apologize. Tensions would continue to build up so that the next fight promised to be twice as brutal. Silence often meant that one of the brothers had stormed out. Tino never knew where they went, but he would worry until daybreak came and he was able to peek into their bedrooms and catch a glimpse of them sleeping or to go downstairs and find them seated at the kitchen table.
Of course, Tino’s role was the same even if silence followed immediately after the battle. He would do his best to get the two from thinking about harming each other when night came once again by making small-talk – “Wow, it’s so warm today!” or “I think I’ll go down to the river and wash clothes. Would you like to come along, Berwald?” or “Wow, Mathias, this jam you got from the market is tasty!” What he said didn’t matter. It was all just fruitless damage control.
On this particular night, as the young Finn sat on his bed, clutching his pillow tightly to his chest and exhausted from sobbing, he listened. Tonight was one of those nights – silent. He wondered if they were alright. They had always been alright before, but what if one of them went too far tonight? What if one had been killed at the hands of his own brother? Another sob wracked his small frame and he buried his face into his already tear-soaked pillow.
Tino had always been the crier. They weren’t loud, babyish wails so much as breathless sobs of desolation. He hated to hear his brothers hurt each other. When had it become like this? And for what reason? Could there be resolution without death? Of course, he didn’t know if the other two in the house – the Norwegian and the Icelander – ever cried. He’d never heard them, and it was taboo to talk about the fights. They’d never seemed the type to cry over such matters. If he tried talking about it, he could imagine Vidar telling him to get over it, that it was just war and that all nations go through such things. However, Tino wasn’t worried about all nations. He was worried about his best friend, Berwald, and his brother, Mathias.
No more, he thought to himself with a sniffle, wiping his face against his sleeve. No more crying. I need to find Berwald.
Fumbling around until he found the matches on his nightstand, the Finn lit his candle and slid out of bed. He searched for his clothes in the dim lighting and quickly dressed – if he was going to look for Berwald, he certainly wasn’t going to do it in his nightclothes. Once dressed, he took the candle and made his way to the heavy oak door of his bedroom, pushing it open and making the tired hinges creak. His bare feet padded quietly across the wooden floor until a sudden noise startled him.
Tanska is… laughing? It was a dreadful noise. There was no happiness to be found in the laugh. Tino couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was – Anger? Hysteria? Despair? Whatever it was, it told the Finn that the Dane was still downstairs and that he’d have to somehow slip out past him. Summoning up the courage to continue, Tino made his way to the stairs, cautiously placing his feet as the light from his candle seemed to be swallowed up by the oppressive darkness. Carefully, silently, he descended.
Fitting, he thought as his eyes strained to make out the edge of the steps below him, for it to be this dark on a night such as this. He wondered if Berwald had thought to bring a light with him before he left.
Nearing the bottom few steps, Tino miscalculated and took too far a stride, stumbling loudly and crashing onto the landing at the bottom with a little “Oof!” There was no way that Denmark could have not heard the commotion. From the weak light made by his candle – which had miraculously survived his fall – he was just able to make out the Dane’s form sat under a window.
Immediately, Tino began to apologize, though for what, he wasn’t exactly sure. “I-I’m sorry, Tanska! I’m sorry! I w-was just going to check on…” His voice trailed off. It was probably unwise to mention the Swede’s name right now. Afraid to just walk away, he waited for Mathias.
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O Mighty Nordic Admin approved very much of your post! Just as a side note, Tino's not going to appear as being very old during this time period. Maybe around 12 or 13.
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Post by Denmark on Jun 17, 2011 2:58:03 GMT -5
Stupid!
That was certainly the theme of the night. Mathias rubbed the back of his head. That had hurt more than he'd intended.
He sighed heavily, dropped his hand and gazed ahead.
It was outbursts like that which were beginning to scare him. There was so much going on that lately he never knew how he was going to react. It wasn't that long ago that he had made being carefree and jocular part of his reputation, and although he'd ran into some scrapes in the past he'd always been quick to forgive. The disputes had never had this feeling of 'nastiness' about them, and had never kept rearing their head for so long. He'd never felt so irritable and scratchy. It was like he was losing control himself.
To be fair, the alcohol he'd taken to sneaking when he thought no one was looking probably wasn't helping him on that front. But it seemed to be the only thing that helped him cope.
Perhaps that was the downside of having a typically up-beat personality; when you finally lost it, you lost it big.
As he thought, Denmark slowly became aware of a faint glow of light radiating down the stairs. It was difficult to miss in the darkness, even though it was not bright. He watched as it grew stronger, as the peson carrying it crept closer. He was too realistic to allow himself to hope that it was Berwald coming to make amends. Besides, he couldn't be completely sure because he'd been distracted by his punched nose at the time, but he was pretty sure that Sve had taken off through the open door, and climbing back in through an upstairs window didn't seem like his modus operandi. Perhaps Vidar, then, coming to make a snarky yet reassuring remark about the condition of the house.
He watched hopefully.
“Oof!”. There was sudden commotion as the person tripped and stumbled over the final steps. The candle’s flame guttered wildly, almost petering out completely before it re-caught. The carrier regained their balance and, as they did so, caught sight of Mathias.
“I-I’m sorry, Tanska!”
Mathias didn’t need the light of the candle to figure out who it was. He didn’t even need the extra clues of height and voice; honestly, who trips and then apologizes for it? It was too Tino-ish to be anyone but Tino.
“I’m sorry! I w-was just going to check on…”
Denmark closed his eyes and allowed himself one brief moment to indulge the notion that the Fin had been wanting to check on him, and then dismissed the fantasy. Tino’s strong bond with Sweden couldn’t be denied – not even by someone as typically clueless on relationship matters as Mathias. He could not begrudge the boy wanting to check on his oldest friend’s well-being. Mentally, however, he shoved his own best friend who was probably dead asleep upstairs. No such concern, there.
When he opened his eyes, Tino was still hovering on the landing of the stairs. It was pleasing that he waited for permission to go instead of turning his back on Mathias like Berwald would have done. He was grateful for that small act of courtesy. Tino did seem a little jumpy, though, as if caught in an illegal act. It was almost as if he was frightened of Denmark. Not so long ago the idea would have been so ridiculous that Mathias would never have entertained it. Suomi was under his protection, after all, and a beloved brother to boot. Now however, Mathias was almost frightened of himself.
He was still sure he was in the right, though.
“Sve isn’t here, Tino.”
Responding made him more aware of his situation. Struck by sudden embarrassment at being caught mid-mope on the floor, he grabbed at the chair next him and used it to pull himself up. God, everything hurt. Was that a cut on his back he felt re-open? If there was a rip in his trench coat there would be hell to pay. Finally on his feet, he leaned against the chair and looked at the younger nation more closely. It was hard to tell in the poor light from this distance, but it looked like Finland had been crying.
That made things more awkward. Emotional sensitivity was not the Dane’s strong point. In many ways he felt like throwing his arms around the Fin and shedding a few frustrated tears himself, but he was almost a grown man and the prideful Brave King of Northern Europe. He had appearances to keep up. Even if front of younger brothers - especially in front of younger brothers.
Poor Tino. It was almost definitely the fight that had brought tears to the kid's eyes. Berwald’s stubbornness appeared to be cutting him up, too. Nice.
Don’t you go acting all high and mighty, Mathias. You’re not blameless. You don’t have to respond so forcefully.
Too late now. He pushed the voice of reason away tiredly, but still as firmly as he could. The line had been drawn in the sand. Denmark wouldn’t back down – not the King politically, not Mathias in his domestic life. The real culprit was Sverige and his refusal to yield.
Still, there was probably one thing that both the older Nordic nations could agree on, and that was that nothing was to be gained from letting a scared and woeful Finland spend the night scrambling round the countryside in search of Berwald like he clearly planned to do. One hardly needed to get fully dressed just to go downstairs. Tino might have been stronger than any human he was likely to come across despite his young appearance, but the thought of him wandering alone through dark streets was worrying. He would look like total bait. And sometimes thugs got lucky.
Mathias wasn’t inclined to let Tino go out there alone. And even if he did, it would be grounds for another blazing row.
“Don’t worry, Tino. He’s fine. He’s just gone for a late-night walk before bed.” Denmark pulled on a fake, too-bright smile, not realizing how ghoulish it might look with nose-blood still smeared over his lips and chin. “You don’t need to go traipsing around in the dark and the cold looking for him. He probably wants some time alone after…”
He shied away from directly mentioning the all-too-obvious fight, even now, in the immediate aftermath with all the physical evidence waving in their faces. Shame was an emotion Mathias was not prepared to face.
“Besides, Sve knows this area almost as well as I do. Don’t worry. He won’t get lost. He’ll be back by morning.”
Still, he did feel a twinge of guilt even though his clown-smile didn’t falter. What if Tino’s concern was warranted? What if Berwald was bleeding-out in a ditch somewhere?
The possibility that Berwald might choose not to return hovered at the edge of consciousness, not fully explored and recognised only as an unspecific dull fear. It was a potent, horrifying thought and Mathias preferred not to poke at out, sweeping it out of sight and smacking his 'things will work out' view right over top of it.
It was undeniable that things were getting much worse, but he reasoned that if you had been friends with someone for as long as they had, it was inevitable that there would eventually some disagreements. Still, this was geting ridiculous. Sverige was refusing to accept his orders. It wasn't right; Denmark was the senior member! It had been his Queen who fought for this Union, in her own way. It was only fair that his people had the most control. And besides, every action was for the greater good, wasn't it? Scandinavia had to join together to deter the other European nations from having a go at taking over the lucrative Danish Straits.
Ugh. If there was a light at the end of the tunnel, it was so far in the distance that is wasn't even a glimmer on the horizon.
He kept his eyes on Tino, struggling to keep up the farce of normality as something suspiciously like tears pricked at his eyes. It was late and he was exhausted. Emptiness was so much more wearying than anger. He wished he still felt that fieriness Berwald had initially inspired earlier in the night, but his most argumentative brother left a bit of a vacuum in his wake. Mathias shook his head imperceptibly and forced his grin harder.
These thoughts were not helping. Time for a distraction.
“Come,” he said with an imperial gesture, decisively dismissing the youngster’s intentions and shunting aside his own fears. He transferred his weight off the chair and took a step towards the Fin. “It’s dark and freezing cold. Help me light a few more candles and re-start the fire. I think they’re around here… somewhere…”
Denmark is so self-involved...
