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Post by juni on Feb 21, 2011 22:15:03 GMT -5
Berwald was tired. All nations often were during times of war and conflict, of course, but they all took measures to hide such from their bosses, their citizens, and usually each other. For some of them, it could even be called second-nature.
That, then, is probably why the Swede thought it somewhat embarrassing that he, of all people, would find himself sprawled face-first upon the snow in uncharacteristic exhaustion. For some reason, he couldn’t help himself. It was strangely…warm? And comfortable? Like the material covering the field wasn’t snow at all, but rather one massive, heaven-sent feather mattress. Everything he knew of cold-weather survival told him that the situation was all wrong, that he needed to keep moving, that comfortable snow banks meant certain death, but all he managed was to limply roll himself onto his back. He stared at the dull gray mass of clouds. He watched them drop their cargo: large snow-flecks, which already formed a covering over his body. Not that he felt them. As numb as he was, he couldn’t feel anything else, either, and when he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend that nothing outside him existed at all.
Except, of course, for a sudden sharp, tugging pain in his chest. That he felt.
So much so that the Swede opened his eyes again, reached with a hand and tugged on it through his overcoat. The pain didn’t last for more than a few seconds, after which time he noticed he was no longer on a snow-covered field in the middle of winter, but rather on a grassy knoll in late summer. He gazed with half-closed eyes into the swirling gray clouds, but noticed that falling ashes had replaced the earlier snows. He swore he could even hear the distinctive cracks and pops of burning wood upon the winds, their source confirmed as his head lolled to the side and he noticed a town engulfed in flames a ways away.
Yes, this scene from his past; Berwald knew where he was, and remembered it well. So too did he remember the face of the Russian. That damnable grinning Russian. Icy violet eyes exuded triumph as he spoke to the Nordic nation, but none of the words reached his ears, so full were they of his own beating heart. The words didn’t matter anyway as Ivan raised his musket over his head, held it there, and then drove his bayonet down upon the Swede. Again the sharp pain returned to his chest, but the bayonet did not penetrate; instead, it slowly pushed him into the earth. Into this odd man-sized pit he was forced, until shadows of his pit grew so tall as to engulf him with their nothingness, consuming him with darkness absolute.
The Swede’s eyes popped opened thereafter. He immediately wondered whether this too was simply another part of his dream - or perhaps a better term would be “nightmare” - until the rustling of his sheets confirmed that he was indeed awake. With a sigh he sat upright, and then ran a hand through disheveled hair while he stared out the window at the deep purples and blues of a premature summer dawn. A clear sky? Maybe it would be a good day.
Then, the sharp chest pain returned stronger than before, to the point that it almost made the steel-faced Swede grimace. Apparently, it wasn’t just part of the dream, and he furiously massaged it until the pain subsided. He knew exactly what it was; in much the same way as his boss’s military went through pains as it acquired new modern assets and restructured for modern combat, so too was his body aching slightly from the recent bulking-up of his body thanks to his near-constant workout regimen. Various aches and pains crept into different parts of his body every now and again. It was slightly annoying at times, but he also knew it was vital for him to continuously grow stronger if he hoped to deter Ludwig and Ivan and stay neutral through the war.
It was nothing a hot bath or some time in a sauna couldn’t cure, and he was silently thankful to the weekend for affording him the time to properly enjoy a refreshing soak. Of course, weekends frequently left him with more time on his hands, and he wondered as he lumbered downstairs in robe and slippers whether he should make his usual rounds anyway, for lack of anything better to do. However, a stifled yawn interrupted his debate with himself. Yawning wasn’t characteristic of Berwald in the least, but neither were the effects of warfare meant to be very characteristic in and of themselves. Of course he couldn’t blame the Brit or the German for the constant blockades that sapped the Swede – they were, after all, only doing as they were ordered – but he often almost felt as if he was taking part in the fighting himself. Almost.
