Spaltning [Denmark + Iceland]

[Iceland]

Recently Eirík had taken to straying farther and farther from Denmark's house on his daily walks. It wasn't a calculated decision, just... He felt like it. It was like how he used to have a real destination, but now all he felt like was aimless wandering. He used to head for his favorite bakery in the town, where he'd pick up some bread and pastries to share with his brothers. Nowadays, he didn't like buying food that didn't get eaten. Whenever he passed the bakery on his meanderings through the city, the same old couple who ran the shop would try to wave him inside with smiling faces, but he pretended not to see and hurried past. The bakery only served to remind him of better times, which when contrasted with the present, only made current circumstances seem worse. If he did go in, the lady would ask after his brothers --she hadn't seen them in a while was everything all right?-- and he'd have to either lie to a nice old lady or admit that some of his brothers weren't there anymore, and then she'd want him to explain, and... It was just too much he didn't want to bother with.

He dipped his face down into his heavy wool scarf and quickened his pace. He didn't feel like eating lately, anyway. He felt like walking. Winter in Copenhagen wasn't as good as Reykjavík (of course) but it was still beautiful. Snow clung to every available surface, piled high on roofs and pushed into banks along the streets. Everything shone wet and clean and the air was pure. Why would he want to stay at the house? The young nation walked the cobbled streets with only the dissipating puffs of his own breath for company, taking arbitrary turns down side streets and alleyways, unworried about getting lost. After living here for almost four centuries, he knew the area like the back of his hand. Sometimes he even ventured into the woods outside the city limits, where he found hungry deer stripping bark off trees and roads that were almost impassable due to the thick blanket of snow that smothered them.

But even though he could and did stay out for hours amusing himself as he wished with little reaction from his two remaining brothers, if he didn't get back to the house before dark he'd probably hear about it. Such was the life. Fourteen-year-old nations (even if they were chronologically centuries old) living under the sovereignty of older brothers didn't get much say in the way of things. Eirík scuffed his boot against the curb, kicking at the muddy slush. Particularly when the two older brothers were constantly at each other's throats as of late, and those tempers could all-too-easily be redirected to Eirík if he drew attention to himself. Eirík tried to stay under the radar and out of the house as much as he could, loitering outside until the last possible moment.

Eirík halted at the mouth of an alley and looked up at the darkening sky, watching as the sunset brought color to the white-washed world. The rosy sky would be a deep mauve by the time he returned to the house; he should probably start heading back. As he weaved through the city streets, he passed that bakery on the main street. This late in the day, there were no customers inside, and he could see the couple closing up. Without any conscious thought, his boots turned and left a trail of footprints to the bakery's doorstep. The cheery little bell alerted the shopkeepers to his presence, who greeted him at once. He brushed snow out of his hair and looked around the warm little shop, noting that little had changed in his absence.

"Oh my, it's Eirík! We have not seen you in such a long while," the lady gushed. "A nice treat for your brothers? Scones and danishes and a chocolate-espresso tart?" She didn't need him to answer back, chattering away as she rang up his usual order. Her husband nodded to him in greeting, then lifted an unsold tray of bread rolls and shuffled through the door to the back room. The lady chatted as she slid the pastries into a brown paper bag, about the weather and who else she had seen that day and what a nice New Year's festival it had been this year. Eirík nodded intermittently and dropped a few coins into her hand when it was offered. She was so pleased to see him that she showed him the door herself. "Tell everyone I said hello! Berwald did not look in the best of spirits today at all, make sure he gets his favorite scone, all right?"

Eirík halted in her doorway, one foot in the slush outside. "What...? Berwald?"

"Yes, I saw him pass by earlier this afternoon. Do say hello for me, won't you?" She waved and bustled back inside to finish closing up. Eirík shoved the paper bag into the front of his overcoat and was gone before the door closed, taking off down the street.

Ber-wald Ber-wald Ber-wald. His boots pounded the snow in a staccato rhythm as he ran home. He shook his hair out of his eyes and kept pushing forward, trees and buildings flying by as he navigated the familiar twists and turns. Ber-wald Ber-wald Berwald was here. Eirík hadn't seen him in years, not since he and Tino left... Why was he here? Was Tino with him? What was he doing here, in Denmark? Hope bloomed in his chest even as cynicism tramped it down, a frenzied cycle that churned his stomach and filled his head with a storm of emotion.

If Berwald was here, then something must have happened, something either really good or really, really bad... Eirík couldn't even guess what kind of effect it would have on Mathias and Vidar. Their relationship was fraying more and more with each fight, dwindling to nothing... What if one or both of them had called Berwald? Eirík suddenly wished he had been around more often. He pushed himself to run faster, resolving to do better, be around more, be a better brother, maybe be of help- He wasn't an idiot, he knew he was pretty fucking useless as nations (and brothers) went, but maybe he could do something, maybe Berwald would have an idea, his older brother was very smart, maybe Eirík could ask when he talked to him, maybe Berwald was here to smooth things between Mathias and Vidar, Eirík didn't see how he possibly could but maybe-

The teenager threw open the front door and charged into the house. "Berwald! Vidar! Mathias!" He yelled, excited. He ran through the hall, calling their names, then dashed upstairs to check the bedrooms. "Berwald?! Mathias! Vidar-" He stumbled to a stop in front of Vidar's open door. The room had been ransacked. The drawers were haphazardly left open, over half the contents gone. There were only gaping holes where Vidar's favorite books once sat. Miscellaneous belongings littered the floor. ...And the space under the bed was empty. Vidar's suitcase was gone. The one Eirík had helped him pack when they moved into Mathias' house all those years ago. He was already breathing hard from his run; he gulped a breath and hoarsely yelled his brother's name again. He already knew it was pointless.

All his energy drained away, Eirík drifted back downstairs, feeling like a ghost. He stepped quietly through the house, giving more than a cursory glance to each room as he looked to see who was still here. If anyone was still here. He stopped when he found Mathias.

"Where's Vidar..." Eirík mumbled, hovering in the doorway.

---

Sooo. Napoleonic Wars, the Treaty of Kiel, Denmark has to hand over Norway to Sweden as part of the peace treaty because Denmark was losing the war big time, sound okay? I hope the way I set the stage is alright.

[Denmark]

Mathias was not usually given to reflection but he had precious few other options available to him tonight. He watched the sun set beyond the window from his seat at the dining room table with the unseeing, uncomprehending eyes of a man who had yet to process he'd received a mortal wound. He had to concede that between them Arthur and Berwald had constructed a magnificent plan and executed it beautifully. Arthur would have particularly enjoyed carrying out the fleet-robbery, but the Dane suspected it was his turn-coat brother who would have pegged exactly how Denmark would react to the abduction of his naval fleet and how to turn it to their mutual advantage. A short growl of “I'll kill him!” and some rash actions before the red mist cleared and Mathias and Frederik VI had followed the carrot obediently, somehow finding themselves on the losing side of a war they had no interest in. Berwald must have been pleased by how perfectly his plan had worked

The rest, as they say, was history.

Thinking about his brother – even the brother with whom things had been particularly acrimonious of late - planning his downfall so meticulously and thoroughly through to this conclusion was too much bear. Shaking hands lifted the glass of akvavit to his lips. It was a drink of celebration that Mathias had always thought his brothers would share with him when they settled their personal grievances with each other. Well, apparently they had reached an agreement, though it seemed nothing to celebrate from the Dane's point of view. He drank the akvavit stubbornly as if pouring gasoline over his old hopes for their futures and setting them alight.

It was small comfort that Norge was even less impressed about being under Swedish rule than the Danish one he was used to, so if Berwald was hoping that Nor would greet him with open arms and take Tino's recently vacated place playing house, his brother would be sorely disappointed. Mathias' hand tightened around his glass subconsciously, squeezing it in his fist. When he'd had his full strength it would have been easy to shatter but the loss of Sverige and Suomi, and now Norge, had stripped him of more than just company. It didn't even crack.

He hoped Nor would give him hell. Vidar'd certainly given him enough fire and brimstone in recent years that he had no fears about his ability to singe Sve's ears.

And Frederik... His own king had done his best to embarrass Mathias politically by grabbing at a treaty that allowed him to remain in some semblance of command – never mind partitioning some of the Danish army to Sweden, of all things – and personally as well by forbidding the Dane to oppose Berwald in any way, fearing retribution from the Swedish rulers. So he'd been forced to stand, choking on his own bile and trying to get his traitorous body to knee Sverige in the gut, break his nose, choke him, slap the smugness off his face, while Frederik's order rendered him immobile and unable to lift a hand in opposition to Berwald's abduction of his oldest friend. Not that it would have mattered if Frederik had not stilled his hands; Denmark was hopelessly weak now. The worst he could have done would have been to scratch his brother's face with his bitten nails. It wasn't much but it would have made him feel a bit better. Maybe. There was no stopping the deal Frederik had already agreed to. There was no way to keep Berwald from taking Vidar with him.

Was it treasonous to want to kill one's King, even when you were the nation they were so poorly representing? Mathias began to ask Vidar, realizing too late that the Norwegian was not around to answer him.

Berwald's face had been as impassive as ever but Mathias could tell that he was thoroughly enjoying seeing the Brave King of the North so helplessly impotent. The Swede could say all he wanted about how it would be best to separate the two Scandinavian nations but in reality Sve was as much as Viking now as he had been in their childhood. He could pretend to be as up-standing and logical as any but Mathias would not be fooled. He knew that his brother had come to collect Nor in person because he'd wanted to see the expression on his old rival's face. See it, and savour it. After all, Sve would know how it felt to have one's oldest ally torn away.