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Post by Finland on Jun 17, 2011 13:04:51 GMT -5
It became quiet again after Tino had presented his apology. The young Finn’s teeth began to throb with a dull pain from where they had clacked together as he landed harshly on the wood of the landing. A certain foggy quality made it even harder to see in the shadows of the house. Perhaps it was due to the broken window through which the outside nighttime was now inviting itself in. Even so, if he strained his eyes hard enough with the help of his candle and the moon which occasionally peeped out from behind a cloud to lend its light, Tino could see that Mathias had closed his eyes.
As he took note of this gesture and waited for a response from the Dane across the room, his mind surged. What would be the other’s response? Would he be angry for Tino coming down to involve himself in a matter in which he clearly had no right to be involved? Was he so disgusted by the sight of the boy, who shared such an intimate bond with Berwald, that even looking upon him might send him into a rage? This thought frightened Tino. There was no denying that the Dane was stronger than him. Tino had seen what the man had done to Berwald – the gashes and hematomas and broken limbs. It would have been naïve to think he couldn’t do much worse to someone of the Finn’s stature. His waiting on the landing out of respect soon became a fear-induced, petrified stance as his mind presented him with the question But would he?
“Sve isn’t here, Tino.”
It hadn’t been the reaction said Finn had been expecting. Mathias sounded exhausted and hurt. Tino was sure he was if the wreckage of the house had been his doing; it took a lot of effort to crack walls. Tino began to feel a bit guilty, then. Denmark had known that he would be looking for Sweden before he even mentioned the man’s name. He’d known that Finland wouldn’t be coming to his assistance.
It was then that he finally realized what Mathias had said. Sweden isn’t here. Tino’s hand shot up to his throat as he clutched the collar of his shirt, a gesture of panic. Tears welled in his eyes, threatening to spill over anew as he couldn’t help but conjure up images of the man dying somewhere in the loneliness of the night. With luck, a Good Samaritan might come across the man on his way home from a late night visit and at least carry the battered and bruised Swede to a town where he might be given a place to sleep for the night. Berwald was a nation just like the rest of them, and it meant that his body could heal itself much more readily than any human’s, but if by some chance he did die – and it did happen – Tino couldn’t bear the thought of him dying alone. Bidding himself not to cry in front of Denmark, Tino nodded weakly.
It wasn’t fair. It was wrong, and Tino was well aware. Mathias was just as much his brother as was Berwald. Why, then, did he so strongly favor the wellness of the Swede, who might have been perfectly fine and just taking a walk to clear his head, when Mathias’ broken body was sat here before him? Even through the darkness, there was a clear distinction between the paleness of the Dane’s skin and the dark streaks of blood that marred his face. I have to do something.
The shuffling noises of Mathias lifting himself off of the ground refocused Tino’s attention and confirmed his worries. He was unable to even stand without support. A large smear of blood on the wall under the window where his back had been pressed explained why. He soon felt the Dane’s eyes upon him, studying him. His teeth gently chewed at his lower lip as he waited for his next orders. Perhaps a Go to bed, Tino. or Help me. Something, anything would have been better at that moment than the silence.
“Don’t worry, Tino. He’s fine.”
Again, Tino gave a small nod. He didn’t believe Mathias or his obviously forced smile, but what did it matter? He had no proof that what Denmark had said was a lie. He’d wanted an order and he’d received one: Don’t worry.
“He’s just gone for a late-night walk before bed.”
Tino didn’t like the way the Scandinavian had stated it. He made it sound like everything was okay, like Tino was too fragile or young to handle the truth. The man couldn’t possibly expect the Finn to just be blind to everything that had happened, that had been happening more and more frequently over these past few months. If the ripped upholstery of the furniture and the torn paintings on the walls were not proof enough of their actions, the blood adorning their bodies certainly was. There was a strong urge to rush over to the man and to shake him and scream at him that no, everything was not okay, so stop smiling!
“You don’t need to go traipsing around in the dark and the cold looking for him. He probably wants some time alone after…”
Ah, so Mathias did acknowledge Tino’s awareness of their fights, after all. Furthermore, the Dane was actually worried about Tino’s wellbeing? Another pang of guilt hit him and he was no longer able to meet the elder nation’s gaze. And I didn’t even care about you at all. I’m so sorry, Mathias.
The young man opened his mouth to offer to bandage the other man’s wounds, half out of worry over his brother’s poor health and half because he wanted to make himself feel less guilty over his prior lack of interest in the Dane, but was cut off as Mathias continued, “Besides, Sve knows this area almost as well as I do. Don’t worry. He won’t get lost. He’ll be back by morning.”
It was true that Sweden was quite familiar with this area. Even before they had been together under one roof, the two brothers had always been close, and Berwald had visited Mathias’ lands many times. Tino quelled any thoughts that suggested It doesn’t matter how well he knows the land! One forgets such things after head trauma! and forged a brief smile.
“Come,” had been his brother’s next order. Scrambling to his feet with the waning light of his candle in tow, Tino listened as Mathias explained, “It’s dark and freezing cold. Help me light a few more candles and re-start the fire. I think they’re around here… Somewhere…”
He managed a submissive, “Yes, sir,” and went about his business. Mathias might have been his brother, but he was also his king, the head of the household. If he issued an order, whether it be something as massive as to go to war or something as small as lighting a fire in the hearth, the Finn would do his best to fulfill it.
Lighting the fireplace seemed the most logical first step. After a bit of scrambling around in the dark, Tino had managed to get a flame lit in the fireplace and was working on pumping the bellows to nurse the flame into a strong, crackling fire. Much better, he thought, nodding at his handiwork. He turned, then, to survey the room, now bathed in the warm glow of the fire. The full extent of the damage became clear. With a sad sigh, Tino confirmed that it was just as bad as it had been last time, if not worse. Still, it wasn’t the house that worried him. Houses could be rebuilt. His attention turned instead to his brother. From his angle, Tino could see a large slice down his brother’s back. The Finn’s breath caught in his throat as he imagined how much pain the other surely was in.
Standing and wiping the ash from his hands against his pants, he took a cautious step towards Mathias. “Tanska,” he squeaked, diverting his eyes to the floor. There was no reason for him to be so scared of the Dane, he knew, but he couldn’t help it. It was almost like approaching a lion or a wolf; if the creature wanted to, it could turn and kill you instantly. A little more loudly this time, Tino continued, “You’re hurt. Please, let me take care of your wounds for you.”
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Post by Denmark on Jun 18, 2011 0:25:55 GMT -5
The movement had been too much. His legs felt like they might buckle underneath him and his head had a sickly, swirling feeling as if he were punch-drunk. Perhaps he was. He wasn't quite sure what had happened to make him feel so unwell. Certainly there had been some vicious knocks on both sides, it could have really been anything. Was it the broken nose? The blow to the head? Or was it from whatever Berwald had used to strike his back when Mathias had been to slow to get up from an earlier blow? Or maybe it was just exhaustion.
He moved back toward the chair and sat himself on its arm. So much for 'helping'. He didn't make it anywhere near where he thought the candlesticks might have rolled to. Fortunately, Tino was already busying himself searching for flint in the weak candle light and seemed not to notice his aborted attempt at moving. Small mercies.
He contemplated Tino as he watched the Fin setting up the fire.
It was true that they didn't have such a strong relationship, with Finland falling more strictly under Sweden's guardianship than his own. There had been few opportunities to forge a friendship before Suomi had been brought into his house, and then things had deteriorated so quickly that Sweden appeared to be conspiring to keep Tino out of his reach. Still, Mathias had always considered him a brother, despite that bizarre language he used at home.
If Denmark had to pick what he liked most about Tino, it would probably be his quiet obedience. That might not sound like a glowing basis for a friendship, but as with all things involving the Dane there was more to it than met the eye. Following Denmark's orders often involved putting personal preferences and sometimes even common sense aside. There were few men or nations who could do that without at least voicing an opinion. He certainly would have had difficulty with it, and did do for many of his early years. It was nice to have someone actually do what you said without suggesting that you're an idiot. He appreciated that.
Mathias stifled a yawn. It hurt his face.
Sve has really done a number on me... I hope I got him just as good...
He allowed himself to rest his eyes as Tino set to work on the bellows, aware of the growing fire through the orange light it painted on the inside of his eyelids. He hoped the heat would reach him soon, but it was unlikely to fully warm the room with this blessed window letting in the night air directly behind him. If he'd been able to stand more confidently he would have tried moving one of the bookcases in front of it.
Hmm, I wonder if Tino... Eyes still closed, he pictured his ward mentally rather than actually look at him. Still short and thin, with the knobbliness of a young adolescent, growing slowly. Perhaps not quite up to moving the heavy wooden furniture. It was up to him.
He opened his eyes, feeling a little more stable. The fire had caught nicely and its flickering light showed just how damaged the room really was. It was going to take more than a little bit of cleaning to get it back to a suitable standard and, without any sign that Sve intended to come and help the clean-up effort in the near future, it looked like it might be a very late night.
Tino was taking in the damage at the same time. A shadow of what looked like pain passed over his young face. It took a few seconds for Mathias to realize that the boy had never seen any of the direct evidence of what was happening in the more heated arguments. Usually he and Berwald had limped about restoring some order by the time the other brothers came down in the morning. The most Tino would have seen were some old bruises, a ripped painting or chair or two, and some irreparable items inexplicably absent.
It dawned on him that perhaps having Tino here, now, was breaking his unspoken accord with Berwald to never involve the others in their disputes. Really, he should have just sent Tino back to bed and smoothed everything over in the morning. That would have been the smart thing to do. Things were bound to be much more awkward, now. The Code of Silence was very important.
The cold air coming through the window was chilling his neck. Very annoying. He thought of his plan with the bookcase and made a second attempt at standing.
Almost immediately as he leaned over and put weight on his feet, he was hit back by another wave of dizziness. He sat back more heavily, a hand flying to his mouth to fight the rising nausea, and squeezed his eyes tightly to stop the world from spinning. He didn't feel too good.
"Tanska."
Oh, God. He really should have sent Tino back upstairs. He felt like he was going to pass out or throw up. Perhaps both. Hopefully not in that order.
"You're hurt," the Fin observed. "Please, let me take care of your wounds for you."
Mathias' eyes flashed open as he registered Tino's voice. He looked up to see his younger brother tentatively approaching.
"No!" he barked, more harshly than intended. Seeing the damage to the house was a different story and could possibly be explained away, but it wouldn't do for Tino to get a better look at the injuries which Denmark would soon deny had ever occurred. With any luck the Fin would know better than to come any closer. They had to keep up appearances of normality. Admitting that something wasn't right in this house would shatter the happy-family illusion Mathias so badly needed to cling onto. Besides, he had his agreement with Sve to uphold.