The Swede looked down to the kettle in his hands. He quietly wondered how it came to be in said hands, but just as soon dismissed it with a shrug and finished preparing his usual morning coffee. He then went to the door to grab the paper while the coffee boiled, only stop and stare into the perfect blue skies the minute he stepped outside. While early birds chirped and the morning sun warmed his face, he mildly marveled at how his home or anywhere could ever seem so serene amidst a world rapt and torn by war. His quiet awe was quickly replaced by his usual stern gaze when he grasped and read the day’s headline: Estonia and Latvia annexed by Soviets.
So, this was it then. Not only was he encircled by Nazis and Soviets, but now he was alone.
No, that wasn’t quite right. Berwald shook his head as he went inside and sat the paper upon his coffee table. No, he wasn’t completely alone; Tino was independent too, in a manner of speaking. He couldn’t help but feel proud at how his neighbor had faced the Russian alone and “won,” and he wondered, as he removed the coffee kettle from the stovetop, exactly how the plucky Finn was doing nowadays. Ever since he denied the Finn’s request for armed assistance, they hadn’t exactly…
A knock at the door. The Swede feigned ignorance, though, and continued to pour his brew until there was a second knock. He sat both mug and kettle upon the counter and yelled something toward the door that was more simple sound than actual word as he made his way toward, and then opened, the door. “Ja?”
Berwald wasn’t used to having morning visitors, and for the longest moment he simply stood in the doorway and stared down at the visitor in that usual hard way of his. Yes, it took him a moment to recognize the other nation in his drained, emaciated state. Once he did, though, his eyes flashed surprise for the briefest of moments. He took a step forward and almost reached-out. “…Tino?”
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Post by Finland on Feb 23, 2011 2:02:15 GMT -5
When news that the war would soon be over reached him, Tino felt for the first time in months that he could breathe. The Winter War, though only about half a year in length, had been rough on him. Defending himself without aid against his eastern neighbor while being massively overwhelmed by the sheer number of enemy troops and armor had drained him. Mid-winter, Tino’s bosses had received word that the Soviets were willing to negotiate terms for peace. More shocked than skeptical, Tino couldn’t deny that he felt a sense of accomplishment. Could it be that the Soviet Union was scared of the relatively tiny Finnish powerhouse, too frightened by the possibility of defeat and the reputation that would come along with it to continue the war? Whatever the case, Tino was admittedly relieved – that is, until he heard the terms.
“They’ll leave us our independence, but they want Karelia,” Commander-in-Chief Mannerheim explained, his expression betraying the weariness Tino already knew he felt. “They also want Salla and Kalastajansaarento,” he paused to sigh before continuing, “and some islands in the gulf. They’re allowing us to keep Petsamo, but they want free passage.”
Tino felt his heart skip a beat at the mention of Karelia. How could they agree to give up so easily what they had been fighting for the past hundred days to defend? Tens of thousands of lives had been lost in the name of keeping the country a separate entity to the looming Soviet nation. All of the country. Besides that, Viipuri lie in Karelia. Tino shuddered at the thought of what might happen to his body without his economic center. Any relief he initially felt was long gone. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “I can’t consent to that! We’ll keep fighting them! If we just send more troops—”
“We cannot win.” This time it was his boss, Prime Minister Ryti, who spoke. “We’re not happy with these accommodations, Suomi, but for now, there is nothing we can do. You should know as well as we do that we need time to regroup and decide on a new course of action. This treaty will be active immediately starting March the twelfth. ”
With a disheartened nod, Tino gave in. “Yes sir,” he replied, feeling very hopeless.
Against his leaders’ better judgment, he returned to the battlefield after the negotiations. What would soon happen would be inevitable, but he would not take it lying down. He wanted to show Ivan, maybe his bosses, too, that this peace was just a temporary convenience and meant nothing to him. He wanted to prove to himself that he could stand as an independent nation without anyone’s help. Taking his place in the trenches and foxholes dotting the Karelian landscape, Tino continued to fight alongside his soldiers for the final months of the war. He continued to share with them the thrill of repelling attacks and the terror of nearly having Viipuri captured. The prospect of what was going to happen to him terrified him as much as it angered him, but he did his best to push his emotions to the back of his mind to focus his shots. He tried to convince himself that nothing had changed; conserving ammunition and being cautious was just as important now as it had ever been. Perhaps he could not win the war, but he would lose with as few casualties as possible.