He finished his glass and re-filled it with the calm determination of someone intending to get mind-numbingly drunk. The only thing that was giving his emotional turmoil away was how he took large mouthfuls whenever he felt blinding rage or soul-crushing emptiness, and how he was already halfway through the bottle.

“Berwald! Vidar! Mathias!”

Hearing his name come last in the list saw Mathias reach for his glass again. He continued to drink in the same purposeful way, eyes on the winter sunset, as Eirik's feet pelted through the house and then upstairs, the young voice calling out their names again.

Nor would have certainly had something to say about Mathias drinking in this deliberate, self-destructive manner in front of the boy, but then Norge had disliked the Dane's reliance on alcohol full-stop. With no one about to send him disapproving looks he stayed seated at the dining table, glass in one hand and bottle in the other, listening to Eirik looking for them. It was in this position that he was finally found.

The small nation stayed framed by the doorway.

“Where's Vidar?”

Mathias took a deep draught of the akvavit and regarded his little brother's question for a few seconds, not taking his eyes off the view from the window. It was curiously hard to recount the recent events, and Denmark wondered if Sve had wanted him in this position; hapless, angry, humiliated and despairing, having to explain his defeat.

“Gone,” he said simply, hoping that they could leave it at that. He finished off his glass and immediately filled another, head still averted from where Eirik stood in the doorway. Gone, gone, gone. How strange to think it. He'd hardly spent any time separated from Norge since they'd first met. He said the word over and over in his head but it was meaningless, incomprehensible. Berwald had put the final boot in so deep that Mathias couldn't even feel it.

“Gone, gone, gone, gone, gone, gone, gone, gone,gone,” he repeated aloud, trying the revelation out on the silent room. It took almost a sing-song tune. “Nor's gone.”

Suddenly he felt a glimpse of the truth of what he was saying and felt a keening emptiness threaten to swallow him. He quickly gulped down the contents of his glass, hoping intoxication would keep that feeling at bay. Even the anger was better, though Frederik's orders kept him from marching over to Sverige's house and demanding they sort things out the old-fashioned way so any rage was likely to be fruitlessly directed at his own possessions. Anything was better than that sickening despair.

He rested the now empty glass against his forehead and closed his eyes. “Isn't Berwald gracious in victory,” he muttered to his drink. ”Aren't we blessed to have such a reasonable brother? I'm sure Nor will be very happy with him.”

The thought brought little comfort, so he threw the glass against the wall where it shattered spectacularly. It didn't make him feel any better, but at least it was slightly better than doing nothing.

[Iceland]

Mathias was drinking... The teenager lurked in the doorway and watched with morbid curiosity. Vidar had always herded him upstairs if it looked like Mathias would have more than a few glasses. Something about Eirik being "at an impressionable age." His older brother would get him set up in bed with a book, then close the door firmly behind him on his way downstairs. Eirik would sulk alone in his room, listlessly turning the pages of a saga. The censorship of vice had only ever felt like an exclusion, but Vidar had insisted upon it for his younger brother. But now Vidar wasn't here. So Eirik stayed put. He couldn't tell what Mathias was drinking from the doorway, but it must be strong, because the Dane looked awful. Eirik could see his ruddy complexion and defeated, disheveled form from across the room.

“Gone.”

Gone. Gone. That's it? A meaningless one-word cop-out answer. Eirik scowled and stepped into the room, his presence an unspoken demand for further explanation. He walked forward stubbornly. He hated when Mathias did this, treated him like a child that couldn't understand what was happening, so why bother telling him anything? Vidar had at least tried to explain Berwald and Tino's sudden disappearance from the house when Eirik was a child, giving an answer in vague enough terms that a very young nation was satisfied without having to muddle over complexities of state. Eirik couldn't remember if Mathias ever addressed it with him at all. In most conversations it had been glossed over, or only dignified with a snide comment. But Eirik was older now, and he was damned if he wasn't going to make Mathias talk to him. He came to a halt at the other end of the dining room table and stood stiffly.

“Gone, gone, gone, gone, gone, gone, gone, gone, gone. Nor's gone.”

"What do you mean, 'Nor's gone'?" When no answer was forthcoming, Eirik frowned and crossed his arms defensively. "He's not gone, he's-" The teenager broke off almost at once, seeing in his mind's eye a familiar bedroom turned inside out and stripped of the possessions that held the most personal value. His voice dropped. "Nore can't have left, he wouldn't. He wouldn't leave me behind. He would have told me, taken me with him. He wouldn't have left me..." he said dully, the words feeling like ash in his mouth. He spoke them as if hoping that saying it would make it so. It hadn't really sunk in yet. He felt dazed and at a loss, and found his gaze drawn to the glass in Mathias' hand, where he mutely watched the liquor disappear. He wondered how it tasted.

“Isn't Berwald gracious in victory. Aren't we blessed to have such a reasonable brother? I'm sure Nor will be very happy with him.”

He's with Berwald? That's why Svi was here? The old nickname felt strange to use, not coming as naturally as it had when he was a child during that brief time the house was filled with the light and life of five nations. Now it was dark and shadowy, the air soured with bitter emotion. Of course Vidar would want to leave, he'd been fighting with Mathias non-stop lately... But to leave with Berwald of all people... He should have known what that would have done to Mathias... And why hadn't he taken Eirik with him... That hurt the most. How could he just leave him behind like nothing, without so much as a word? They'd always been together, ever since he was a child, ever since he could remember. Why didn't he say something... A yawning chasm had opened up in his core. Abandonment shadowed the world darker than the setting sun.

"Why didn't anyone tell me..." He muttered uselessly. They wouldn't have known where to find him; he never told anyone where he went. Not that they asked. Not that they bothered. He wasn't one of the decision-makers of their wretched little family. He was always told of the results after the fact, when all he could do was pack a suitcase and be shuttled off to the next brother's house. The outcome wasn't his to change, only his to endure. He was powerless... But. His eyes flashed. Mathias wasn't. And yet here he sat, drowning his sorrows. If Denmark was so great and powerful, why hadn't he stopped Norway? Not that Eirik wanted Nore shackled to Mathias if he didn't want to be, but then they could have made plans to leave together...

"Why are you just... sitting here? Drinking?" Anger flared, finding a target he could direct his pain at. "Why aren't you doing something? Why are you..." The words came haltingly, communication difficult. He had never been good at this. And he had never needed to deal solely with Denmark before. There had always been a buffer... His chest wrenched, and he forged ahead with the childish conviction born of ignorance of the circumstances. "Don't just say, 'He's gone.' Don't just sit here, like you've given up already. Go- Go get him back," Because I can't. "Don't just sit here. It can't... It can't just be the two of us-" he said helplessly, his thin voice rising. Then Mathias' hand moved, the glass shattered. Eirik visibly flinched and shut up, his gaze dropping to the floor.

All those times Vidar had kept him upstairs in his room. He wondered if there had ever been broken glass. Fragmented shards that were swept up before they could be discovered by wide violet eyes. How often...? He wondered if broken glass was to be his future. Broken glass and a vast, empty house with creaking joints that echoed and haunting memories in every reflection. He shrunk in on himself. He would leave, if he could, he thought rebelliously. If Denmark would let him. Who knows, Iceland might even be cast off, he thought without a trace of emotion. There was never any way to tell. He was a small fishing vessel at the mercy of the tempestuous swells and storms of his war-torn brothers. There was no easy way out for him. His country was weak and juvenile, unable to survive on its own. Now more than ever. Denmark provided protection even as the Danish restrictions choked him, but it was that or no protection at all. He wouldn't have Vidar to shield him anymore. He would be the one to clean up the broken glass.

[Denmark]

When Mathias looked up from throwing the glass he was startled to see the youth flinching at the end of the table. The Dane had been so internally focused that he hadn't even noticed Eirik move or speak, but now he recalled the last few sentences of the teenager's outburst and processed them.

"Don't just say, 'He's gone.' Don't just sit here, like you've given up already. Go- Go get him back. Don't just sit here. It can't... It can't just be the two of us-"

He grit his teeth. How had life brought him here, sitting gormlessly at his dining table while his younger brother railed at him? The child didn't even understand that an order from a boss couldn't be undone. There was no bringing Nor back without Frederik's approval, not even if Mathias did have any strength to back-up such a demand. Well, the shattering glass had put an end to the youth running off his mouth; an added bonus. He wasn't in the mood to be lectured to about what he should be doing by anyone, let alone an apparent fourteen-year-old who'd never had to make any decisions in his life. Eirik would leave him alone if the kid had any sense. Emotionally aching and empty, he also wasn't in the mood to be comforting and reassuring. But no one had ever taken that into consideration, he reflected. No one allowed him time to nurture his sorrows or address them properly. He always had to shelve them away for later and keep on managing his family with a bright fake grin. Even Nor hadn't really understood the pits of despair the Dane was looking into, but perhaps he'd come the closest.