"I mean, I'm not hurt." He hoped there no visible wounds to contradict him, conveniently forgetting about his nose. He strove to keep his voice even and steady despite the pain, despite the nausea, and tried to inject some warmth into his speech. He wanted to reassure Tino that he was thankful for the offer, even if the boy-nation was probably much more concerned about the state of Berwald. Personally, Denmark was beginning to suspect the tall Swede had come out better off in this fight; he'd at least been able to storm off. Mathias didn't know if he could make it as far as the fireplace without assistance.
He still felt light-headed. Tino might get suspicious if he passed out. He had to say something.
"I've... er... I've just had too much to drink," he invented. That was probably believable. It certainly wouldn't be the first time. "That's why the room is such a mess. I kept tripping over things. What a klutz, eh?" He faked a light laugh.
That just made him feel worse. He rubbed at his temple with two fingers.
"The thing is, bror, I could really do with something more to drink. And eat. Go get me something from the kitchen, yeah?"
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Post by Finland on Jun 18, 2011 12:33:48 GMT -5
Flinching at the sudden “No!”, Tino stopped dead in his tracks, feeling very much like a child being scolded for sneaking treats before dinner. He hung his head further after the harsh order, now looking straight down at his feet as a hot blush crept over his cheeks. What had he done wrong? It was obvious that Mathias was not well. Tino only wanted to help. He supposed it was possible that Denmark was still mad that his original intention had been to help Sweden and not the Dane, but the Finn certainly thought that his offer to help now would have made up for it.
He listened as Mathias continued in a much gentler tone, “I mean, I’m not hurt.” So it was back to the lies, then. Salt tears that had never fully dried on Tino’s eyelashes began to plump up again. He hated this. He hated that Mathias felt he had to lie. He hated that Mathias thought he couldn’t see what had been happening. Most of all he hated that Mathias wouldn’t let himself be helped even when he was barely able to stand.
But what could he do? If Denmark did not want help, Finland could not give it. Cautiously, he let his gaze drift across the floor and over to the Dane, sweeping slowly up from his feet and eventually resting on his face. His nose looked painfully swollen, mostly dry blood running from both nostrils to his lips and dark bruises forming around the inner corners of his eye sockets. It took no medical expertise to diagnose that it was broken. Tino couldn’t conclude where the streaks of blood giving Mathias’ mussed hair a rusty red hue had come from, but he could only conclude he’d received some form of head trauma. By the passing second, the Scandinavian was looking more and more ill. He was deathly pale, which Tino assumed was attributed to the blood loss, and he seemed unable to focus his eyes, sometimes letting them go partially lidded.
It hurt to see his brother in such a state but to be allowed to do absolutely nothing. He’d opened his mouth to beg the Dane once more to let him do something to help, only to have his tiny “Please” swallowed up by the other’s continued explanation.
“I’ve… er… I’ve just had too much to drink. That’s why the room is such a mess. I kept tripping over things. What a klutz, eh?”
As Mathias gave a weak chuckle, Tino could do little more than give a dejected shake of the head. He knew it was a lie, and he surmised the other knew his bluff had been called. Nevertheless, he said nothing, reminding himself once more that this man was his king and one simply did not challenge a king’s words.
But he’s my brother, too, the Finn reminded himself. He was in turmoil. Could going against one’s ruler be justified by saving one’s brother when the two were the same? Such a problem had never before presented itself to Tino.
“The thing is, bror, I could really do with something more to drink. And eat. Go get me something from the kitchen, yeah?”
This was perhaps the first entire truth Mathias had told since Tino had stumbled across him tonight. He must have used a lot of his strength during the battle, and still more was flowing out of him in the form of blood. Certainly replenishing his energy would do him some good. And it must have been a good sign if the man felt well enough to eat, right?
Giving a little nod and picking up the flints he’d used to light the fireplace, Tino replied, “Yes, sir,” and turned to leave. A few paces towards the door, he stopped and mulled over a thought before turning back to the other. “B-But please, sit down. You can barely stand. Even I can see that.” He turned then and trotted out the door, doing his best to convince himself that those were not drops of blood on the marble floor of the entryway.
It’s so cold tonight, the young Finn noted as he vaulted down the steps to the house and hurried across the cold, damp lawn, his hand in front of his candle to block the wind from getting to its flame. His thoughts turned once again to Berwald and his pace slowed. Had the Swede remembered to take a coat? It was unlikely, Tino concluded, for who could remember creature comforts with their mind clouded with the rage of battle? If he had sustained such horrible injuries as he’d given, he could freeze.
He could chase after him, the Finn realized. If Mathias thought he was in the kitchen preparing food, it would give him an alibi to slip away into the dark of the night. He could have nearly a half hour’s head start on the man, who, even upon realizing he’d been deserted, would likely be much too weak to follow.
Stop that! Tino scolded himself, dismissing the rebellious inkling at once, ashamed that he would even think of taking advantage of the Dane in such a way. There was nothing that could be done for Berwald now. He wasn’t even sure in which direction the man had set off. There was, however, much tending that needed to be done for Mathias, and he would do his best.
Once he reached the kitchen and stepped down onto the cool dirt floor, he used the dying flame of his candle to light a few larger ones, giving him just enough light to see what he was doing. He knelt down by the cooking fire. It was still smoldering a bit from where it had been lit to cook dinner just hours ago, but there was not enough heat. Taking out the flints, he struck them together in an attempt to rekindle the fire, prodding the charred wood with an iron. Once the flame sprung to life, he set to work with the food, mixing rye meal, water and butter together in the large iron pot to make what Denmark called rugmelsgrød. It wasn’t much, but it was warm and easy to digest and it would give him the energy to heal.
The young Nordic filled a second kettle with water and hung it next to the larger to begin heating as well, and then rummaged through the wooden cabinets until he found what he was looking for – a small leather pouch filled with various herbs. He knew which of these could help numb Mathias’ pain and aid him in getting rest, selecting the proper ones. Much better than more alcohol. Just before adding them to the kettle, he poured a small amount of the now boiling water onto a clean cloth from a nearby counter top.
Once he’d made sure the food was warm, the tea brewed and the cooking fire safely out, he dished it up and hurried back to the house. A nagging thought prodded at the back of his mind. Mathias had looked so sick before that Tino was worried he might arrive to find that the man had died in the time that it had taken him to prepare the meal. What should he do then? Wake the others?
I shouldn’t think like that, he reminded himself.
Arriving at the house once again, he padded up the steps and hesitantly stepped inside. “Tanska?” he called out. It was just as much an announcement of his presence as it was a call to confirm the other hadn’t exsanguinated. Of course his fears were calmed when he found the other still obviously alive. “I hope this is okay,” Tino murmured, presenting Mathias with the food and makeshift medicine while surreptitiously checking the man's face and body language to see if he was feeling any worse than when Tino had left him.
“Oh!” he gasped, holding out the cloth still dripping with warm water. “Here. Wipe the blood from your mouth first. It's not good if you ingest any more of it.”
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I went with the idea that they have a kitchen in a separate building, as did many wealthy families of this era. I think the main point was to keep the house from smelling like smoke. Rugmelsgrød is some type of hot rye porridge.
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Post by Denmark on Jun 20, 2011 1:03:47 GMT -5
Mathias' lie must have been apparent because Tino just shook his head. He looked decidedly unconvinced by the fictional explanation but said nothing other than a muted "Yes, sir" and gave a simple nod in response to the request, bending to collect the materials needed to re-kindle the cooking fire.
In any other situation Denmark would have felt guilty about snapping at his younger brother, but pain was making him cranky and he was too preoccupied with trying to control the wooziness to even notice Tino's eyes fill with tears or the conflict that played out on his young face. The Dane was biting down on his tongue to prevent himself from vomiting when the small nation stopped on his exit and turned thoughtfully to face him.
"B-But, please, sit down. You can barely stand. Even I can see that."
Even his hesitant voice couldn't soften the blow. Fortunately, Tino had already turned and quick-stepped out the door without waiting for a response so his missed the snarl that crossed Mathias' face in response to the insolent observation. If Denmark had said something like that when he was Tino's age, he would have received a hefty cuff around the ears from a thick-set Norseman. Viking men didn't appreciate having their weaknesses pointed out. The warrior culture was still strongly engrained in Mathias' psyche and this, coupled with his desire to keep the domestic situation a secret, meant that he almost didn't recognize the request for the concern it truly was.
The fact that Mathias felt he had just come off second-best in fight against the Finn's dearest brother also did not endear him to hearing that same nation remark upon how he couldn't perform even the most basic of motor functions.
Regardless of the comment's intent or how it was interpreted, Tino's observation was accurate. Mathias huffed in hazy displeasure as he released he was going to have to follow the youngster's advice or risk passing out, both of which would cause substantial knocks to his pride. He considered sitting in the chair he was resting against but dismissed it, realizing the draft from the broken window would continue to assualt his neck. He skin felt suddenly clammy as if he'd been sweating heavily and seemed over-sensitive to every breeze despite his coat.
Mathias found his eyes drawn to the enticing hearth rug. He gazed through the doorway after his brother, waiting until he was certain that Finland was out of earshot before he attempted to stand again.
Convinced that the coast was clear, Mathias gave moving another try. He inhaled deeply as he began the ill-fated journey, pushing himself away from the chair. The faintness he was beginning to associate with moving returned in force instantly. Denmark groped blindly for window-frame as his vision slipped out of focus. His fingers missed it and he fell forward, managing to break his fall with his outstretched arms.
He lay his head against the wood and breathed heavily, waiting for the feeling to pass and for the ground to stop playing merry havoc with his senses. How humiliating. With the only other option being waiting for Tino to help him - exponentially more galling - Mathias got to his hands and knees and began a slow, shuffling crawl to the fire. His head lurched violently with very movement.
His knee bumped into a candle, sending it rolling a few inches. Aha,[/color] he thought fuzzily, reaching out to grab it, but stopped short, groaning, as the movement dragged his clothes over the gash on his back.
It was a deceptively difficult journey despite the small distance and Mathias stretched out on the ground in front of fire gratefully once he finally reached it. Tino had done a good job. The heat soon released some of the tension he'd been carrying about unconsciously. He would have felt quite ready to go to sleep if it wasn't for that strange, nauseating drunken feeling that still hung about.
I wonder what Tino has found in the kitchen.
He licked his lips, nearly gagging at the metallic taste of blood, and swallowed hard. He was dying for a drink.