On the twelfth of March, noon Leningrad time, the fighting abruptly ceased as planned. Final gunshots rang out, their grim war songs dissolving into the forests and across the lakes. Soldiers began leaving their posts and tanks began rolling back to their respective sides. As the silent confusion of this ‘peace’ took hold, the cessions were made. The pain Tino felt was instant. His left lung, Viipuri, collapsed.
'Vyborg.' Even as he lie curled in on himself and groaning in pain from having his body divided up, he could hear Ivan’s sing-song voice reminding him in the back of his mind. 'Vyborg. Not “Viipuri”. It’s mine now and we will call it by its proper name, hm?' The panicked Finn swore he could feel Ivan’s hand on his shoulder, hot breath blowing against his ear as he spoke. It was disturbingly real. Tino lie in a state of near consciousness trying to determine what was and what wasn’t a hallucination for several minutes. Breathing labored, he waited to pass out, but the experience never came. It occurred to him that he wasn’t actually dying; he had managed to keep his independence. Using his rifle as a makeshift crutch, he managed to clamber to his feet and limp sickly off of the battlefield. At one point, one of his countrymen approached him and appeared to have asked him something, but Tino was having trouble focusing on anything except the torturous pain in his side and the amount of exertion it was taking just to breathe, so he simply nodded and flashed a faltering smile through pale lips. Eventually, he found his boss waiting to take him back to the capital. After finishing up some post-war documents and attending a meeting or two, Tino stumbled home in a daze.
For the first few days after the war, he slept. The taxing Winter War had left him utterly exhausted. His body ached as his citizens were forced out of what once was Finnish Karelia, moving into more western regions. Some of them chose to stay and become Russian citizens, much to Tino’s discontent. The sudden decrease in industry pained him just as much as the sudden increase in movement of people. He woke frequently, nightmares borne of paranoia and shellshock breaking his slumber and the difficulty of breathing preventing him from resting. He got out of bed only to take a much needed soak in a hot bath, attempting to regain feeling in the frostbitten tips of his fingers and toes. At one point, he dressed his wounds as best he could but found the process of covering his numerous gashes and scrapes to be an impossibility. He studied his body in the mirror. His skin was pale, eyes underlined with dark bruises. He had lost weight, though whether this was more due to inadequate rations or ceded land, he was uncertain. With a feeling of defeat, Tino resigned himself to the fact that he had been unable to take care of himself from the beginning, and suddenly he was very lonely.
Tino never was quite sure how he made it to his neighbor’s doorstep or when he had knocked on the door. His memory was quite faulty these days.
“Ja?”
The familiar voice brought instant comfort and Tino looked up to meet the eyes of the man who had answered it. His cracked lips twitched into a little smile upon realizing the man looked just as confused as Tino himself felt.
“…Tino?”
Said Finn flinched when the Swede stepped closer. Spending months on the battlefield had left him jumpy, seeing every sudden movement as a Soviet closing in on his position to shoot him. He almost reached for his gun before remembering where he was. Assuring himself that he was safe here, he forced his fatigued smile to return.
“What, aren’t you going to invite me in? I smell coffee.”
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Post by juni on Feb 28, 2011 4:04:05 GMT -5
“What, aren’t you going to invite me in? I smell coffee.”
What? Oh yes, naturally; it wasn’t at all right to leave visitors to stand in entranceways, even unexpected ones – and especially this unexpected one. He wasn’t one for unannounced house calls, or even spontaneity in general, and he much preferred visitors gave him at least two weeks notice for such things. He didn’t mind it so terribly much if it was the Finn, though. Given how much the Finn knew about his preference for being notified in advance, then an unannounced visit meant he had something very important on his mind anyway, and so Berwald stepped to the side to permit entrance.