He'd always loved his brothers and wanted the best for them but was beginning to understand that it was a one-way thing. Over the past several centuries they'd come to him when they needed or wanted something and made themselves scarce when the shoe was on the other foot. Excepting for one rare occasion in which Finland had reluctantly helped him, Mathias had always been left to bleed alone in the dark after the fights without anyone passing comment while he knew that Berwald was being well tended to. No, not without comment. There had been an unsaid understanding that it was his fault for starting the arguments and if he was hurt then it was just what he deserved. And at other times they'd never dug deeper into his polite response to 'how are you today?' or bothered to check if the smiling facial expression matched the emotions underneath it. If they did feel familial love the same way as Denmark did - and he suspected they didn't, not really, because they'd never acted in a way that demonstrated anything other than a relationship of convenience - then it had never been a strong enough motivator for them to do anything about it. Not that he'd minded at the time. His abhorrence of loneliness meant he accepted any kind of relationship. Take Norway for example; his 'best' friend routinely insulted him even when things were great between them. And never in his wildest dreams would Mathias have dreamed that Berwald would have orchestrated something so devastating as he had now, teamed up with a recently-woken enemy.

There must be something wrong with them all. Him included. Him most of all.

Or was that the drink speaking? The drink and the tiredness? There must have been some good times. None came to mind, just arguments with Nor and Sverige, but there must have some happy memories, right? Otherwise what had he been fighting so hard to hold onto all those years? Or was it due to some mis-founded dream he'd always had, a dream that they'd always be together? The others never seemed to have the same need to be together en masse so he guessed he'd been hoping they'd eventually reciprocate his feelings on the matter and need him like he needed them. Another dead-end dream. His bosses had always told him he was an optimist and a dreamer, usually with a roll of their royals eyes that suggested this was an unappealing combination.

He took a swig of akvavit straight from the bottle, watching Eirik the whole while.

Norway would have never left his favourite brother in Denmark's hands willingly, particularly not alone and after the Dane had suffered a crushing personal defeat. Vidar had watched with thin-lipped disapproval as Mathias developed an increasing reliance on alcohol since the Kalmar Union began to sour, a substance that had long since failed to bring joy and now roused only rage and melancholy - but even if he didn't have such a dependency, Iceland was precious to the Norwegian. Even more precious than Finland was to Sweden. Only Denmark was the odd one out, not particularly precious to anyone. He took another large mouthful out of self-pity.

It didn't make any sense for Berwald to leave Eirik behind, either. The Swede had made it quite clear that he didn't think Mathias was fit for anyone's company and it would have suited the old Viking well to take Island and leave the deposed King truly alone, all but destroyed. Mathias sensed mercy... and hated Berwald all the more for it. Or maybe the Swedish royalty had known they were pushing their luck with the treaty as it was and knew that Frederik would not agree to surrendering Iceland as well. That was the more preferable option. He would have rather his rival brother had destroyed him than force him to accept charity.

Norway would not be so kind. Mathias witnessed the rage and rare tears Vidar had shed as he'd haphazardly packed his most precious things – all but the most precious. The Dane had stayed in their old living area across the room from Berwald, both bristling and eying each other untrustingly like two cantankerous dinosaurs, but even from that distance his old friend's distress had been easy to pick. Eventually Norway would come back, like Sweden had today, and demand Denmark relinquish custody of yet another brother.

"Nor will be sad to have missed you. He's not coming back. Not ever."

Again, words with hardly any meaning. Norge was gone. t was so much harder to grasp than Berwald's desertion, even after all the arguments he and Norge had been having recently. And that he was more taken aback by today's events was saying something because even though the two taller Nordics had been holding no punches, Sverige's final leaving had still taken him by complete surprise, though not nearly as much as this underhand betrayal. The thought of Berwald and Vidar together without him curdled the akvavit he'd already consumed but forced him to struggle another mouthful down.

Finally, he finished off by verbalizing the thought that had been gnawing at him.

"Why are you still here?" His voice sounded harsh even to his own ears. "Berwald should have taken you.”

[Iceland]

Eirik's gaze slid along the floor until it reached the mess of broken glass. He contemplated it numbly, unconsciously grateful for the anchor it provided. He could stare at the splintered reflections and jagged edges and not have to face the brother who seemed like such a stranger to him. How had they gotten here? The two of them, just like this. Just two, when once there were five. When had the world fragmented? And how is it that these two mismatched pieces were all that was left?

But really, he ought to clean it up. He knew where the broom and dustpan were kept, even if he rarely used them. Growing up, Eirik had never been very involved in the various domestic tasks that kept the household up and running. His older brothers were the ones who took on the responsibility (well, most of them) and the few times Eirik was asked to carry out a chore, it had simply gone undone. The youngest Nordic brother was pretty cavalier with cleanliness, an unfortunate side-effect of living alone most of the time. Infrequent stays at Norway's house hadn't cured him of it because his older brother chose to dote on him rather than order him to clean his room. Norway and Finland were the ones who cared about tidying and that sort of thing. They were better at domesticities than he was. Sweden would have it made with both of them in his house.

Eirik dragged a chair out from the table and slumped into it. He did not feel like cleaning. It's not as if it mattered. The glass could sit there until doomsday. He doubted Mathias would care. Eirik could put it off. There'd be time for it later. And maybe if the place got really bad, Vidar would come back to scold him and sweep up the glass. And Tino would appear and sigh in that exasperated "I'm trying to be upset with you right now, Ice, don't give me those eyes" sort of way before he gave in. And they'd fix everything. And Berwald would be there too. And the pastries wouldn't go stale. He was suddenly reminded of them, and quietly shrugged out of his bulky overcoat with its hidden cargo. He hadn't a clue what to do with them. The last thing he felt like was eating them. The idea of complex carbohydrates in his system made his stomach acid churn. Maybe he'd just leave them on the counter to rot like the others. Or he'd take them out with him tomorrow and break them up for his bird friends. For now they sat on the table, concealed within the heavy folds of his coat.

Denmark was unlikely to notice. The sun had all but disappeared below the horizon, and the house was cold and dark. Eirik made no move to light a fire or strike up the lamps. The gloom meant that Mathias might not see the blotchy face and over-bright eyes that he hid behind platinum bangs. Tell-tale signs of a weakling little brother. He refused to cry, even as his eyes burned and his throat closed up. Nor would be sad to have missed him? What the hell was that?! A pitiful consolation at best. If true, then why had Nore left him? It was as if "why" and "how" were the only words left in his mental vocabulary, and these two spun around in a mockery of a merry-go-round, taunting and biting at him with barbs that pierced his defenses to the soft fleshy core. Did Vidar care for him so little? Was he worth nothing? He was useless as a brother, worthless as a nation. Why was he even here? Why was he even part of this family at all, if he was so worthless?

"Why are you still here?"

And why did Mathias have to rub it in? Eirik swallowed hard, feeling his throat close painfully. He would not cry. Not for the brother that had abandoned him, not for the brother he was left with who rubbed salt in the wound, not for an uncertain future. He absolutely would-not-cry. Crying was for children, crying was for weaklings who could do nothing else.

"Berwald should have taken you.”

"Well he didn't," Eirik retorted, his voice harsh. He lifted his head to glare. "And neither did Vidar. You're the one stuck with me now. Try not to look so disappointed. I don't think much of the arrangement either."

Eirik's tone was cold and insulting, the first jab of a fencer testing an unknown opponent. He gathered his defenses around him like layers of plated mail, feeling alone and unprepared. He was unfamiliar with Denmark, he had realized. He only knew him in the context of others, when there was someone else Mathias could interact with. Vidar, mainly. They had been best friends. He glanced cautiously through pale eyelashes, trying to get the measure of the man he had been living with for years but who was now changed after all that had happened, and who he would now be living with alone. Eirik didn't know how this would work. He knew Denmark was quick to laugh and quick to anger and he didn't pull his punches. Would Eirik make him mad? If Mathias was looking for someone as obliging as Tino to help him through the aftermath, then he really drew the short straw with dependencies. Instead of someone kind and acquiescent with a decent hand at cooking, he got a surly teenager with temper of his own. At the very least, they could each be satisfied in feeling sorry for themselves and what they had been stuck with.

[Denmark]

“Well he didn't. And neither did Vidar. You're the one stuck with me now.”

The bottle in Mathias' hand was solid and heavy. It kept him grounded, stayed him from doing anything too rash, though he did shoot the Icelander a dirty look. What had he been thinking only minutes before? Oh yes, that Eirik would would leave well enough alone if he had any sense. Didn't he know that a wounded enemy was the most dangerous? Probably not, Mathias reflected, as Nor had always done his best to keep the kid wrapped in cottonwool. Nor had also spoilt Ice rotten, which was probably why the boy was baiting him now. If this self-pitying was intended to rouse sympathy then it was failing. Battling his own complex myriad of emotions, the fallen King was less indulgent than ever. Far from it; drunk and sour with it, Mathias was looking for someone to lash out at.

Surely Iceland must have known that Denmark would always be proportionately stronger than him, even weakened as he was now, so it can't have been that he wanted to started a fight. Did he think he was exempt from Mathias' rage? Denmark and Norway had been close since birth but that didn't stop them from having some violent arguments. In fact, Mathias would have gladly given Eirik to anyone who promised to bring Vidar back home. He would of course plan to go retrieve Iceland once reunited with Norway but the fact remained that he valued the other Scandinavian more dearly and had not shied away from passionate disagreements.

Ice seemed to know he was not Denmark's favourite for he continued in his most insulting tone. “Try not to look so disappointed. I don't think much of the arrangement either.”

Enough.

Mathias took a final swig and stood, bringing the half-full bottle down swiftly and forcefully onto the corner of the table, letting go at the last possible minute to retract his hand to a safe distance. The bottle smashed with a spray of akvavit. It had taken a lot of willpower to break the bottle over the table instead of attempting the same move over Iceland's head. If he had been sober Mathias might have been frightened by how close he'd come to directly trying to hurt Eirik. He half-expected Norge to come storming in to give him what for in reward for even thinking about harming his little brother but it was still only the two of them.