He stretched again, dropping the candle and moving so his was lying on his stomach gazing into the fire. He watched the dancing flames idly through half-lidded eyes while he waited for the Finn to return and allowed his thoughts to wander, drifting back to happier times when he, Norge and Sve would stay up all night listening to the seasoned Viking warriors swap stories about the Norse Gods. He could almost picture their faces, mouths hanging open as they listened to stories of Fenrir and imagining the dark horrors that would befall them during Ragnarök , or making eye contact and laughing as they thought of the two poor souls who would have to repopulate the Earth after the death of the Gods. Back then he'd worn a small replica of Mjolnir on a leather cord around his neck with pride, but the pendant had been hidden amid his belongings ever since he'd had to shelve his contempt for the Christians they'd raided and, later, had merged their beliefs with his own. It was currently deep in his sock drawer. Maybe he'd start wearing it again, when they were all getting on. If that ever happened.
A sigh escaped his lips as the issue of Berwald rose its head again. The whole thing was a total mess. Both of them had made the inexcusable error of backing the other into a corner, which was just bad politics. They should have known better than to assume the other would go down without a fight when neither of them had ever done so before. Mathias felt an incredible sense of longing to have his brother back, properly back instead of the polite enemy who would be sure to greet him in the morning with a disguised insult. He could have used the sensible Swede's advice on the matter. He had a way of seeing things that not even Norway could emulate.
How was it that Berwald seemed to be getting stronger while Mathias got weaker and weaker? He closed his eyes and sighed again.
”Tanska?”
The Dane jolted as Tino's voice woke him from the light sleep he had slipped into unexpectedly. He quickly hauled himself into a sitting position before he was spotted lying sprawled like a dog in front of the fire, and was rewarded with a fresh bout of wooziness for his sudden movement. He felt slightly more muddled than before. Looking around, he could have sworn the room was in better shape than before he’d drifted off. Had Tino been in to help set it back to rights? Or was that just a trick of his mind?
”I hope this is okay.”
Mathias held his hands out blindly to accept the bowl and the cup, blinking twice to try to clear the grogginess. It didn't help, but perhaps something to drink would.
It was with some disappointment that he registered Tino had brought him some kind of tea instead of alcohol. He sniffed at it and dubiously mulled over the strange smell of his brother’s home-made medicine. He clumsily seized the bowl of rugmelsgrød with rather more gusto, recognizing the meal he'd had almost every night that had ever spent on Bornholm with relief. The savoury, plain dish was just the thing he needed. He readied his spoon, about to dig in, when Tino's gasp made him stop with the spoon in mid-air.
”Oh! Here.” The young Nordic held out a damp cloth. ”Wipe the blood from your mouth first. It's not good if you ingest any more of it.”
The nation sounded so matter-of-fact that Mathias found he was obediently reaching for the cloth before he could check himself. He froze with his fingers just touching the edge of it.
What should he do? He kept his eyes on the damp material, strangely reluctant to meet Tino’s gaze. If he took the cloth it was tantamount, in his muddled mind at least, to admitting that all his previous explanations had been lies – particularly his insistence that he was unhurt. He might as well just tell Tino that he routinely found himself trying to choke the defiance out of the Finn’s beloved Berwald and had earned the broken nose for his efforts. Obviously, though, he had the evidence all over his face and was lying in the middle of chaos, so denying it would be fruitless. And he was tired, too tired to continue lying. Sve's Code of Silence be damned.
I know that he knows, and he knows that I know he knows… so what is the point?
Taking the cloth was the most sensible thing he could do.
He closed his fingers around it slowly and lifted it out of his brother's grasp. For the first time that night he briefly made proper eye contact with his violet-eyed brother, wondering if Tino knew how much it was costing him to accept this act of kindness, this offer of help. Finland didn’t grow up in the same warrior culture; perhaps he viewed these things differently. He hadn’t come into manhood amid customs that required all Norse men to own weapons.
Mathias dabbed at his upper lip gingerly, tracing the line of his lips from left to right and from his nose down to his chin, increasingly heavy-handedly and wincing intermittently as he got too close to the heavier bruising. Accidental contact with the bridge of his nose sent a fresh wave of nauseated pain racing through him. He hissed but persevered.
The cloth was stained a dark red when he took it away.
”Tak.” He struggled through his hazy thoughts to recall what his brother might say in his own lands. ”Kiitos, Suomi.”
He wasn't sure if he'd got all the blood off, but he dropped the cloth and turned his mind on to other matters. Deciding he would leave this strange tea until last, Mathias picked the rugmelsgrød up again and tried a mouthful. It was just what he needed. He managed a thankful smile at the young nation despite a lingering feeling of embarrassment.
”Sorry, I should have told you to get yourself something. This is really good.” He took another spoonful and gazed up, straining to focus on the boy’s face. He wasn't used to looking up at Tino. How funny. He couldn't help but chuckle. He still wasn't feeling quite himself.
”Sit with me.” He gestured at the area in front of the hearth with his spoon before returning to his porridge. ”Talk to me while I eat.”
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Post by Finland on Jun 20, 2011 21:45:13 GMT -5
As Mathias, relatively alert and even managing to hold himself in a sitting position, reached up to take the bowl and cup, Tino was able to puff out the breath he wasn’t aware he’d been holding. Tensions driven by the air of uncertainty that the Dane might have slipped away were at last calmed, though perhaps not wholly as the Finn noted the weakness of the man’s hands as he accepted the offering of food and drink and the way he cringed at even the slightest twitch of a muscle. He had also expected that Mathias would have plopped himself down on a chair and wondered, feared if the reason he hadn’t was because he’d fallen and had been too frail to make it back to his feet.
Seconds passed between the offering and the accepting of the cloth in which Finland was uncertain whether or not Denmark would actually follow his advice. Was he even able to? For a brief moment, Tino was able to lock gazes with the other, doing his best to convey genuine concern with the way his brows furrowed just so. Whatever the Dane saw through his groggy stare must have been convincing, for he extended his hand to accept the offer.
Tino’s eyes followed the sopping cloth as Mathias drug it across his face. Maybe it was merely the way the dried blood returned to a liquid state and then diffused throughout the coarse fabric, but the quantity of blood present seemed to be much greater than the Finn had first estimated. Was it truly just an illusion or had the Dane’s nose begun bleeding again? Though a few watery, cherry pink drops left behind by the now soiled rag gathered at his lip and dripped from his chin, it didn’t appear that the dark red liquid had begun to flow anew.
Keeping a wary eye for even the smallest sliver of fresh blood, Tino diverted his attention elsewhere as he heard Mathias give a fatigued, “Tak.” A curt nod of the head was to suffice as the Finn’s acknowledgement of Mathias’ thanks until he heard his brother speak again, correcting himself with a thickly accented, “Kiitos, Suomi.” To say the least, the use of Finnish had been surprising. Brother or not, Finland’s position in the household, even in its most glorified state, could be described as little more than Sweden’s favored lackey. Certainly he could not expect the others to facilitate his vague understanding of the North Germanic languages by learning Finnish. To actually have Mathias, leader of their once mighty household, humble himself in such a manner as to use Tino’s human language was quite unexpected.
Tino felt a need to repay such a token of kindness. Watching the bloodied cloth land in a wet splatter against a spot on the floor miraculously clear of the jetsam of battle, the boy responded, “Du er velkommen.” The words felt bulky and strange in his mouth, not at all like the sharp sounds of Finnish and not even exactly like the thick sounds of Swedish.
Mathias’ appetite, if anything about him this night, seemed healthy. Tino watched as he spooned the hot porridge into his mouth and then gave a pleased smile, the cracks of his lips and the edges of his teeth still tinted red from the blood. The young Finn took this sign to mean that he’d done a good job in preparing the meal and gave a meek grin in response.
“Sorry, I should have told you to get yourself something. This is really good.”
“No, it’s okay,” came his reply. “I’m not really hungry.”
The knot of anxiety churning in the pit of his stomach made sure any hunger he might have had was suppressed. His mind was not on his belly. It was on Denmark who needed his full attention, and on Sweden who, in his absence, was preventing him from giving his full attention to Denmark. No, he wasn’t worried about having a bite to eat.
If anything, Tino was exhausted. What time was it? The sun had been down for several hours already by the time the brawl had gotten so loud that the sounds of landing blows and pained yelps had wafted up the stairs. He’d spent a long while practicing his written Swedish by candlelight and was nearly ready to turn in for the night when the first few verbal strikes were exchanged. Tomorrow was going to be an extremely long day if he didn’t get rest.
Nonetheless, if Tino had to go a fortnight without sleep to take care of his brother, he would make it happen, thoughts of warm sheets and soft pillow be damned. His anxiety would surely prove to give him fitful nightmares, anyway.
Lost in his thoughts, the boy jolted a bit at the oddly gentle order to “Sit with me. Talk to me while I eat.”
Inwardly, Tino groaned. Tending to the damages of his brother’s body and of their house was one thing, but carrying on a conversation with a man who had just nearly gotten himself killed, who had just nearly killed another man and who was likely still coming out of a mighty rage was another. How could Denmark possibly expect the boy to chat with him as if everything was alright? He’d have much preferred to have been given the task of repairing the war zone that had once resembled their living room.
What if I say the wrong thing? Will he snap on me, too?
A subtle look of perplexity played across the child’s features even as his knees bent obediently. Now sat in front of the fire, he kept his gaze transfixed on the bowl in the Dane’s hands, fishing through his muddled mind for some piece of conversation.
His hands idly picked up a piece of wood, the smoothly polished surface abruptly ended by a jagged, splintered break. At one point, Tino recognized, it had been the leg of a table. It was rather large and his boyish hand could hardly fit around it. It had likely been broken by one of the two beasts throwing the other against it and beating him down into the wood until the legs finally gave way. Sighing, he tossed it aside.
“We’ll need to go into town, soon,” he said at last, his voice gentle and flat, a forced grin pricking at the corners of his mouth. It betrayed none of the dread or misery that was currently weighing against his chest, balling itself tightly into something pressurized and unstable and then collapsing in on itself until there was nothing but a sad weariness. With his typical carefree drawl, he continued, “I noticed when I was in the kitchen that we’re running low on rye meal. Probably because you keep eating these late night snacks, huh?” He giggled a bit, looking up to meet the Dane’s gaze and hoping he hadn’t been too out of line with his jest. “B-But there’s a chill in the air. The snows will come soon and we need to be well supplied for the winter.”
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So I wasn't exactly sure when this RP is taking place as far as the month goes, but hopefully the last bit fits in with your idea of the setting.
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Post by Denmark on Jun 24, 2011 1:19:15 GMT -5
The order given, Mathias returned to his rugmelsgrød. He shoveled a few more determined spoonfuls into his mouth in quick succession hoping that the faster he ate the faster he would heal, but they seemed to form a hard ball in his stomach in a way the previous mouthfuls hadn’t. He considered that perhaps he had been eating fast enough to give himself indigestion, and made a conscious effort to slow down.