After the Swede closed the door behind them both, he walked back into the kitchen. He mentally kicked himself the entire time for not having seen Tino before now. There they were, nearly half a year after the close of the Winter War, and he hadn’t even so much as gone to visit the Finn to see how he was doing or bid him a friendly congratulations on staying independent. Granted, he had perfectly good reasons for not going, chief among them the fact that, given his constant running of information to Arthur and the meetings with German diplomats every other day where they demanded more and more of him, he simply didn’t have the free time.
But because of that, there was Finland in his living room. Not that Berwald minded the company. He actually liked having the Finn around, whatever the circumstances, but he looked absolutely horrendous. Then there was the way he had started slightly when the Swede started towards him at the door; the two nations had been to hell and back many times before, so the Finn could only have gone through some unimaginable suffering for him to react with such fear-induced instincts. With a nation he had known for the greatest portion of his life, no less.
Berwald shook his head before he exited the kitchen. It was not good to have such depressing thoughts so early in the morning, especially on such a beautiful day and when he had company.
As he returned to the living room where he left his visitor, he brought with him a tray, which he set upon the coffee table. On the tray were a few plates with various cold-cuts, cheeses and sliced bread. He had no idea if the other Nordic had breakfast yet or not, so to be safe he brought two glasses of milk. He handed the Finn a darkly-brewed mug of coffee – with a dash of milk and spiked for just a little extra kick, the way he liked it – before he took his own mug and sat on the sofa.
He sat there, sipping lightly at the brew and more or less staring across the room at the wall in thought. He felt like he should say something, but everything that immediately came to mind was either too awkward or embarrassing. It’s nice to see you again, Tino Well, then why didn’t you come visit me when the war ended?...So, how have you been? Horrible, because you abandoned me…Hey Fin, congratulations on the war. Yeah, no thanks to you.[/i]
“…’sup Fin?”
Wait, what? No, that sounded so wrong. With his mug in both hands, he immediately looked to Tino, searching for some reaction, some expression to help him.
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Post by Finland on Mar 3, 2011 20:49:13 GMT -5
As soon as Tino followed Berwald into the house, he was struck with an overpowering sense of familiarity. This was the home he had shared with his friend for many years. Even if the wood and brick making up the building were different and even if this wasn’t the first city in which he and Berwald had lived, there were many things that were the same – the cleanliness and tidiness of the rooms, the unmistakable scent of the Swede, the temperature at which Berwald chose to keep the rooms. Different house, same home.
Since his independence, the Finn’s visits had become sparse. It wasn’t that Tino wanted to rid himself of his past spent under Berwald’s control; those were arguably some of the best years of his life as a nation. The Finn’s reasons for his lack of visitation stemmed more from the fact that he had had a rough time since his becoming a separate entity. He went directly from being a part of the Swedish Empire under Berwald’s protection to being forced under Russian rule. He’d already experienced a civil war, a short but dark period in his life. And now, not thirty years into his statehood, he’d pitted himself in war against the massive Soviet Union. Being back with the man who’d kept him company even as he was just becoming a nation brought comfort.
In a sleep deprived daze, Tino made his way over to a sofa in the great room and let himself collapse against the soft cushions. Berwald had walked off to another room – he hadn’t seen where and didn’t have the energy to follow him to find out. He could hear the Swede bumping around, maybe closing a cabinet or pulling out a drawer. Eyes heavily lidded, the Finn nearly slipped into a light doze until he heard approaching footfall. He jolted a bit and rubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand, pushing himself up from where he had slid down the back of the couch. Berwald was sitting something down on the table in front of him. Food. Tino realized he hadn’t eaten in – how long had it been? More than a week? He hadn’t had much of an appetite since Viipuri was taken. Food only soured his stomach. Coffee, on the other hand, sounded wonderful, and so he sipped eagerly as soon as he was handed his mug.
It’s alcohol, he thought with a slight smile as the hot, spiked liquid burned first his chapped lips and then his belly. Something else he hadn’t partaken of in quite some time. Tino knew himself well enough to know that drinking would be one of the worst things he could do when he was already in such a poor state. He’d undoubtedly get carried away and a hangover was the last thing he wanted, as the constant pain in his side reminded him. Now, though, that he was here with Berwald, it was okay.