Mathias shifted his weight from foot to foot, broken glass crunching under the weight of his boots. His eyes fell upon Eirik's face through the half-darkness. If Vidar had been there a fire would already be set in the hearth, providing much needed warmth and light. It was likely that soon he would be able to see their breath.

“Better get used to it, provinsen. It's just you and me, now. And I'm not as fond of you as Nor is.”

Hopefully Eirik would understand his meaning; Mathias wouldn't be picking up after him or cleaning his room. Quite the reverse, in fact.

“And if you speak to me like that you'd better be prepared for the consequences. I won't be breaking bottles next time.”

He stared across the room at his brother for a few moments, absolutely serious. Comments like that had seen bloody fights break out between him and Sweden – even a sideways look would have ended with in brutality in the latter years – and Mathias saw nothing wrong with extending the same courtesy to Iceland. Norway may have sheltered the boy until now but look where it had got them. Eirik was selfish and thoughtless to not consider the Dane's pain, and also stupid to try to engage him at a time like this.

Considering the matter closed, Denmark now felt thirsty.

Having wasted the rest of the akvavit intimidating the smaller nation, Mathias walked over the crunching glass toward the kitchen in search of more to drink. He went past his brother, part of him still spoiling for a fight and daring the teen to lash out so he could justify using him as a punching bag in Sverige's stead. It wouldn't be fair, but nothing had been fair for so long that there didn't seem to be anything wrong with it.

Appearing calm, though keeping alert for any sign of aggression from the younger man, Mathias opened a top cupboard. He knew from previous rummaging that Norge had been keeping his hjemmebrent up there where he thought it was safe from Denmark's sight. His fingers closed around the rough glass bottle and he pulled it down, quickly locating a glass so he could continue drinking himself into a stupor. Bickering with Island had been almost cathartic, providing a welcome distraction, but now reality was creeping back.

When he woke up tomorrow it would the first day of the rest of his life alone. Well, not totally alone, he was forced to admit as he cast an eye over his reluctant housemate, but certainly the first day that he hadn't been expecting to see either of the other Scandinavians. He would miss Vidar terribly. He stilled missed Berwald at times; or rather the 'Sve' he had known, now replaced by this underhand Sverige who was a complete stranger to him. Without either of them at his side Denmark would hardly know himself. He saw his future stretch out in front of him, long and bleak, no prospects of being reunited with his brothers or even keeping in contact while they spent the long years together. He could see as far as Iceland being taking from him; then his future went dark.

He shuddered at the thought and poured himself a glass of the strong Norwegian liquor, a second reason for Norge to come home to tell him off. “Besides,” he said, though he knew he would later regret it, “don't feel too sorry for yourself. One day Nor and Sverige and maybe even Finland will come and take you away with them.”

The unspoken 'and leave me all alone'[/i] hung in the air. Mathias took a large mouthful of the hemmerjent, wincing at the strong taste. This one must be an old brew for it seemed incredibly alcoholic. He leaned against the kitchen bench unseeingly as he tried to contemplate being 'all alone'. It was a dark, horrifying thought that made him deaf and blind to everything else.

[Iceland]

Although Eirik followed the downward thrust with his eyes, he still flinched when the bottle smashed against the tabletop. His hands found the arms of the chair and curled around them defensively. He tracked the shower of glass, watching fragments skitter towards him over the smooth tabletop. Larger pieces gouged the surface, and residual fluid sprayed everywhere. Stray droplets of liquor reached as far as Eirik's face, a negligible sensation in the uproar. His gaze slid along the table, just barely glancing up from under his heavy platinum bangs. That side would be ruined if it wasn't cleaned up... Eirik started thinking that Nore would kill Den for that, then remembered that it was his house. Mathias could smash every glass he owned and use the shards to carve his initials into every centimeter of polished hardwood if he felt like it. His house, his rules. Wasn't that the truth.

Eirik, it could be argued, was one of the things in his house, too. Subject to his laws, courts, culture... his whims. The thought sat like bile in his stomach. He didn't care if he was weak, he wanted to rule himself, have his own power over his own matters. Freedom had been sweet, when he was small. With no keeper, he ran about his small island as he pleased. Life was hard, but satisfying in its simplicity. When Norway took him back to the mainland, he forced Eirik into starched clothes, combed his hair, made him eat his vegetables. Protections, yes; restrictions, certainly. He went through it all over again with Denmark. Each new house had new rules. Still more layers of limitations and prohibitions. Sometimes Eirik felt like these "familial bonds" were shackles more than anything else. He had forgotten what the point of them was. He looked down, clenching his teeth. There was nothing he could do. ...Unless he felt like cleaning up after Mathias. His fingernails dug into the grain of the wood. He felt small and weak and hated it.

“Better get used to it, provinsen. It's just you and me, now. And I'm not as fond of you as Nor is.”

"I know that," Eirik muttered impertinently, not taking his eyes off the tabletop.

“And if you speak to me like that you'd better be prepared for the consequences. I won't be breaking bottles next time.”

Eirik's jaw creaked, clenched hard till it ached. He wanted to say something, anything, but his throat felt like someone had it in a vise. He swallowed compulsively, feeling his pulse pound in his temples. The arms of the chair were squeezed between his fists, giving him something to hold onto when Mathias brushed past him. For a moment he wanted to reach out and grab him. He had threatened him. And for what provocation- The teenager waffled. Alright, he hadn't been very kind. But kindness was childish. Who cares, why should he be... How dare Mathias, anyway?

Why was it always about him? Did no one else register in his head, was there even any space left not taken up by that enormous ego? It's always his pain, his sorrow, his unhappiness. Whenever something was going on with him, it was a international crisis, getting everyone tangled up in it... Eirik was the one always shut up and shoved in a corner. He had just had his entire life rearranged again without so much as a word of say in it, his brother and lifelong protector gone, and Mathias acted like Eirik should feel sorry for him while he drowned his sorrows. He glowered. Not likely.

He got up from the chair, trembling slightly. His gaze flit about the room, alighting on familiar objects that he didn't really see. Nothing felt safe or familiar anymore. He felt as tense like a bowstring, pent-up energy seeking an outlet. He wanted to act, wanted to smash Denmark's face in... He wanted to grab him and shake him and tell him to fix everything. Eirik himself didn't know how, knew intellectually it probably wasn't possible, but even that didn't matter. He was in pain, upset, abandoned, betrayed, alone, vulnerable... He felt his pain and insecurities swirling inside him, and the more they spun the more they expanded, like storm clouds rearing for a squall. He knew that baiting the stronger nation was suicidal, he would give as good as he got, and worse. Eirik really shouldn't attempt it at all, should get a reign on his temper and go to his room and sit quietly... But the knowledge itself was more fuel for the tempest, the awareness of his own weaknesses a glass ceiling to ram his growing temper against.

“Besides, don't feel too sorry for yourself," He heard Mathias call from the kitchen. “One day Nor and Sverige and maybe even Finland will come and take you away with them.”

"Will you stop saying that?" He snapped. He stood tensely in the doorway, brow furrowed. "Just stop it. Stop- Stop rubbing it in my face. I'm not a child anymore- If I was, maybe then they'd still look after me. But not anymore. They left me alone with you. They don't care what happens to me, and apparently neither do you. ...Not that that's a surprise." He already knew, in the strange hierarchy of Mathias' mind, that he was probably on the bottom rung. Vidar was certainly awarded the pinnacle, not that Eirik begrudged him. It was where his brother belonged.

He stepped quickly into the room and took up the new bottle Mathias had dredged from the bowels of the cupboards, looking over the label disinterestedly. "I'm the one feeling sorry for myself?" He accused, pale eyes scornful. He held his brother's gaze as he set the bottle down deliberately on the table, a flagrant counterpoint to Mathias' earlier display.

"And don't threaten me. It won't work," he informed Denmark, his face set obstinately.

[Denmark]

The glass of hjemmebrent stayed in his hand, forgotten as he tried to look into his future.

What would it be like, to be fully alone? No one to talk to, no one to share a laugh with, long days and longer nights spent filling the minutes in one by one with only himself for company. There was hardly any point in being alive, he felt, if you had no one to share your life with.

Is that what I have to look forward to? [/color]

And at the same time, of course, his brothers would be unprotected and unsupported, calling out for help that he could not provide. Or maybe they'd be happy, sharing a drink together and making jokes, cheerful and comfortable, completely forgetting about their older brother who was wasting away in miserable solitude; "Denmark who?" All he'd ever been and all he'd ever done for them would be categorized as meaningless, not even worth remembering.

He didn't know which of those two scenarios would be worse; letting his family down or being cast off. When he stopped to think about it, it seemed he was already experiencing the latter. No one had torn Berwald away; the Swede had chosen to leave, and chosen to come back today, too, to strip Mathias of his oldest friend. He couldn't help but wonder if Norge had wanted to leave him as well. Their relationship had been souring quickly over the past decades with fights becoming more frequent and moments of comfortable companionship becoming few and far between. Their friendship was beginning teeter and maybe it had already fallen and crashed without Mathias even noticing. Maybe Vidar had asked Berwald to take him away – to save him from the horror of living with his King. After all, Nor hadn't been angry about leaving Denmark: it was abandoning the little Icelander that'd had his old friend so riled up.