Tino obligingly sat next to him but was silent as he toyed with a broken table-leg despite the request to chat. Mathias frowned. For a moment there it had felt like the old days with the other Scandinavians, being patched up after a raid and then unwinding by talking about anything and everything that had come to mind. He wistfully remembered the long nights after a victory spent in front of a camp fire with good friends and a good amount of cooked meat and mead. Those days seemed increasingly out of reach. He’d worked so hard for a stable household and now he had it. Now he had a hearth, porridge and tea. And although the Finn was the object of Berwald’s affections the two were quite dissimilar. He’d been stupid to expect Tino would respond in the same way.
With annoyingly shaky hands, he took another mouthful of the porridge. This bite tasted like ash but it seemed like too much effort to spit it out so he forced it down. At the same time, Tino discarded the wooden shard and inexplicably grinned. Mathias’ ears pricked up hopefully.
“We’ll need to go into town, soon,”
“Oh?” Denmark was not sure what he'd been hoping for, but talking about elements of house-keeping was not it. Better than nothing, I guess,, he thought as he tuned out, unable to share the enthusiasm for shopping. He sighed longingly, unable to shake off the memory of the glory days. He tried to force himself to remember that it hadn't been all good. Sometimes he'd become caught up in the heat of battle and done things he later regretted.
And the Viking mindset had its dark side, too. Even towards the strangest things. Mathias glanced at the herbal tea and thought idly of how the innocent act of brewing herbs would have earned his Finnish brother an accusation of seiðr, women's magic or witchcraft, which back in the day had been the most horrible insult to one's sexual proclivities and opened the door for more than just name-calling. In many ways it was good that things had changed and that the simple act of making an unusual tea didn't carry all the connotations it once did, but he still felt nostalgic for the camaraderie.
“I noticed when I was in the kitchen that we're running low on rye meal. Probably because you keep eating these late night snacks, huh?” Finland giggled and glanced at him nervously.
He was finding it hard to concentrate on the boy's words, due in part to his tenuous grip on consciousness and in part to his disinterest, but he did get the jest. Denmark dropped his gaze to the bowl of rugmelsgrød, now almost empty, and his lips twitched. He collected the last spoonful and drowsily saluted Tino with it, a chunk of the porridge falling off the spoon and hitting the floor, before bringing it to his mouth. It was nice to hear laughter in the house. It didn't occur to him to be annoyed by the joke at his expense because he felt no guilt about it whatsoever; he was the King, if he wanted to eat all the rye meal in the house he would and no one would get to say anything about it. Especially not Berwald. He would eat himself sick in front of the Swede and if the tall blonde even so much as raised an eyebrow at the amount of rugmelsgrød, he would raze Stockholm to the ground.
Hmm. That was an unnecessarily aggressive thought. He put the empty bowl and spoon down.
Tino was commenting on the changing seasons, soldiering on admirably. “B-But there’s a chill in the air. The snows will come soon and we need to be well supplied for the winter.”
It's going to be a long winter. Mathias' mood plummeted further as he envisioned spending the short days stuck inside away from the cold, Berwald constantly in his face. No, not Berwald, this infuriating, uncompromising Sweden. God, he felt so isolated in this house. He reached suddenly for the tea and took a deep draught.
Bittersweet and still very hot, the tea tickled his throat. He coughed after the swallow and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, accidentally transferring a small smear of watery blood left over from the administrations of the cloth. Mathias wiped the back of his hand against his coat.
“Is Nor awake?” he asked abruptly, not bothering to acknowledge Tino's attempt at conversation. Then, without giving the boy a chance to respond, Mathias answered his own question. ”No, of course he's not.”
He knocked the empty porridge bowl over in annoyance. The Norwegian was not the sort to lose sleep over anything, as far as Mathias knew. He wished he had half of that indifference. Oh well, it was of no consequence, as Nor's first responsibility would always have been the little Icelander if he had been awake. He contemplated going to wake him, but decided against it. If he had been asleep, Vidar wasn't the sort to appreciate being woken up to reminisce about the old days just because his friend was having a rough night of his own making, or being dragged down out of bed to help with the clean up effort. He’d follow the order, but it wouldn’t be the friendly support Denmark craved.
He ran a hand through his hair tiredly, ignoring the dull ache from his back. A frown crossed his face as his fingers tugged on a clump of blood above his temple. Where had that come from? He was beginning to feel very drowsy but still had all the cleaning to do before he could allow himself to drift off.
What exactly had Tino put in that tea? It was making his thoughts rambling and disjointed. He felt less in control of himself than ever, but thankfully in a sleepy half-drunk way instead of the red-hot rage sort of way.
If Norge was awake he would have sent the boy to bed and they could have fixed up the house, debriefing at the same time. Maybe they would have even gone to look for Sve. They’d have probably laughed at how stupid the argument had been, smoothed everything over, and gone back to being a great trio.
But no. An empty, hollow feeling rose from his stomach, turning the porridge into a lead ball and the lingering taste of the tea to bile. He couldn’t pretend it was just a physical response to his injuries. Here he was, alone with a rather reluctant and under-appreciated young nursemaid while his brother was off bleeding somewhere and his best friend was happily slumbering upstairs.
He put both hands to his face, covering his eyes. His pain, drowsiness, fear and loneliness combined with the tea made his tongue loose and he found himself confiding more than he'd ever intended to his little brother. ”There's something really wrong with this house, isn't there?”
One hand dropped into his lap listlessly and balled into a fist while the other remained spread from temple to temple. ”I never thought...” Some remnant of sense reined in his tongue. He dropped his other hand, stared ahead and took another sip of herbed tea instead of finishing his sentence.
With a sudden change of tact, he turned his voice flat and hard. "Tino, help me clean up this room."
He stared ahead, continuing to drink his tea.
It was too much to hope that he’d soon pass out and dream of going Viking, his two brothers by his side.
Evidently there was a romanticized Viking revival in the 17th and 18th Centuries... I like to think it was because Denmark was feeling lonely and nostaglic.
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Post by Finland on Jun 29, 2011 10:17:32 GMT -5
The way Mathias’ expression soured did not go unnoticed by the little Finn. For a moment, Tino feared that the man had made himself sick off of the porridge and was about to ask if his stomach was upset when the Dane reached for the rudimentary medicinal brew, effectively shutting him up. In the younger Nordic’s mind, at least, if the man felt well enough to drink, then he was certainly not going to vomit. The strangled cough Mathias gave after drinking concerned Tino somewhat, but he wrote it off as the product of merely having drunk the bitter remedy too quickly when the first cough was the only one.
Good that he’s drinking it, Tino thought. Of course he’d known that when he’d asked for drink that the Dane had strongly implied alcohol, and so the Finn had been unsure of whether or not the man would even give a second glance to the tea. Watching him down it in gulps served to bring a little relief to the improvised apothecary.
Tino’s eyes followed Mathias’ hand from his side to his mouth, watching as he pressed it to his bloodstained skin, and then flicked up to meet his gaze as the other began to speak.
“Is Nor awake?”
Almost immediately, the boy’s gaze dropped to his lap. He was only half certain that Mathias hadn’t meant for the question to double as an insult. It was such an innocent inquiry on the surface, but the backhanded undertone bled through strongly and saturated the words dark with something akin to disgust. The final outcome was a quasi-polite: I don’t want you, Finland. I want Norway.
Tino supposed he couldn’t place blame when he, himself, had not come downstairs fully intent on nursing his Danish King-brother back to health or even on giving him so much as a passing glance. After all, he’d done his best to steal through the murky dark of the vast house and had only announced his presence once he’d made the mistake of falling down the wooden steps and creating an undeniable racket. He wondered if this was how Mathias felt.
Focusing on the lingering question was the most painless option for now. Mouth opening to give a response, eyes still locked on his own knees, the Finn hadn’t had time to properly form a syllable before Mathias answered his own question, saying, “No, of course he’s not.”
Tino nodded. Just as he hadn’t known when he’d been sitting in his bed and clutching his pillow whether or not the Norwegian was awake, he now remained to be without the slightest inkling. Perhaps Vidar had trained himself over the past few years to sleep through the savage commotion that was often happening just below their floorboards. It would have been a useful skill; Tino couldn’t count the number of mornings he’d woken up exhausted and with a pounding ache in his skull from crying through the night over the possibility of finding one of his brothers dead or dying. In a way, he envied Vidar’s aloofness; though cold on the face of it, such a technique would at least ensure a good night’s sleep.
He might be awake, Tino reminded himself. Especially if the little Icelander had awoken frightened by the chaos, Vidar was sure to have gotten himself up to comfort the child. Or maybe he was like the Finn and woke up for every fight. Perhaps not out of anxiety like Finland, but simply because the fights were loud and he was a light sleeper. Sleep deprivation would explain his often less than sunny attitude in the mornings.
The clatter of the clay bowl and spoon against the floor sent a jolt through Finland, his head twitching around to see what had caused the noise. He watched as the spoon rocked a little, the rim of the bowl wobbling faster and faster against the floor until it came to a rest. Fortunately, Mathias had scraped up nearly every ounce of the porridge or there would have been yet another mess to clean up in the abused great room.
To ease the mild discomfort that had arisen from his legs being bent under him and pressed into the floor for so long, Tino shifted around a bit to bring his legs in front of him, bending his knees up and wrapping his arms around them just as he’d been sitting in his bed. How would the night have progressed if he’d never gone downstairs to investigate? Berwald’s situation would be the same regardless (Tino didn’t know what had become of the Swede wrapped in his sheets in his bedroom and he didn’t know what had become of him sat beside a bruised and battered Mathias) but would Mathias have been any worse for the wear without the Finn’s minimal nursing?
The Dane was beginning to look sleepy, Tino noted as he dared to glance at Mathias’ face. The valerian and honey he’d furtively added to the tea was doing its job well. Maybe he’d decide to turn in for the night and extend the same invitation to Tino and save the hassle of reconstructing the den until they had the light of the morning to aid them.
“There’s something really wrong with this house, isn’t there?”
Denmark’s question, along with the sudden gesture of burying his face in his palms, caught the Finn very much off-guard. Especially in the presence of a subordinate, Mathias never showed this type of emotion – this weakness. It was such an incredibly bleak image. If even their valiantly pig-headed King was admitting that the very foundation of their empire was damaged beyond repair, what little hope was there of rebuilding? The thought stirred up a nagging twinge of fear deep in Tino’s belly.
The Finn had managed a little “Um,” not wanting to disregard a question from the Dane by withholding an answer, before he was fortunately given more time to formulate a halfway decent response as he was cut off by Mathias.
“I never thought…”
Silence, all but the crackling of the fire and the occasional whistle from a breeze slipping through the jagged hole in the window pane, made itself welcome as there seemed to be nothing more to say. Tino didn’t know whether to agree with his brother’s sentiments (You’re right; we’re done for.) or to attempt to comfort the man (No, Mathias, you’re just tired is all. Things will look better in the morning. You’ll see.)