Feeling the couch dip down as the Swede took a seat next to him, his eyes dropped down to look at the distance between them. He was sure they used to sit much more close together than this. Was Berwald avoiding him? Was it something Tino had done? Or was it just too awkward? He was being quiet. It wasn’t the normal quiet that Tino was used to. Berwald had always been a man of few words, but over time, the Finn had developed the ability to nearly read his friend’s thoughts. This, though – this was what one would call oppressive silence. Staring into the steaming cup in his hands, Tino fidgeted as he thought of something to say to break the stillness.
Why is this so hard? Tino mused. It’s just him, but I—
“…’sup, Fin?”
The smaller man in the room flinched a bit once more. Stop it, he scolded himself. He hasn’t done anything to me. He’s not the enemy.
Setting his cup down on the table before him, he thought of an appropriate response. Berwald wasn’t oblivious; he knew what had been happening for the past half year. Even if he didn’t help me. He took a piece of bread and nibbled at the corner. Even if the thought of food alone made him sick, he wouldn’t have to answer right away with his mouth occupied. Nonetheless, he couldn’t keep holding out; he felt Berwald watching him, waiting for a response.
“I just wanted to see you,” he replied in a voice that conveyed his weariness. He wished that was the complete truth.
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Post by juni on Mar 29, 2011 4:07:31 GMT -5
There it was again, that flinch. Barely visible, but it was there. Berwald wasn’t naïve, so it wasn’t news to him that others often regarded his actions, speech and mannerisms as having a kind of domineering air. He had long-since come to terms with the fact that is was something he would “get used to,” having tried and failed many times to change how he was perceived. This, though…this was different. This wasn’t surprised flinching; this was a certain Finn tensing against some life-threatening danger that didn’t exist. This was traumatic flinching, and every time he saw it, it made him want to hug and tell the smaller nation that it was okay, that his fighting was over, and that he was safe now.
However, he refrained. It just didn’t seem appropriate, no matter how much Tino deserved nor needed such assurance. It would be just empty words; they both knew neither of them was any safer from the evils of this already horrible war at the Swede’s as they would be if they were at the Finn’s. Besides, surely any self-respecting, newly-independent nation would hate such affections and assurances, right? Hell if he knew. It wasn’t like he had any experience in that area.
Berwald sipped lightly from his cup, thankful that it gave him a reason to do something other than stare at the opposing wall, or the breakfast tray, or the Finn as he obviously stalled for time in coming-up with a response to the question the Swede really didn’t meant to put in such awkward or ambiguous terms. Just as their half-millennium together had more-or-less taught Tino to “read” the Swede’s various kinds of silence, so too could they see through most of each other’s facades.
“I just wanted to see you.” When finally the reply came, he repressed a sigh at Tino’s half-truth. Whatever was weighing on his friend’s mind must have indeed been heavy for him to be so reluctant to come straight out with it. The Finn surely wouldn’t travel all the way to Berwald’s house just to see him. Well, under normal circumstances he might, But surely, thought the Swede, with the war and all, he has plenty enough work of his own to keep him busy? He wasn’t going to press the issue, though; whatever it was Tino had come to say or do, he would eventually get to it on his own. For now, he was simply going to enjoy the company of an old friend.
“’m glad.” His reply was accompanied by a nod, after he finished his long sip of the still steaming coffee and set the mug on the table next the tray. He remained silent thereafter as he took one of the bread slices and began to place various meats and cheeses on it. He still didn’t know what to say, what he could say to the Finn. At first, he didn’t feel any immediate need to say much of anything anymore anyway, but the more he thought, the louder the voice in the back of his head scolded him for his awkwardness and his general cowardice. This is Finland. Tino. ‘My wife.’ What does it matter how embarrassing anything you want to say might seem? It’s not like there’s anyone else around.