Instead of the anger Mathias expected to feel at the possibility of Norway betraying him, he only felt empty. Empty and small. Finland's leaving and Estonia's before him he might have been able to tolerate, but the other Scandinavians? They were brothers, family that they'd picked out for each other -and now they had rode off, leaving him bleeding and choking on their dust. He'd tried everything he could think of to try to keep them together but it hadn't been enough; the harder he tried to keep his family intact the faster they began to slip from his grasp.

So no, not anger. Worthless. He felt worthless. No strength, no respect, no brothers. A king with no subjects. A warrior with no one to protect and no one to fight for.

What good was he now?

Slowly, Mathias became aware of a figure standing in the kitchen doorway. He turned his head to acknowledge it, eyes taking in a familiar hairstyle and facial features, the colours and shadows slightly altered by the setting sun. His breath caught in his throat.

Nor?![/color]

His heart rose as he stepped closer, hope already blooming. He should have known Vidar wouldn't desert him so easily!

”Will you stop saying that? Just stop it. Stop - Stop rubbing it in my face.”

Huh?

"I'm not a child anymore- If I was, maybe then they'd still look after me. But not anymore. They left me alone with you. They don't care what happens to me, and apparently neither do you. ...Not that that's a surprise."

That relief fled, leaving a crushing, painful hollow in his chest. The Dane's eyes scoured the speaker's face as if to prove the voice a lie but it was obvious, as he should have known, that it was Eirik in front of him rather than the older Vidar. What an idiot[/color], Mathias berated himself as if it would distract from a the raw heart-break that assaulted him now, feeling all the more potent following that brief half-second of foolish hope. Berwald would be laughing his arse off right now if he knew.

Eirik stepped into the kitchen, coming up close to him to pick up Nor's hjemmebrent. Mathias watched, keeping still while he subtly blinked away the unwanted dampness misting the corners of his vision, while the teenager gave the bottle an unimpressed look. It was so reminiscent of how Vidar would have responded that he felt something rend in his chest.

”I'm the one feeling sorry for myself?

Their eyes met. Eirik placed the bottle down purposefully, flaunting his self-restraint, undisguised contempt in his eyes. The sharp-tongued kid was so much like Norway, Mathias thought dully, that if their kind were able to father children he would have accused the other Scandinavian of seducing one of the local lasses.

Although the impudence made his blood pressure rise, it was not enough to take him back to the bottle-breaking mood he'd been in only moments before. The akvavit was clearly working its way through his system and playing merry hell with his emotions. He felt hollow and numb after having that fleeting euphoria ripped away; Eirik would have to try harder to get a rise out of him now.

Besides, so what if he was feeling sorry for himself? He was the King – or had been – and it was still his house, so he could do what he damn well pleased in it, not to mention that he had a great deal to feel sorry about.

”And don't threaten me. It won't work.”

Discarding his half-full glass, Mathias snatched the hjemmebrent back, wrapping his left fist around its neck. He raised the bottom of the bottle so it was level with Vidar's brother's temple – the prime position to deliver a swift crack that would knock him out. It would be so easy to get violent. Ice wouldn't stand a chance. Denmark doubted the teen would even be able to draw blood. Had Eirik ever been in a fight? He cocked his head toward the hand that held the bottle, searching his memory. He wasn't sure, but he guessed probably not. Norway would know for sure.

”It's not a threat, it's a rule.” He hoped he sounded more firm and impressive than he felt. Maybe this time he needed to be all business to keep control of his house. Set the ground rules, so to speak, so they both knew where they stood. That's what this stand-off was about, wasn't it? Pushing boundaries. ”This is still my house. I'm still your king.”

A niggling little voice in the back of his mind pointed out that a kingdom of two wasn't much to brag about, but Denmark was distracted by other matters.

Wow. He'd never noticed just how similar Ice and Nor looked before. They were torturously alike.

He lowered the bottle a few centimeters. ”Now, is there actually something you wanted to say to me or are you just being a brat? He leaned in close, leaning down so his face was near Eirik's. ”If you're really looking for a fight, I'm always ready. Otherwise, get out of my way and leave me alone.”

[Iceland]

Eirik wrinkled his nose. With Mathias looming over him, the alcohol smell was thick in his nostrils. He cringed back, taking a step away. He took another step, and another, until he could huddle defensively against the doorway. Not quite there, not quite gone, hidden in shadow. His fingers curled around the wood, nails scratching fine lines in the molding in a small, anxious gesture. They dug in, seeking purchase, stability. He ducked his head and stared at the floor, mouth twisting. Scowling, grimacing, he felt his facial muscles pull and twitch. He felt like he would cry. But he was tired, and didn’t think crying would help that.

Through the screen of his long bangs, he gazed at his brother with pain in his eyes. Yeah, he was a brat. It wasn’t his house, he couldn’t do anything. If his brothers wanted to waltz in and out, that was their prerogative. There was nothing he could do. He couldn’t hold on to anyone. He was just… Left there. Easily forgotten. The nothing-brother, easily discarded. He entertained no hopes of one of his brothers coming back for him. Eirik had never been an optimist. One could even argue that he was a complete pessimist, which was why he was taking Vidar’s leaving so hard. He was acting as if he’d never set eyes on his brother again. He probably would. Eventually. But the wound was too fresh, and he couldn’t see anything beyond the pain and loss.

“No. I guess there wasn’t anything I wanted to say.” His voice was dull. He rubbed his eyes and wondered vaguely where his energy had gone. He was furious only a moment ago... His tempers weren’t very reliable, rooted in the spit and fizz of teenage hormones as they were. One moment they were there, the next they were gone, leaving him cold and empty. He felt like he had been rebounding between the two extremes all evening. It hadn’t gotten him anywhere.

Acting out to get his brother’s attention hadn’t gone very well either, but he didn’t know what else to do... Go to his room and pretend like nothing had happened? Read a book and act like Nore would still come in late to check on him, to say goodnight? He was tired... He just wanted to sleep, like normal...

Vidar would scowl at him for going to bed when there was broken glass everywhere. And he’d just have to clean it up tomorrow anyway... He felt a spark of anger at that. Was he to be Denmark’s new maid? Tino and Vidar may have been willing to play along, but Eirik was another sort. He had his own messes to deal with, he wasn’t cleaning up after Mathias on top of that. His Highness was a grown man, he could damn well clean up his own rubbish... Off on a tangent, Eirik hadn’t noticed his feet take him back to the living room, where he lit the fireplace for light to see by and started cleaning up the glass. Vidar would scold him for putting them right in his hand, but he was feeling petulant and self-destructive and didn’t care if he picked up a few cuts. He’d relish the physical pain over the emotional.

He gathered up as much of the glass as he could in the palm of his left hand, then went to the kitchen to dump them in the bin. The fragments clinked lightly against each other as he went. He hoped he wouldn’t drop any... He slipped them into the garbage bin without incident and brushed his hands lightly together to get rid of any clinging shards. He had managed to keep from picking up many cuts, just a few that felt like paper-cuts. There was one that was small but deep on his index finger, where he had inadvertently poked a sharp corner that went straight into his flesh. He sucked on the wound absently, standing awkwardly against the counter and staring at the blood that welled up on his finger. He rubbed his eyes again, taking care not to use the injured digit and get blood in his face.

“Leave me alone,” huh...

Eirik tucked his fingers into a defensive fist and looked gloomily at the floor. Didn’t Mathias know he couldn’t? He would have already gone to his room and shut the door, if he could. Instead, he lingered. Pathetically. Like an idiot. He was alone, and clung to the only other person there was. No matter who it was. Even if the person had probably been wondering why the hell he kept hanging around if he wasn’t going to do or say anything. He probably wanted privacy, probably wished Eirik would just get out. Eirik’s shoulders drooped. Honestly, it would only be a matter of time until Denmark cast off such a burdensome barnacle like himself. He had nothing to offer.

“Sorry if I’m in your way,” he mumbled, barely raising his voice. Feeling decidedly morose, he listened for the crackle and pop of the fireplace, taking some small comfort in it. Maybe he would sleep on the sofa in front of the fire. He didn’t want to go to his bedroom... He felt his cheeks heat, and he ducked his head in embarrassment. Call him a child, but he didn’t want to go up to his room when Nore’s remained empty next-door. It would feel strange. He just knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. He didn’t even want to sleep, although he was tired... He didn’t want to do anything... And so he lingered near Mathias like a ghost, feeling like he was intruding, but unable to leave.

[Denmark]

His technique, although by no means appropriate, had the desired effect. Eirik recoiled from the base of the bottle which threatened his temple, slinking backwards until he butted up against the door-frame. With his fingers grasping at the wooden frame, head bowed and face contorting in what could only be a precursor to tears, the Icelander was every bit the picture of a cowed upstart. It was clear than his challenging behaviour had passed – for now, at least – and with this, so had his similarities with his absent brother. However, Mathias raised his eyebrows when Eirik chanced a glance at him, demanding a verbal response in order to drive the point home.

“No. I guess there wasn't anything I wanted to say.”

Eirik's voice was tired, spent, and confirmed that the fight had left him.

“I didn't think so.” He lowered the bottle to his side. “So go find something to do.”

Dismissively, and expecting that Eirik would make himself scarce for the rest of the evening now that he'd got the disobedience out of his system, Mathias turned his back. The half-full glass of hjemmebrent was still waiting on the kitchen bench like a faithful friend.