He urged to turn to the man and throw his arms around him just for the physical contact alone, but he knew such a thing was inappropriate. He and Mathias had come from very different worlds – Tino having been primarily raised by peaceful Saami natives who taught him to be a healer and Mathias having been brought up under the tutelage of those types who would raid Tino’s people and plunder from his land, instilling in him a sense of violence and trust only for oneself that the Finn simply did not have. At the very base of things, they were enemies and enemies certainly did not embrace one another, brothers or otherwise.
A little nod of the head, a sign of understanding and agreement, was the only response Finland gave. What more was there to say?
When Denmark spoke again, his order came as a lifeless, “Tino, help me clean up this room.” He had the same desolate sort of tone to his voice, not a scant trace of hope to be heard.
“Yes sir,” came Tino’s typical submission as he stood to busy himself with his most recent order. A quick survey of the room reminded him of just how massive this task would prove. Cracks in the plaster, ripped upholstery and broken limbs on the chairs, tattered curtains, broken shards of what had once been windows and decorative trinkets and mirrors, a chandelier fallen near the entryway, wax dribbling down it to the bloodstained ground…
The house could be repaired, but a more permanent damage had been done. As Tino walked towards a particularly damaged section of the room, he stopped and turned back to the Dane, inspecting once more the painful rip down his back that dyed the fabric of his normally black coat a cloudy crimson color. The Kalmar Union was crumbling and it was taking its leader with it.
“Danmark,” Tino spoke gently, using the elder Nordic’s true name. He wanted to tell the Dane that he was much too injured to clean up the room and that such activity would only aggravate his sore wounds further, but even Tino knew such a statement would be an affront to Mathias’ power. Instead, he continued, “A king should not have to lower himself to playing the role of the parlour maid. I can take care of this if you’d like to sleep.”
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Valerian is an herbal sedative also known as "all-heal".
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Post by Denmark on Jul 1, 2011 17:57:57 GMT -5
“Yes, sir.”
Ever reliable, Finland immediately moved in response to the command. He needn't have rushed; Denmark was so far in thought that he would not have noticed if it were seconds or hours between his order and the response. He rolled the tea around his mouth, tasting the strange bitterness of it, and made no immediate effort to move after the smaller nation.
The little Finn, showing more restraint than the King himself, had not passed comment on Mathias' bleak remark. The Dane noted this lack of reply wordlessly and interpreted it as an indication that this conversation would be ignored. Just another shameful incident better left forgotten. It stung, but he decided it was for the best as he stared ahead contemplatively, determinedly ignoring the lonely part of him that desperately wanted to get back to how things were before.
Unfortunately, his wish to dream himself back into happier days was not granted.
He sighed, flicking his eyes over to his little brother.
Stupid was the theme of the night. A bit of a scuffle and a cup of unusual tea, and it felt like he was coming home from a night on heavy liquor. Not only did Berwald seem to be inexplicably stronger but Mathias was becoming less resilient. He shouldn't have said anything at all, much less to Tino. He should have been planning how he was going to get back on top, not having a pity party by the fire because it turned out that getting to the top had made a few rivals. Besides, they were still brothers, weren't they? Family stuck together. No matter what.
He clung to that thought.
Anyway, to hint that something could fail was a good as ill-wishing it. He should have known better.
And reaching out to Tino, of all people? He watched the small nation survey the damage for a good place to start the clean up. Much less than regal behaviour. If he'd had more energy he might have cringed at how lonely he was becoming that he'd crack in front of Berwald's lackey.
Strange that it was Tino who was the only one to show any concern. Or was it just diligent obedience?
Suddenly he snorted, tired of expending the energy these thoughts required. It was a bad move, as it drew bloody mucous into the back of his throat that he had no choice but to swallow.
Sitting around feeling sorry for himself wasn't going to solve anything. Besides, he was the Brave King of the North, right? And this was his family and power at stake here. He was prepared to fight for it. Even against Berwald.
Finishing off the tea to wash away the taste of blood, Mathias drew his knees so he could prop his elbow on one and rested his chin in his hand. He yawned, consoled himself that tomorrow was another day and found his mood much brightened by the thought. Not only could he order Tino to forget about how he'd made a fool of himself – it was great being in charge - but it was another day to restore the natural order of things.
His King would be horrified to learn that Sweden was gaining a physical strength to compare with Denmark's own and would demand a swift and bloody retaliation. It wouldn't do much to endear him to Berwald in the short term but at least physically he should have the upper hand again. Perhaps then he could force Sve to see reason? The defeated usually came around to the winner's point of view. Then they would be brothers again, back on the same side. Maybe they could even finally turn their attentions to fighting someone else, and expand their land. That would be almost as good as going out Viking.
Yeah. That was a good idea. He smiled drowsily to himself, already skipping ahead in his mind to point in the future where his family was back in order.
His rambling thoughts quietened. His eyelids had fluttered closed without him realizing.
“Danmark.”
He jerked a little at the intrusion of Tino's gentle voice shaping his name. He must have been half-asleep again.
Blinking his eyes open, he looked up disorientedly into the young boy's face.
“A king should not have to lower himself to playing the role of the parlour maid.”
King, he repeated as if doped, focusing in on the most important part with a smile and a slight puff of pride. The rest of Tino's speech went over his head and he gazed at the smaller nation with sleepy incomprehension.
“I can take care of this if you'd like to sleep.”
'Of this?'
He mulled over Tino's strange comments before it came to him. Oh yes, he'd asked Tino to help him clean up the house. Feeling more relaxed than before - perhaps it was the tea that helped him to see clearly, maybe Tino had snuck some alcohol in their after all? - it now seemed a ridiculous idea to try to clean bloodstains out of the upholstery and repair curtains in the middle of the night. The Finn already looked blanched with tiredness in the firelight. It would be cruel to make him stay up longer to get up blood that had already soaked into the floorboards.
More importantly, this was Berwald's mess. Sverige started the whole thing so he should be the one to clean it up. A groggy smirk rose on the Dane's face as he thought of the haughty Swede cleaning up the great room by himself, on hands and knees sweeping up broken glass. The image filled him with satisfaction.
Besides, Tino was right. Mathias was far too important to be playing maid. Hearing someone else say it had a restorative effect on his self-image and although he knew that it would be a long road before things were really back to normal, the cycle of self-loathing thoughts that had plagued him just moments prior were kept at bay.
“Tha's a v'ry good idea, Tino.” His words were slurred by tiredness but Mathias was too exhausted to correct himself. “Let's leave th' room 'til morn'n'.”
And to Sve,[/i] he added with a lazy grin. Leaving the housework to the disobedient brother seemed like such a great joke.
Still half-asleep, Denmark put a hand out behind him, reaching for the wall next to the fire-place that he could use to push himself to his feet. His back wound protested with a sharp pain that made him hiss, but he managed to get himself upright without the wooziness returning. Mathias felt an absurd feeling of accomplishment. He languidly decided the tea and porridge was a magical combination and made a note to remember it for next time.
Fingers maintaining contact with the wall, he began to inch sluggishly toward the door with his eyes half-closed. He boot collided with the bowl he'd overturned earlier and he stumbled, managing to regain his footing before he lost his balance completely.
“Oops,” he muttered to himself with an unintentional giggle. Served him right for throwing things around.
Mathias half-turned to Finland to make sure the boy wasn't still trying to clean up the disarray. “Come'n, Tino. Time f'bed.”
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Post by Finland on Jul 8, 2011 1:34:54 GMT -5
All of his buttering-up combined with the sedatives in the now depleted tea had been effective, Tino recognized, as he watched a sleepy smile form across Mathias’ face. The Finn had followed a delicate formula in his coaxing, slipping in compliments and humbling himself in order to gain the Dane’s compliance. He was rewarded with Mathias’ comment, “Tha’s a v’ry good idea, Tino.” His plan had worked.
Judging by the drowsy slur of Denmark’s words, the Finn might have added just a bit too much herbal sedative to the brew. He didn’t want his brother to pass out before he could even reach his bed. Still, Tino was happy that the sedation had made him slightly more yielding.
“Let’s leave th’ room ‘til morn’n.”
“Right, brother,” Tino added in agreement, though from the looks of the half-conscious grin plastered across Mathias’ face, he wasn’t sure whether or not his words had ever reached the man. The Dane’s mind seemed to be a million miles away from the shambles of the room at that moment. The boy wasn’t sure what his elder was smiling about, but for the moment, Denmark’s pain seemed to have slipped away, unforgotten. It was a small comfort to Tino.
It was also a comfort to him that the Dane was willing to forget about the ravaged state of the great room for the night in favor of getting some rest. Tino would make it a point to rise early and clean the mess before Mathias awoke. Not only would it give his brother the extra time to recuperate, but it would also remove a major reminder of the tensions still very much present in their house. Out of sight, out of mind.
Or maybe I should leave it, Tino pondered as he studied a pile of chipped, smoky white plaster at his bare feet. If they could see what kind of destruction they were causing, then maybe…
He sighed a bit, then. Such simplicity wasn’t logical and Tino knew that all too well. There had been ample opportunity for his brothers to realize what sort of devastation was caused by their constant bickering and brawling. There was no change. The mess needed to be straightened up or it would act only as a reminder of the struggle and as an omen of fights yet to come.
A flurry of movement out of the corner of his tear-reddened eyes brought Finland’s head twitching over to observe the other party in the room. He watched with a cautious gaze as Mathias, seemingly nearly asleep, made his way to his feet. Accomplishing the task seemed to take an incongruous amount of time, but the Finn was glad that the headstrong Dane hadn’t attempted to bolt up into a standing position as normal. If he was allowing himself to show such obvious handicap, it was likely that he couldn’t stand hastily even if he’d wanted to.
A loud gasp freed itself without warning from Tino’s chest as Mathias nearly tripped over the bowl that he’d just moments before tossed aside, sending it skittering across the floorboards and him toppling over. Taking this as his cue to action, the Finn bolted to his feet and hurried over towards his brother. The Dane had managed to regain his balance by this time and even gave a sheepish little “Oops.”
The quick thumping in Finland’s chest soon calmed as his brother’s giggle proved his wellbeing. He watched Denmark limp along slowly until the Dane turned to order, “Come’n, Tino. Time f’bed.”
“Yeah,” Tino agreed, shuffling over to Mathias’ side. For the first time, he was able to get a close look at the gash across the man’s back. It looked painful, his skin torn open so that raw muscle was exposed to the cold nighttime air. His coat had become saturated with blood. The Finn even thought he saw bone, but in the dim light it was hard to tell. This one was going to be a deep scar.