The bread slice was nearly to his mouth when he stopped. The voice was right, of course, but it was always just so hard to express exactly what he was feeling, not matter who it was. With a small sigh, he decided to give it a try. “Sorry,” he muttered as he let his hand go down to his lap. He stared down at what was meant to be his breakfast while he tried his hardest to pick his way through the right words to say. “For not visiting, or seeing ‘ow you’re doin’ after th’ war, I mean. I would’ve, but Minister Hansson’s…been workin’ m’ hard.”
Berwald wondered if that was enough, but since he figured it was more than he usually gave, he left it as it was. Looking down as he was, though, he got an idea during the short pause, and looked over at Tino with something of a short smile. “Wish you’ve called first. I’d’ve bother’d t’ get dress’d,” he remarked as he tugged lightly on his robe in jest regarding both his own picky habits and the Finn arriving unannounced.
A/N
Figured it's been far too long, hiatus or not...
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Post by Finland on Mar 31, 2011 15:36:30 GMT -5
“‘m glad.”
Tino mirrored the nod the Swede gave. He was glad, too. Glad that he hadn’t been called out on his ruse, mostly. There was no doubt in the Finn’s mind – Berwald knew he wasn’t being honest. They knew each other all too well to pull the wool over one another’s eyes so simply. On the other hand, he was disappointed that Berwald hadn’t given him the opportunity to go ahead and come clean. He longed for the relief that would follow his confession but was terrified to actually admit his true intentions.
But not yet. He just couldn’t bring himself to disclose that the only reason he was here was to drag his longtime friend into his war.
I can’t.
Another silence followed. The Finn suspected that even through the exhaust displayed through the puffiness of his eyelids and the pallor of his skin, he looked very guilty right now. He just couldn’t make himself meet Berwald’s gaze. Instead, Tino’s eyes stayed fixed on Berwald’s hands as they moved from his coffee cup to the food on the tray. It wasn’t until the larger man suddenly froze that Tino dared to look up to his face.
“Sorry.” Tino felt himself perk up a bit, eyes widening at the unexpected apology. What did Berwald have to be sorry ab—“For not visiting, or seeing ‘ow you’re doin’ after th’ war, I mean. I would’ve, but Minister Hansson’s…been workin’ m’ hard.”
A slight “Ah” escaped Tino’s lips. That. After getting so worked up about his own furtiveness, he’d forgotten that Berwald had just as much right to feel guilty. From the way the Swede was avoiding looking at him Tino suspected he must have been ashamed of himself. Tino had to admit that he felt bad for the man. He knew it wasn’t Berwald’s fault that he’d been too busy to pay him a visit. Wartime was rough on everyone. The Finn knew what Ludwig had been putting him through with the blockades recently.
He hadn’t had time to form a response before the unusually talkative Swede interjected with, “Wish you’ve called first. I’d’ve bother’d t’ get dress’d.”
Tino’s lips curled into a smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling a bit. With his mind elsewhere, he honestly hadn’t noticed the Swede’s apparel.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized quietly. “I feel bad for inviting myself over. I…” He paused and gave a half laugh, a slight wheeze befitting a collapsed lung filtering through. If he had not forced a laugh, he felt he might’ve cried as an alternative. “I know it’s probably troublesome for you.”
Leaning forward, Tino let his elbows rest on his knees, staring down at the floor between his feet. Running a hand through his hair, pushing his bangs back out of his eyes (when was the last time he’d gotten that cut, anyway?), he mumbled a little “Um.” before burying his face in his hands completely. “I’m sorry,” he apologized again, this time sounding much less calm. “I should have told you right away, I know. I… I came with a favor to ask.”
A favor. The term hardly seemed appropriate for the magnitude of what Tino was about to ask. A favor was asking Berwald to patch a hole in his roof over the weekend because he’d always been better at that sort of thing. A favor was not asking your best friend of several hundred years to sacrifice himself on the battlefield for you because you were too weak to take care of yourself.
Being unable to breathe very well hunched over like he was, Tino sat up a bit. He kept his head forward but allowed his eyes to turn to Berwald, gaze resting on his mouth in anticipation of a reply.
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