Vidar had brewed it himself. Nor'd learned how to make the special Norwegian brand of moonshine when the alcohol laws had been stringent enough to necessitate a bit of law breaking to stay sane, and he'd always made it strong. Rumour had it that the drink was so potent that it wasn't uncommon to die from poisoning after just one glass. Just one! Of course, Vidar might have been telling Mathias than in an effort to get his king to exercise some restraint, but it was an undeniably intoxicating spirit even by the Dane's impressive constitution.

He reached for the drink, wrapping his long fingers around it tightly.

What would he have done if Iceland had forced the issue? Mathias wasn't usually given to 'what ifs' but he had to stop and wonder. Would he really have brought the bottle smashing into the child's temple? Such a blow could kill, if the angle and power were just right, and at the very least, if the glass splintered it would have badly gouged that smooth skin. Mathias shook his head. That was Eirik he'd almost brained. Not some brawler in a pub. Not Vidar and not Berwald, who both gave as good as they got. It was the baby of his family. He'd almost seriously injured his baby brother.

What were they thinking, leaving him with me?

The akvavit and hjemmebrent he'd already consumed broiled in his stomach as if alive, making him feel restless and encouraging him to walk out of the kitchen. He hated to admit it, but maybe Berwald had been justified in commenting that the Dane was becoming dangerously unsettled.

Bottle in one hand and glass in the other, Mathias passed through his dining room. He barely noticed Ice crouched at the foot of the dining table, picking up the broken bottle-glass in his fingers. Denmark swept past him without a word into their great room.

Their age-old family hang-out was cold and dark, a stark contrast to how it had been last night. The book that Norge had been reading only earlier that morning lay overlooked on the arm of his usual chair, a woven bookmark neatly in place. Mathias placed the bottle and glass on the nearby table and reached out to touch the book, his clumsy drunk fingers nearly making it fall in the process. After steadying it, he trailed his hand over the old leather and traced over the engraved letters. He pictured Nor giving him an undecipherable look over the top of the novel as he paused to turn a page. The vision was as clear as if Vidar was indeed sitting in front of him. The Dane blinked, and looked away.

And there – right there – had been where Sverige had sat this afternoon. There had been a thick, tense silence while the victor had waited for his prize to pack his essentials, that customary hard stare scrutinizing Mathias' every move and an infuriating smile of satisfaction buried just beneath the surface of the Swede's impassive face. And bile-filled Mathias had been sitting over here, effectively paralyzed by Frederick's self-serving orders.

He scowled. It was sad to see their family room so empty and cold.

The house was quickly losing heat and that fire wasn't going to light itself so, without thinking or bothering to feel sorry for himself about the sudden turn from King to maid, Mathias approached the hearth. The necessary materials were kept tidily on the mantelpiece. He took them and knelt down to get to work, his hands feeling large and clumsy - a feeling amplified by his growing drunkenness and years of not fixing the fire. Tino had often lit the fire before he'd left, nimble fingers making short work of the tinder and flint. The duty had then passed to Vidar, who had completed the task without fuss. It must have been decades since Mathias had last troubled himself with this domesticity, but it was not a skill one lost and the flame soon took and began to grow. His booze-dulled reflexes meant he singed his fingers, however.

The job completed, Mathias sat in Vidar's usual chair in front of the fresh fire, rubbing his burnt fingertips together.

The room was thick with the presence of all his brothers. Mathias gazed at the flickering flames and, for once, did not try to fight the memories off. Thoughts of Norway came most prominently, but there was Sweden and Finland and even some Estonia in there, too. It was some form of self-inflicted punishment but he couldn't help but remember every fight and every joke he'd ever shared with Vidar. Maybe reliving the moments would be helpful; maybe it would allow him to process this sudden change and adjust to it. His eyes were trained unseeingly on the flames as he thought, at times smiling at a bittersweet memory and at other times scowling at the fireplace. It seemed to be helping him mellow out, if only a little.

“Sorry if I'm in your way.”

Eirik's voice floated into his reminiscing. It was a softer, more submissive tone this time, and barely interrupted Mathias' stream of consciousness. “You're not,” he said, wondering what Eirik though he was getting in the way of, seeing as how Mathias just sitting there by the fire.

“Do you remember when Vidar first brought you to me?” He reached for his glass and rested it on his knee, though his gaze didn't move from the crackling flames. He certainly could remember the tiny child bundled up in the Norwegian's spare furs, large violet eyes staring up at him from the middle of the bundle beneath a mop of pale hair. Berwald had met him then, too, but it was the Dane to whom Eirik was primarily presented, to give a ruling on whether the boy could join their household or not. The answer had always been 'yes'. Vidar would have demanded it even if Denmark himself hadn't been excited about gaining another family member. Mathias hadn't really known what to do or say at the first sight of his little brother, so he'd just used his little finger to move the boy's hair out of his eyes so he could see that baby-ish face more clearly, and had smiled. “I was so happy to have you join us here, but Vidar hardly let you out of his sights for weeks. He'd worked so hard to get you to stay with him.”

Until today, Norway hadn't really stopped looking out for him. He'd been a vital part in both their lives. Mathias glanced toward his smallest brother, beginning to realize how strange it must be for Eirik as well.

[Iceland]

Slowly, carefully, Eirik made his way to the couch in front of the fire. The old couch was worn but comfortable, built sturdy to last the years. Eirik sat gingerly, just outside Mathias’ peripheral vision. He stared into the fire, watching disinterestedly as the flames flickered and danced in the grate, sneaking peeks at Denmark out of the corner of his eye. Rigid shoulders had replaced his tired slouch. Mathias was sitting in Nor’s chair... Even Nor's book still kept his place. Eirik couldn’t make out the title from the awkward position and unsteady light, but it was probably something very arcane and painfully dry. Nor typically saved his worst doorstoppers for when he was in a bad mood, choosing to set his temper against the esoteric doctrines of the past.

The fire crackled and popped, the only sounds to stir the air. The living room felt too big and too empty for just the two of them. His memories of this room were filled with talking, laughing, shouting, teasing, roughhousing, living. But it hadn’t been that way for a while. The room was quiet and somber, the air soured with bitterness and loss. His thoughts drifted, catching on fragments of memory like gauze pulled over briars. Some good, some worse, some utterly mundane. As the night stretched, he felt almost as if he were in a vacuum, the fire and Denmark's presence his only tethers to the present.

Lost in introspection, he felt his pulse jump when the heavy silence was cut by Mathias' voice.

“Do you remember when Vidar first brought you to me?”

Of all the things to say... Eirik's gaze darted to the side. He made no move to affirm or deny the statement. He could only wonder a little uneasily as to the train of thought that prompted it. A small part of him pinched at the wording. “Brought him.” Like a loaf of bread in a hand basket. He wasn’t a thing...

“I was so happy to have you join us here, but Vidar hardly let you out of his sights for weeks. He'd worked so hard to get you to stay with him.”

A wan smile flickered across his face before it went out. Yes, he remembered. At first Norway had been almost smothering in his affection and institution of new rules to keep wayward children in line. But the unruly, anarchic child-nation had gotten used to the restrictions fairly quickly, he blushed to remember. So much for his much-vaunted Viking heritage. All too soon he was tamed and trailing after Norway like a duckling. Once brought under Norway’s wing, he spent the following centuries dealing exclusively with the Nordic countries. Norway’s protection became second nature. He had brothers.

"I remember. You and Berwald were there. And uh, really big," he finished lamely. He blushed. He was terrible with words.

Denmark and Sweden had towered over him, and were a little scary... Upon being presented to them for the first time, Iceland had stared solemnly, suddenly shy in front of these big, grand nations. He'd felt small, rustic, and uncouth. Nice to see the sentiment never really left, Eirik considered dryly. At the time, Norway had to prompt him multiple times to get even a mumbled greeting out of him. His "older brother" put a great deal of effort into coaxing proper speech out of him, but it was months before any progress was made. Wasn't until that time that he felt comfortable enough around everyone, anyway. Once he was, he was scampering through the halls trying to catch anyone for long enough to get a story read to him. Or to demand licorice from. ...Really, he'd been such a child.

But it hadn't been so bad, being a child with brothers such as these. A quiet voice noted. For a while it had been nice. He'd been proud to count himself among them. Still was. Sort of. It was hard to describe. The feelings were murkier now, the relationships more complex.

Eirik watched Mathias' face closely, his own body language guarded, but the half-lit profile gave little of the Dane away. Given his train of thought, perhaps Mathias was just harmlessly reminiscing... His temper seemed to have burned down to embers, at least... Maybe because Eirik wasn't provoking him anymore. He wondered how close he came to being struck. Den and Svi and Nor had fought. It wouldn't be any different with Iceland. He scoffed at the thought of getting special treatment. If anything, he might see the worst of Denmark's temper, because it wasn't as if he could meet Denmark like an equal. As much as he wished that were the case. Knowing that, he was such an idiot for trying to call Mathias out... Probably would have deserved it, if Mathias had struck him.

Eirik ducked his head, studying the thick carpet before the fire. "Yeah. I remember. I haven't... Haven't forgotten anything." His fingers laced tightly, clenching. "I'll miss him. I miss him too, Mathias."

So stop acting like I'm the enemy. I'm still here. I don't have anywhere else to be.

---

This post. It is terribly short. orz So sorry.

[Denmark]

If he'd glanced sideways to where Eirik was sitting on the couch, he would have seen and been warmed by the half-smile that briefly illuminated the younger Nordic's face. As it was, Mathias kept his eyes trained on the flames, turning the glass of hjemmebrent around and around in his hand, finding comfort only in his own memories.