I don’t know if I can mend this, Tino thought as he traced the frayed rip in the coarse fabric with his eyes.
To say that Berwald had gone overboard would have been an understatement, though not completely true. Berwald had likely been driven overboard by Mathias. The two were catalysts for one another, each egging the other on and forcing each other to take things too far.
Worried that the Scandinavian might lose his footing again, Tino placed a small hand against his back. The gesture, while providing very little physical stability, was an attempt to let the other know that Tino would do his best to catch him in case his legs gave out.
Palm pressed against the small of Mathias’ back, Tino guided him towards the staircase. A sliver of glass, likely from the shattered window, bit sharply into the bottom of his foot and he cursed under his breath, lifting his leg to brush away the offending shard. A single drop of blood welled up from the pinprick of a wound. Tino sighed and wiped it against the wooden flooring. Such a small amount of blood would hardly be noticed amongst the puddles and splatters already forming stains there.
Giving a little nudge against the small of the man’s back, Tino warned, “Don’t rush up the steps. Take your time.” It was doubtful that Mathias would appreciate all the coddling, but he seemed to be so out-of-it, currently, that Tino was banking on the fact that he wouldn’t think twice about it.
As Tino did his best to guide Mathias up the staircase and into the dark of the second floor, he gave a final survey of the great room. From a distance, the damage appeared to be even more extensive. Before, he’d been able to look at a single corner or a small expanse of the floor and had been able to convince himself that it would not be so hard to repair. Above the room, however, it was impossible to single out any particular space in the room. The damages all ran together into one chaotic scene.
The fire, still crackling strong, was nearly the only healthy thing in the room. One of the curtains had been sucked back out through the broken window, the jagged corners of the glass slicing the delicate material to ribbons. It made the little Finn sick to look at it; he could only think of Berwald’s strong knife or axe cutting through Mathias’ delicate skin, ripping and slicing until blood flowed freely.
“Oh,Tanska,” he sighed. The simple exhausted exclamation contained a myriad of thoughts. How have things gotten to this point? And why? Won’t you please see what you’re doing to each other and stop this foolishness?
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I'm half asleep, so I apologize for the mistakes that I'm sure you'll find. :'D
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Post by Denmark on Jul 9, 2011 17:09:06 GMT -5
“Yeah.”
Unable to accurately process time, it seemed to Mathias that his younger brother materialized in front of him before the Dane had finished articulating his request.
“You've g'tt'n quick,” he commented, blinking owlishly at what he perceived as extremely sudden movement.
The Finn seemed disinclined to share his teleportation secret (a shame, considering how arduous the journey to bed promised to be at the moment) and instead gazed past Mathias' shoulder to inspect the damage to his back. A look of something like worry passed over the younger nation's face as his eyes traced over the gash. Denmark began to twist awkwardly, trying to catch a glimpse of what was causing Finland concern. He gave up when pain bit in his spine at the slightest rotation.
“Wha' is it? Did B'w'ld put hole i' my coat?”
Tino didn't answer but he did place a small hand on Mathias' lower back. The Dane mistook it for a sympathetic pat rather than an offer of physical support and leaned in to his brother's shoulder with worry. Damn, it must be badly ripped.
Well, now making Sweden clean up the mess was the best idea he'd had in years. He loved that coat. Almost as much as his axe.
The open palm in the small of his back began to exert a gentle pressure. Mathias stepped forward, splayed fingers reluctantly losing contact with the wall he'd been relying on to stay upright and forcing him to lean a little on Tino. The path ahead was littered with obstacles displaced during the fight made more hazardous by the Dane's increasingly sleep-blurred vision and he soon appreciated that guiding hand steadying him on their slow journey. His own hand, the one which had recently broken contact with the solid wall, stayed outstretched for added balance.
“Hey, Hey Tino.” He tried to sound serious despite the slurring because this was very important. “D'you think you c'n fix m'coat?”
No answer was forthcoming as they approached the bottom steps. Instead, a gasped curse escaped the youngster's lips. The pressure in the small of his back lessened as Tino stopped, transfering his weight to his back foot to inspect something he'd stood on.
Denmark should have showed some concern but he was having increasing difficulty forming coherent thoughts. Even the sight of the staircase, which may as well have been as tall as Møllehøj for all the stair-climbing finesse he currently had at his disposal, did not fill him with the slightest trepidation. Concern over his back preoccupied his mind.
Ah, who cared if the coat wasn't fixable? He could always get a new one in the exact same style, or get Tino to make one, maybe. It was just a piece of clothing, after all. Surely his family was his greatest possession?
Tino's hand gave him a gentle nudge. Mathias must have stopped to ponder without realizing it. Now cued to move, he grabbed for the banister, swinging his weight back in preparation for taking the steps in his customary two at a time.
“Don’t rush up the steps. Take your time.”
Finland's caution came just as the Dane was about to launch forward despite the heaviness in his limbs and poor depth perception. To Mathias, it seemed that his brother had also added mind-reading to his unearthly skills tonight. Ordinarily the bull-headed nation would have deliberately ignored the request and bounded up the stairs, but Tino's voice was reassuring and reminiscent of the various Viking Chief's wives who'd raised Mathias during his early years. It was oddly comforting. The Dane acquiesced, and began to scale the stairs at a more sensible rate.
In fact, he reflected as his foot searched somewhat blindly for the first step, all of Tino's actions from making porridge to bringing a washcloth had been motherly. It had been a long time since anyone had showed this King such attentive care. Maybe the affection was what had lowered his guard enough to admit that something was wrong.
Mathias transferred his weight onto the first step, feeling the Finn close behind him. It was no wonder Berwald valued the boy so dearly. Things would have been much worse for the Dane if Tino hadn't come across him. Second step scaled. He would have probably stayed underneath that window in the cold all night, losing body heat and blood, sinking deeper into misery. Third step. How lucky the Swede was to have someone show such concern after every fight. Denmark wondered if he could bribe the Norwegian to respond in the same way so he could have someone looking out for himself specifically.
Swaying a little, Mathias gripped the banister more tightly. Finland had withdrawn his support slightly as the kid turned to look behind them, leaving the older man to battle uphill on his own merit. It was more difficult than expected. He rallied the remains of his strength and managed to haul himself up a couple of steps without assistance.
“Oh,Tanska.”
The soft voice reached him. The raw emotion in the gentle sigh might have tugged at his heartstrings if he'd been more alert and able to process it properly, but as it was Mathias still heard something in the simple mention of his name that made him stop at the top of the stairs. He turned, leaning his back against the wall, and twisted his neck to look down at the Finn.
The little blonde looked so young and perhaps a little lost standing there in the middle of the staircase, gazing down at their ruined great room with a disturbed expression. Mathias guessed he was upset about the damage but that thought didn't sit comfortably because the furniture was mainly Denmark's own, given that it was his house, and the Dane himself wasn't too bothered about loss of possessions so it was unlikely Tino felt their loss too greatly, either. Other than the coat, of course. There was something unsettling about seeing little Tino on the edge of the destruction the two older Nordics had created, that mournful look on his young face, but the King was too inept at seeing links in social situations to have understood even when he was fully awake. His own mood was much lifted, and as such he couldn't follow the other's thinking.
Instead, all he saw was an inexplicably worried and sad little brother. The Dane was struck by a desire to cheer him up.
He smiled a reassuring smile made a bit slack by tiredness.
“Wha' is it, Tino?”
Going back down the stairs to him wasn't an option given his shaky balance, so Denmark stayed at the top, slouching against the wall with that dopey smile fixed over his face, and reached one hand in Tino's direction. He was several steps above Finland so the hand did not even come close to reaching the child, but he left it out as an invitation.
Genuinely curious about what was upsetting the smaller nation, he added, “Y'know you c'n talk t' me.”
That might not ordinarily be true strictly speaking as these two had possibly the weakest bond out of all the alliances in the Kalmar Union, but Mathias was feeling particularly amicable toward the boy at the moment.
“Wha's wrong, lillebror?”
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Post by Finland on Jul 11, 2011 11:09:10 GMT -5
“Wha’ is it, Tino?”
Hearing his name, the boy turned back to his temporarily forgotten brother. When had Mathias climbed further up the staircase? He was reaching a hand towards the Finn. Tino watched as it quivered and wobbled unsteadily in the air, wondering if it hurt him too terribly to keep it held out as he was doing. He was slouched against the wall, now, too. Once a powerful ruler, King of Scandinavia under whom even Sweden was subservient, Mathias had become the epitome of helplessness, reaching out for his younger brother, the useless semi-nation of Finland.
A pang of guilt and pity surged through Tino. How could he have left such a vulnerable creature that looked ready to topple off the stairs at the slightest shift to fend for himself? Tino closed the distance between himself and his brother quickly, taking the elder’s hand.
Denmark’s hand was so much bigger than the Finn’s. It was rough, calloused from years of wielding axes and working with heavy stone and metal tools. Scars crisscrossed the expanse of his palm, fresh nicks and cuts from a fairly recent fight with Berwald – perhaps three nights ago? – marking his fingers. Tino’s hand, by comparison, was feminine. He’d had to work with his hands all of his life, as well, and had suffered from frostbite multiple times, but the scars of battle were much less numerous. If the Dane closed his hand, Tino was sure his would be completely swallowed up.
He looked up to meet Mathias’ eyes. If somehow possible, he looked even more fatigued than he had standing in the wreckage of their den. Perhaps it was the way the light had waned, unable to scale the stairs as the two brothers had, or maybe it was the tea. Or maybe he was becoming weaker.
He is becoming weaker, Tino reminded himself. Not just tonight, but over the past several months now. Every time Sweden and Denmark fought, Mathias became more and more frail. The Finn knew he hid it; a King such as the Dane would never admit that his empire was a doomed one, a castle built on sand. Despite the feigned security Mathias demonstrated on a regular basis, the confidence he used when speaking of the future of the powerful Kalmar Union, it was all a farce. Their time together was limited.
Regardless of the rapid decay of their household, Finland would continue to indulge his brother in these fantasies. He would continue to call him King until the final battle, until the last drop of blood was spilt. Tino’s gaze shifted back down to their clasped hands. Even as small and delicate as his was, and as large and sturdy the Dane’s, even though Mathias was the one standing at the top of the stairs while Tino stood below him like the mere servant he was, it was Tino who was supporting his brother.
“Y’know you c’n talk t’ me.”
Tino didn’t know that. Of all his brothers, his relationship with Mathias was likely the weakest. Of course he’d always had Berwald at his side, and he and Vidar shared strong cultural bonds. Even the young Icelander had more in common with Tino than the man currently clasping his hand on the staircase; their position in the Kalmar household was similar, at least.
“Wha’s wrong, lillebror?”
The Finn hadn’t heard that moniker in quite some time. It was all politics lately, it seemed. Suomi or Finland, but rarely ever Little Brother.
Finland isn’t Danmark’s equal, not even worthy of his time except when he needs something taken care of. But Lillebror…
Such a humble and sincere gesture it was, Mathias’ concern over what was on Tino’s mind, that it made the boy’s eyes watery once again. Using his free hand, he quickly rubbed them away. He had to be strong for the Dane, now. He was injured and so unsteady that Finland was sure a stray breeze from the broken window might topple him.
“No, I’m okay,” the Finn lied at last, a smile just as weak as Denmark’s on his lips. “Let’s just get you to bed.”
Climbing up the final few stairs to stand next to Mathias, he replaced his hand against his brother’s back, just below the deep wound, and helped him walk towards his bedroom. Tino measured his steps, making sure not to walk too quickly. If Mathias happened to fall, Tino wasn’t truthfully sure he could get the man off the floor, and allowing him to sleep on the cold, drafty floor wouldn’t do. “Take your time,” he reminded once again.
Tino’s door was the first one on the left. Slightly ajar, his abandoned bed was just visible. He was sure that the sheets had become cold without the presence of a warm body to heat them. It didn’t matter. The boy still had a job to do.
Across the hallway from his own room, the Norwegian and the Icelander were assumed to be sound asleep behind their heavy oak door. It made sense that Vidar never left the door open. He was such a secretive, reserved person that it would have been illogical to expect him to invitingly leave his door open during his sleep. The young boy probably nestled against the crook of his arm and dreaming peacefully was all the Norwegian seemed to need.
As the two, King, Servant, and Brothers, rounded the corner at the end of the hallway, still padding cautiously slowly, they came to two more doorways. The first one they came to, located on the right, was Berwald’s. Though the door was closed as it almost always was, Tino knew what it looked like inside. He’d been inside many times before to clean or change the bedclothes. He could picture the neatly made bed and the keenly polished furniture, everything in its proper place. He could picture the places in the room with which Berwald didn’t like anyone to bother, places where the Swede stored things no one but himself was allowed to see.
The room at the end of the hall, the one whose door Tino was now opening, was much more foreign to the Finn. Mathias rarely allowed him inside, preferring Vidar to take care of the domesticities here. One arm still looped around the Dane’s back, the younger Nordic nodded, a prompt to enter the room. There was just enough moonlight spilling in through the large window to illuminate the bedroom in a ghostly silver glow.
“Sit down, veli,” came the Finn’s gentle order once they’d reached Mathias’ bedside, helping the Dane lean against one of the massive bedposts for support. “And please undress.” With the light from the window as his only assurance that he wouldn’t trip over anything, Tino quickly padded across the vast expanse of the room in the direction of a small table. On one shelf sat a pitcher and basin and on the lower one were several clean and neatly folded towels. Tino remembered folding them himself. With a sort of tired diligence, he went to work pouring out just enough water and collecting a few of the towels before hurrying back to his brother to make sure he was still conscious.
“I need to clean your back,” he explained as he sat the basin on the nightstand. “It will do no good to get blood on your sheets.”
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Post by Denmark on Jul 13, 2011 0:58:09 GMT -5
Tino’s thin fingers were smooth and cold in his palm. Mathias closed his own hand, skin pitted from centuries of heavy work, around them to inject some warmth into those extremities as he sleepily studied the Finn’s face.
This position was uncomfortable. The turn of his spine was re-opening the cut in his back and he was becoming aware of dull aches in various body parts as cold and stiffness set in. If luck was on his side, he would make it to bed and fall asleep quickly before Tino’s herbal medicine wore off. He stifled a sigh as he waited for Tino to respond.
The shorter nation rubbed hurriedly at his eyes with a free hand. “No, I’m okay. Let’s just get you to bed.”
Everything should have screamed at the King that this was a lie but he trusted his brother to respond with the truth - and Tino had helpfully provided a truth Mathias was happy to hear. Accordingly, he dismissed the hastily dabbed tears and the drawn expression for tiredness and focussed instead on the second part with relief. He was getting so tired that even staying upright whilst leaning against the wall was becoming difficult.
Denmark released the boy’s hand as Tino scaled the stairs to stand next to him. The small hand pressed against his lower back again to offer support and they began down the hallway. He must have expended too much energy climbing the stairs for Mathias now found he couldn’t help but walk stiffly and that every step brought with it a new throb of pain. He couldn't wait to get to bed.
“Take your time,” his little brother warned, sensing the elder’s need to rush.
At least whatever had distracted Tino on the stairs had passed. The return to mothering convinced Mathias completely that the Finn was, as he had asserted, okay.
It was not hard to follow Tino’s warning. Their speed limited by Mathias' seizing, protesting muscles, they slowly passed the boy’s bedroom to the left and Vidar’s on the right. The Norwegian’s door was thankfully shut tight and with an unusual presence of mind Mathias tried to make as little noise as possible in case his irritable friend was awake, trying not to alert him to the fact that tonight Denmark was reliant on the assistance of Finland. Not that he had to prove himself to Norway, he supposed. Their futures were pretty solidly tied and for all his crankiness Vidar had never challenged his leadership. Still, not so long ago Mathias’ would have said the same about Sweden, too.
He had a fleeting feeling of sand shifting under his feet, a deep sickening horror as unbidden the possibility of a life without Berwald – and Tino, too – rose in his mind. His hand flexed convulsively and reached for the Finn as if to draw him closer in an effort to ward off this bad thought, but pride kicked in before his fingers reached the boy’s arm. Instead, he took a few shaky breaths and focussed on the hallway in front of him until the feeling passed.
By the time they reached the corridor the momentary horror had passed – the thought of Sweden and Finland breaking away was ridiculous, after all… right? – but that did not stop Mathias from looking hopefully toward Berwald’s door.
It was closed. Denmark kept his eyes on it as they drew closer, torn between a desire to check on his brother and another to choke him. He willed the Swede to be in there, his eyes falling to the handle as he mentally commanded Berwald to open the door. The handle failed to rotate. As per usual, Sweden was impervious to his command.
If Tino hadn’t been at his side, Mathias might have opened the door to see if the taller man was there. It was unlikely, he supposed, but perhaps Berwald had returned while he’d been napping in front of the fire waiting for Tino to return. It seemed less likely as the Dane realised Tino’s bedroom door was ajar, clearly indicating that the occupant was elsewhere. Presumably Berwald would have searched for his young ward in alarm no matter how badly injured rather than going straight to bed.
No matter. The gentle pressure of the tiny hand on his back moved him past his brother’s door and on to his own at the end of the corridor. Unwilling to demonstrate how badly his hand was still shaking from that terrible premonition, Mathias waited for Tino to reach for the door handle and let them in.
The familiar environment had never seemed more like sanctuary.
The last few steps from the door to the middle of the room seemed to take forever. Mathias headed purposefully towards the solid bed with Tino’s arm still around his back, intending to throw his throbbing body face-down onto the sheets and sleep, fully-dressed, as soon as his brother bid him goodnight. Fortunately for the Dane, given the broken nose which would have bled anew at the rough treatment, Finland did not immediately dismiss himself.
“Sit down, veli.” Mathias could not help but smile at the Finnish term as he leaned against one of the solid bedposts despite the heady tiredness. Tino withdrew his arm and moved away from the bed, adding simply, “And please undress.”
In contrast to the Finnish that rose a tired scowl, but Denmark complied slowly as Tino busied himself with towels and water. What was it about this motherly types that they had such high standards of cleanliness? He would have much preferred to leave whatever it was Tino intended to do until morning. Still, now that he thought about it, the coat did feel uncomfortably heavy. And maybe it would be sensible to remove these boots.
Within a few seconds he quickly reached frustration. Getting undressed had never been a more painstaking process. Whatever Berwald had done while his back was turned meant he had to restrict the full range of movement of his arms or endure a sharp, ripping pain. Drowsily finding a way around this, Mathias moved his hands behind him so they met low behind his back, gripped a sleeve with clumsy fingers, and pulled. Obligingly the heavy material slipped over his shoulder, freeing his arm. He used the same method to divest himself of his shirt, but the thin cotton undershirt, which needed to be pulled over his head, proved to be more problematic. He lifted his arms as high as could and pulled, but dried blood stuck the material in place and he only served to tug at the edges of the split skin. The gash began to bleed a little.
Reeling from the sharp pain, Mathias abandoned that plan of attack and instead sat heavily on the bed. It was probably for the best, he decided as he busied himself with the task of undoing his bootlaces, as now that he thought about it he remembered the Swede laying a volley of punches into his abdomen while pinned against the wall. It had not gone on for long – only until Mathias’ fingers had loosened a shard of glass from the broken window’s frame and drove it into Berwald’s side – but the blows had been strong and he expected heavy bruising to have already bloomed over the fading greenish ones from three nights ago.
His train of thought was almost derailed, and after a few seconds of lethargic blankness the theme of his musings returned to him; Tino had probably seen enough for one night without being privy to the injuries under his shirt.
Between those bruises, the blow to the head, the cut to back and the broken nose, it was becoming pretty apparent that Mathias had come off the worst tonight. He toed off one boot, trying to remember the part of the fight where he wasn’t the punching bag, and came up only with the incident with the shard of glass and a hazy memory beating Berwald down into a table until the legs collapsed. Not a great rap sheet, really. He sighed and began a clumsy struggle with the other boot. No wonder the Swede had been able to run off. Next time he should probably take out a leg or something so at least he’d have company in the aftermath.
The little Finn returned from the other side of the room with a basin as Mathias finally got his second boot off. If Tino was frustrated that he was still practically dressed it was well hidden in the polite reminder that followed. “I need to clean your back. It will do no good to get blood on your sheets.”
The Dane’s response was a low groan. “They’re jus’ sheets, Tino... Vidar’ll get ‘em later.” He deigned against adding that he was having trouble undressing himself, choosing instead to prop his chin on his hand and yawn for the hundredth time tonight.
“I was jus’… gonna sleep like this.” How hard talking was becoming. It was difficult to tell if his speech was still intelligible; to his own ears all the words were blurring into one unbroken sound. Even his thoughts were drifting in and out of focus. “You’re… far too concerned… abou’… ‘ygeine.”
Closing his eyes, he made no move to order Finland to bed despite the protestations. “Besides,” he continued in a groggy drone, tugging at the thin cotton demonstratively without opening his eyes. “I think this ‘as dried stuck… It don’t - doesn’t… matter, an’way... 's jus' a scratch... I’ve ‘ad worse.”
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