"I remember."

At least that was something. It had been a good day, that day long ago when he'd welcome Iceland into their family, so it would have been a shame to have no one else left who remembered. There was so much that Iceland wouldn't know; at least they could share one memory, even if he was too young or too distant to remember many of the other events that had shaped Denmark's life. Mathias knew, a metallic taste souring his tongue, that despite the Icelander's pale presence, he was going to be desperately lonely.

"You and Berwald were there. And uh, really big."

A shadow of a smile stirred in response as Mathias tried to imagine what the day in question would have been like from the shorter nation's perspective. He quickly found it impossible, as he kept switching back into himself looking down at that small bundle of new brother who'd eventually stammered out a muted pleasantry. He felt a shade of the same air of familial responsibility and bemusement affecting him even now. He'd been much fonder of his little brother then, before the sourness of constant in-fighting with Berwald had spilt into every corner of the Dane's waking life. Back then, the requests for attention and sweets were amusingly charming, and often rewarded. To the child, it must have seemed that overnight Mathias had turned from an indulgent - if not particularly sympathetic - older brother into an unforgiving tyrant. Around that time, he'd began to see the boy less and less - perhaps that was when Norge had wisely begun to keep Island out of harm's way. Or maybe Mathias had only noticed him less; anger at Sverige had blinkered him to many other things that had been happening in house.

The mere thought of his rival's name pulled Denmark out of his happy memory and back, firmly, into the present. Fortunately, the fire and alcohol had already gently melted his anger into something negligible. He could even look at the spot where Berwald had been sitting, close to Iceland's current perch, and feel only a faint stir of those much more complex emotions.

"Yeah. I remember. I haven't... Haven't forgotten anything."

Neither had he. He vary rarely forget anything completely. But what exactly was Eirik meaning? The former King turned his head inquisitively, but Eirik's gaze was submissively set on the floor. There were many things that Mathias preferred the boy to forget. Did he remember the broken furniture and smashed glass, the sand sprinkled on the hardwood floor to soak out the blood, or the spectacular bruises the taller Scandinavians had borne during the latter part of the Kalmar Union? Did he remember, or had he noticed, when a similar pattern began to emerge between the boy's beloved brother and the king more recently? There was so much better left forgotten.

Or did Eirik mean that, despite all that had happened, the darker times hadn't chased away the happier memories? He desperately wanted it to be the latter. The only way to find out was to ask, but pride prevented.

"I'll miss him. I miss him too, Mathias.”

Sighing, Mathias took a deep draught of the hjemmebrent. Not as much as I will. There was no doubt that Norge's precious lillebror would feel the absence of his protector, but it wasn't the same - it couldn't be the same - as the loss Mathias would have to face.

"You'll get used to it," he said bracingly, doubting the same could be said for himself, imagining he would feel Nor's absence everyday with the same keenness. He took a final large mouthful of alcohol, draining his glass, and placed it on the table next to him, beside that book. Nor's book.

Mathias picked it up, feeling the weight of it. He opened it to a page and random and a quick scan of the prose, written with the usual stuffiness of old Norse, confirmed it would not interest him. He snapped the pages shut, his eyes falling on the fire. It couldn't sit in their family room forever. In his mind's eye, he pictured the pages curling and blackening as flames devoured them and felt a premonition of great satisfaction. Only his present company prevented him from throwing the heavy novel on top of the smoldering logs.

"Here," he said eventually, holding the leather-bound book in Eirik's direction. "Do something with this; I have no use for it. Keep it, throw it out... or burn it. I don't want to see it again."

Without waiting for Eirik to take hold of it, Mathias tossed it onto the couch next to the teenager and closed his eyes. If only it was going to be that easy to get rid of Nor's haunting presence, he thought as he leaned back in the Norwegian's customary chair. He'd have to move and leave everything behind, especially little Eirik, to even bother attempting such a feat.

Practically speaking, there was the question of what to do with the possessions that Nor - Norge, he corrected himself, making a conscious effort to steer away from the familiar nickname - had left behind. He couldn't spend the rest of his life gazing longingly at Norge's untouched room every time he passed the door, leaving them as is in the hopes his old friend would return, like some kind of perverted shrine. Anyway, if he left the room set up, Norway would soon return, victorious, to collect the things himself.

Mathias felt a flash of that previous anger. As if Norway would dare to come back into the house he'd deserted and demand the things he'd left behind! If anyone was going to cut all ties, it would be him! The sentiment an angry, mutinous part of him was feeling was clear; You left me for Berwald? Fine, I don't care. Take your damn stuff. I don't want you back. Ever.

"And if there's anything you want to keep from his room, get it now," he added with a grim, joyless determination.

God, I need another drink.

[Iceland]

"You'll get used to it," came the flippant response.

No, he wouldn't. But that Denmark was willing to wave it off as if he would was offensive. Eirik's body language closed down, his posture stiffening as he shifted his weight. So much for that, then. "You'll get used to it." Last time he would try to connect with Denmark. He crossed his arms and picked out a spot on the carpet to stare at.

He would never seek a replacement for Norway- not that Denmark could replace him. But if Denmark was the only one left to him, the last one with him, then Eirik would like an ally, at least. They didn't have to be friends. He doubted Mathias even wanted a gawky adolescent nation as a friend, anyway. Nor had been his friend. Berwald too, once. Eirik was... he didn't know what he was to Denmark. A brother, supposedly. A friend, no. Regardless of what label or politically-correct term to use, he didn't want things to stay this tense between them. He couldn't afford to be at odds with the one who held power over him, but if this evening was a foreshadower for what was to come... Eirik cringed. It did not bode well for the future of their relationship.

Movement at the corner of his eye caught his attention. Mathias was picking up Nor's book, of all things. Pale brows snapped together, and an indignant protest bubbled to his lips.

"Don't touch that, it's Nor's!"

Immediately he regretted it. Now was not the time to add fuel to a simmering fire... He gulped and dropped his head, flushing with shame. He was an idiot for the outburst and an idiot for what it implied. Norway was gone and not coming back, the book was left behind, Norway did not want it (or may have forgotten it), so it was absurd to indulge in the meaningless pretense that it was still his... But Nor's things were still Nor's things, even if he wasn't here to exert ownership over them. Norway's presence lingered in the possessions he had left behind and filled the awkward silences in the drafty house.

The clap of the book startled him, and he returned his focus to Mathias. He wanted to pluck the volume from his fingers and keep hold of it so Mathias couldn't destroy it in a flash of revenge, but he didn't dare. Always left to the reactionary role, that was his lot. Never one to act, only the one to live with the consequences... Mathias looked to be weighing the book with his eyes. Eirik's gaze was glued to Nor's book as Mathias cast a thoughtful look to the fireplace. Eirik's head shook in shallow jerks. He wouldn't.

"Here." Eirik stared at what was offered to him. "Do something with this; I have no use for it. Keep it, throw it out... or burn it. I don't want to see it again."

The leather-bound book thumped the couch cushions, jolting him. He didn't. Eirik couldn't believe it. He clumsily dragged the book into his lap and curled his hands over the leather, small defense against Denmark's capricious compulsions. The solid weight was a comfort to him as well. He ran his fingers over the deeply-imprinted letters of the title. He'd find a space in his bookcase to squeeze it into. Maybe he'd read it someday. The binding creaked as he opened the cover and carefully turned the pages. None of the passages jumped out at him, he'd have to work at understanding the essays. Something to do if he had to hole up in his room in the near future. He closed the book and let his gaze rest on the cover.

"And if there's anything you want to keep from his room, get it now."

Norway hadn't even been gone a day, and already Mathias was out to clear any trace of him. Would everything that didn't get saved go into the fire? He shouldn't be that surprised. If Mathias had looked ready to burn one of Nor's books, then there was obviously no mental or emotional block set against it. Eirik slipped from the room to take what he could from Nor's bedroom. If he took too much, would Denmark be upset with him? He wanted to keep everything... He took the clothes from the dresser and dumped them into his closet, the custom of hand-me-downs second-nature to him now. His favorites of Nor's books on mythology and fairy tales were added to his bookcase. It felt strange to go through his older brother's belongings. They were close- had been close, as brothers went, but the time-honored tradition of older brothers refusing to lend the really good stuff to their younger brothers had been upheld. Nor had taken the most important ones with him, but of course he left a lot behind... Eirik wondered if this was what it was like for grieving relatives to go through the deceased's belongings. He flipped through the papers in Nor's desk, finding them to be of dull matters of state. In a chest under the bed he found some of his childhood belongings that he never noticed had gone missing until years later. Toys, clothing, bottles... He couldn't think of why Nor had kept them, and shut the lid (after removing a couple particularly well-loved soft toys and squirreling them away in his room).

Sifting through his brother's possessions like a customer inspecting wares... It really was a strange feeling, like overstepping his boundaries, forcing entry into someone's personal self. It didn't really sit well with him, but there was nothing for it. Better than the alternative.

His final act in his brother's room was to drag the quilt from the bed and drape it around his shoulders before returning downstairs. In his arms he carried a cloak, flask, book of Danish literature, knitted hat, and a few other miscellaneous articles he had recognized as belonging to Mathias. If Mathias wanted to search for any other items Nor borrowed from him over the years, he could do it himself. Good friends lent things to each other; brothers didn't return them. Which explained why Nor had never let Eirik borrow that one navy sweater.

He halted in front of Mathias, the quilt slipping down one shoulder as he held his arms out. "These are yours, I think. They were in his room."

Cargo delivered, whether the recipient chose to accept or not, Eirik returned to the couch in front of the fire. He pulled the heavy quilt around him and let himself sink into the cushions, his eyes reflecting the flickering flames.

[Denmark]

His hands were made clumsy by drink, but that did not stop Mathias from pouring himself another measure of hjemmebrent. The clear alcohol slopped over the side of the glass, trickling over his fingers and dripping in fat dollops onto the floor. Cursing, he changed hands, bringing the glass to his lips as he shook the worst off his fingers and wiped them dry against his trouser leg. At some point during this procedure, Eirik had silently left the living room, presumably sneaking out to familiarise himself with Norway's abandoned possessions or to hide in the safety of Iceland's own bedroom.

Mathias imagined that by the time he went into Norge's old room, the items remaining there would be few. Would the cranky blonde be upset that Mathias had invited the youngest Nordic to take what he wanted? Maybe. Probably. Norge had always disliked it when Danmark treated the other's belongings as his own – but, technically, what was Norway's was his, so he'd never seen the problem. Well, if Norge and Sverige found there were a few items missing when they unpacked the boxes Denmark would pack with studied carelessness (assuming he packed them, of course, as opposed to creating a large and satisfying bonfire), it was their fault. If they hadn't been so set on getting out as quickly as possible then there wouldn't have been so much left behind. Besides, because of Berwald's hurry, Nor hadn't even said goodbye to his precious younger brother. Maybe Eirik would be able to count whatever he found as a leaving gift, even if it was unknowingly given.

He shifted a little, trying to get comfortable on his old friend's chair. It was an impossible task; the otherwise-empty family room had an eerie, despondent feel to it, and Mathias had yet to have his evening meal, which explained why the alcohol was quickly making his head swim nauseatingly. Disinclined to cook, he drained his hjemmebrent experimentally, wondering if that would help quell his hunger.

It did not.

He went to place the glass back on the edge of the table but missed, causing the glass to tumble to the ground where it bounced and rolled rather than smashing. Fortunate, as it would not be a good look to have slivers of broken glass in every room of the house and, besides, it would be tiresome to run out of glassware.

Eirik returned before Mathias had stirred himself to retrieve the fallen glass, the quilted blanket that had once graced Nor's bed now festooned about his shoulders like a cloak. His eyes traced over it – did Eirik have any idea how old that blanket was? There were small burn marks on it, from when he and Norge had sat under it one cold night next to the fire, too busy swapping stories to notice the spitting sparks of flame the left crescent-shaped marks. And there was a mark on the underside of it from where Eirik had spilt his drink when, after falling asleep, he'd rolled over and knocked the cup down.

Norge had been most displeased. At himself for not moving the cup, though, not at Eirik for having knocked it over. Mathias watched the boy sweep over to him now. He had not expected Eirik to return to seek out his company tonight.

“These are yours, I think,” Eirik said, holding out a bundle of small items. “They were in his room.”

It was an odd assortment of articles, Mathias noted as he reached out to take them. An old cloak, a winter hat that had been one of Sverige's early attempts at being creative, a flask he'd no doubt offered Norge during a trip somewhere, a volume of Oehlenschläger's poetry and a mini replica of Mjølner on a leather thong that was identical to the one he had, currently residing in his sock drawer. He regarded the last two with a strange feeling of hurt and abandonment; they had been gifts. If Norge was going to take anything to remember him by it would have been one of these presents. The relationship between them must have been much worse than Mathias had realised.

Norway's odd cruelty roused a sour taste in his mouth and tightness in his throat, killing his appetite.

His remaining housemate had sunk into the couch underneath that familiar old blanket, and was gazing into the fireplace as if the hypnotic flickering would somehow transport him to Stockholm where he could join his preferred older brother. Mathias swallowed the sour taste away, trying to turn the hurt into a much simpler feeling of irritation that Eirik would even bring those objects to him. Was it a studied insult or plain thoughtlessness? And why had the youth returned and taken up residence on the couch if he was only going to try to wish himself away? They would both be better off, Mathias supposed, if the Icelander had simply stayed in his room for the rest of the evening. They'd both already proved themselves to be poor substitutes for Norway, and poor support for each other.

Sitting there, with that quilt and the shifting firelight, Eirik was once again easily mistakeable for his older brother. Mathias wanted both to lash out at him and hug him for the resemblance but knew that neither would get him the results he wanted. Eirik was not Norge, would never – could never – be Norge. The similarities were confusing, and the abandoned Scandinavian knew he needed some time to get his thoughts straight on the matter. There was only one reason he could think of to send the boy away.

”Have you eaten?” he said, not bothering to correct the slur that betrayed his inebriation. ”There'll be something in the kitchen.” Leftovers, most likely, but it would do the teenager for one night.

Mathias shifted again, finding sitting in Norge's customary chair to be bizarre. ”Go eat something. And...” He paused, wondering if he wanted Eirik to bring him something. It might help him sober up but one hand Mathias didn't want to. He was numb, or partially numb, to the pain this way, even if the world was spinning. ”And then I guess... you can go to bed, if you want.”

---

Sorry for the delay in getting this up. I was thinking, do we want to move the thread to the new site?

[Iceland]

Eirik remained still on the couch. His breathing was shallow. He barely moved. He and the furniture were one sessile entity, simply existing. From time to time, he blinked. He tried not to think too much. He was tired, and his thoughts took on a blurry-edged quality as they flowed from one to another in his head. He would have fallen asleep, eventually. But then came the halting proposition from Denmark.

"Have you eaten?

"There'll be something in the kitchen.

"Go eat something. And...

"And then I guess... you can go to bed, if you want."

Eirik waited, not sure if Mathias would continue. He did not know how to take Mathias' sudden interest in him, in his well-being. If you were to call it that. It was long past the time that supper would have been made and, Eirik glanced at the old clock on the mantelpiece, past the hour when he would have been ushered to bed by a weary, distracted caretaker. That was one thing for Nor's exit - he could do what he wanted, now. He doubted Mathias would enforce Nor's parental regulations. Probably didn't know what half of them were. But as for the current situation... He wondered if Mathias could be trying to inject a sliver of normalcy into the circumstances. Which made him feel a little funny. He didn't know if he was grateful or if it was "too soon."

Speculating was meaningless because the more likely explanation was that Mathias probably just wanted him gone. Go to the kitchen to eat something. Go to your room to go to bed. Both offers pushed him out of the room.

Eirik shifted on the couch, turning his head to watch Mathias out of the corner of his eye. Was he still drinking? He couldn't see the glass. He glanced around the room, trying to find it without seeming as though he was looking for it. Then he halted, wondering why he cared. It was a glass. Intellectualization was a defense mechanism in which you focused on small details, memories of textbooks told him. He glanced back to Mathias.

...Maybe he'd gone straight to the bottle. He'd drink himself into a stupor, and probably wanted to be left alone to do it. Eirik had not been drunk often, had only gotten tipsy a couple times on large holidays, and only when Mathias had purposefully filled his tankard without diluting it. Nor hadn't minded that much. At least, if he saw Mathias doing it he rarely said anything until Eirik had already downed the contents. He seemed to find amusement in watching Eirik loudly proclaim that he was fit as a fiddle, promptly stumble over his feet, and fall giggling into a brother's lap. As long as they were in a closed environment and there was no danger of the youngest hurting himself, Nor didn't actively object.

But that was the sort of drinking where you laughed and acted silly in rosy good humor. This was wallowing in sorrow, unable to face anything or anyone. And Mathias probably didn't want an audience.

"Do you want me to leave?" He stared into the fire, anxiety trickling through his core.

Don't say yes. Because then he probably would. He'd have to, wouldn't he? Denmark was in charge. And Iceland didn't want to anger him.

"I could go, but..." He lifted a shoulder helplessly. His room was cold and dark. He didn't want to be sent away. Didn't want to be alone in his room. All his brothers had gone. He had one left. He should be allowed to stay near if he wanted to. Wasn't that how families went? He started again.

"It's alright, I'm not hungry-" Immediately he thought of a cheery bakery and a paper bag with pastries in his coat pocket. Was that only from earlier this afternoon? It could have been a month ago, a world away. Leaving the safety of the quilt, Eirik went to the dining room table and returned a moment later.

"...Have you eaten?"

He set the bag on the table next to Mathias, the brown paper crinkling. He waited. The gesture could be appreciated just as easily as it could be disparaged. Sometimes it seemed as though the smallest things set Mathias off. The older nation saw layers of nuance and subtext that Eirik couldn't begin to comprehend, leaving him reeling whenever the hot-headed nation snapped. He quietly withdrew to the couch, where he drew his knees up to his chest and draped the quilt over his lap. He picked at the weave.

"Got them for... everyone," he said by way of explanation. Way to go. He could have phrased that better... He never knew the right way to phrase things. Clumsy, gawky, awkward Iceland with his foot in his mouth half the time and unable to find his tongue the other half.

He huddled under the quilt that smelled comfortingly of old smoke and stale coffee. Mathias would have to march him upstairs himself to get him to leave. He wanted to stay where there was light and life, wan and worn as they both were. He wanted to know that there was someone else living here. He didn't like the thought of going upstairs to his cold, dark room and waking up to a cold, empty house. To yell and have no one answer back. That was worse than being out in the elements, at least there you expected to only rely on yourself. Once you started relying on others and expecting them to still be there... Eirik plucked at the quilt morosely. Then that would really come back to bite you, when they stopped being there.