Første Møde [Norway+Denmark]

[Denmark]

In which Norway and Denmark meet each other for the first time... (age 11-ish)

---

"Mathi, come back here!"

The young boy tried to duck past her, but she had raised four unruly boys of her own and was expecting a move like that. He was almost at the door when he felt her hand firmly grip the back of his woollen shirt and tug him back a few paces until he faced her. She stood a head taller than him and almost twice as broad; a large, powerful woman, and the wife of Denmark's most powerful warrior. It had been this familly that Mathias had been sent to several years ago to learn the skills he would need in adulthood.

"But Móeiðr, I want to join the raid!"

He gestured to the door, beyond which the other young men of this village were preparing for an expedition. They had come to join forces with the Norwegian Vikings, to learn from their slightly different methods to come up with a better way to raid the French and the English.

She ignored him, setting her attentions instead on the axe he grasped. She tried to pry his fingers off the long handle.

"I'm old enough now, you can't keep me locked up like this!"

"Only men can go on the raids." Her voice was calm as she succeeded in loosening his grip on the axe. She wrested it from his hands and threw it to her oldest son, Svein, who caught it easily. He gave Mathias a rueful shrug before he headed outside to join the others. Mathias watched him go enviously.

He opened his mouth to point out that he was just as tall as some of the young men going and definitely stronger than her precious sons, but she had foreseen this argument and continued serenely over the top of his complaints.

"I don't remember holding a celebration for your Coming of Age, do you?"

His mouth worked furiously before he tried again. "But-"

"So. Boys don't go on the raids." Insultingly, she licked her thumb and used it to rub dirt off of his face. "You are such a mess. You didn't wash today, did you? Don't be so lazy, Mathi."

He howled in anger, partly at not being able to go, partly at her motherly ministrations, and partly at that childish nickname. "Móeiðr, you can't keep me here!"

"Well, here's where you're staying. We have animals to take care of, and you have lots of learning to do. That should keep you busy until the men return."

The boy didn't bother to hide his disdain. "Runes and herb-lore. What kind of warrior training is that?"

The woman he had come to think of as a surrogate mother had clearly run out of patience. She gave him a slight push, enough to unbalance him and force him to take a step back. "The fact that you don't know it's importance just shows how unready you are."

Her voice was so suddenly harsh and the push so unexpected that his eyes flushed immediately with humiliated tears. He fought them back, trying desperately to appear the man he was claiming to be. The large Viking, who had known him for a long time, was not fooled. Tutting softly, she pulled him into a rough hug. The familiar smell of her woollen coat filled his nostrils as she kissed his forehead.

"Don't worry, Mathi." Her tone was much softer now, her voice muffled as she spoke into his forehead. "Soon you'll be going on so many expeditions that you'll be sick of them. You'll be wondering why you ever wanted to grow up."

She pressed her lips into his forehead again before she released him, turning to pick up some provisions for her boys, and headed out the door. "I'll just take this out. Be back before you know it. We can play a board game."

Not mollified in the slightest, Mathias pulled a face at her disappearing back. He sat down heavily, wiping at his forehead with the sleeve of his tunic. Outside the long-house he could hear the others packing up and getting ready for the long day trip that would put them in the prime position to attack at night. If only he were able to go...

He looked towards the door of the house longingly. Ageing slowly, as only he did, he'd watched Móeiðr's sons and other adopted brothers before them grow and surpass him, eventually leaving him behind to tend to the livestock in safety as they went out Viking. Not all of them had come back.

He wanted to go with them. He knew it was his destiny, that Viking was what he had been born to do. All of his people were doing it and had been for years. So why was he kept locked away for so long? He knew he would be good at it. He was strong and tough, and couldn't help but think that maybe if he'd gone with them on previous raids that some of the others might have made it back home.

Within a few minutes the raiding party had left the village in a cacophany of cat-calls and whooping. Móeiðr would soon be back after having proudly seen off her sons. She would probably offer him some dried meat in an effort to make peace, but it was poor compensation.

Sighing, his eyes fell on Harvald's axe. It hung on heavy iron pegs above the fireplace. It was much larger and heavier than his own, which would hopefully bring Svein luck tonight. Harvald was a monster of a man, taller, broader and hairier than even his wife, but ulcers had opened up on his left leg and he wasn't well enough yet to go Viking. He would be out seeing off the others, feeling similarly useless.

Mathias' eyes travelled over the ornate handle. He was tall enough to reach it. Would he be strong enough to wield it?

He heard the sound of Móeiðr's voice as she came nearer and made a quick decision. He dashed over to the fireplace and hauled the axe out of its brackets, and hurdled through the only exit before the large woman had a chance to stop him.

He quickly turned a few corners, putting as much distance between them as he could.

Panting, he waited until he was certain that he hadn't been spotted. When there were no startled cries, he took off through a field. He didn't want to catch up with the raiding party too quickly lest they send him back home in disgrace. He reasoned that if he met them just before they took off in the boats it would be too late for them to send him back. Harvald's axe was heavy on his back and his fur coat was restrictive, ut Mathias was buoyed up by excitement as he hared after the raiding party. Tonight was his night. He would never stay home with the pigs again.

He was so busy planning his glorious future as a beloved Viking warrior that he was not paying attention to the unfamiliar terrain. The long grass he was running through wound around his sheep-skin boots and his toes stubbed against a half-hidden rock. He tripped, and tumbled face foward into a patch of clover.

"Ugh." He planted both hands and pushed himself up, a task made more difficult by the presence of the heavy battle-axe. "I'm glad no one was around to see that."

[kongeriketnorge]

Viðarr sighed. This was stupid. He didn't like these Dani people, whoever they were, and he liked that they were working with his own men even less. It just didn't sit right with him, the gut feeling of never being rid of them refusing to stop upsetting his stomach, much to his dismay.

Of course he hadn't been allowed to go with them, to supervise and discourage any mingling between their people. "That's not your job," his chief's wife had said, patting him condescendingly on the head in what she clearly must have seen as an affectionate gesture. Although Viðarr had protested, nearly raising his voice (horror of horrors), he had eventually been forced to give in, leaving him more irritable than usual as he wandered out into the vast expanses behind the fjords.

Stupid humans, he muttered to himself, pushing his long braid out of his face as he kicked at the ground. He should have stayed with the trolls. They were an unruly bunch, to be sure, but they treated him like a prince, and not like a child, which he'd decided long ago suited him quite a bit better. This woman, although she doted on him, refused to acknowledge Viðarr for what he was: a hardened warrior, childlike though he was, who was unafraid to answer the call of duty if it meant the betterment of his people as a whole.

Sometimes, Viðarr thought his people were undeserving of his generosity.

Grumbling to himself as he wandered through the fields, watching for the all-too-familiar rabbit holes and half-buried stones, he thought he could sense movement, one hand going to his dagger instinctively, the other tracing runes in the air as he approached cautiously.

But the loud thud and groan quickly revealed itself to be a person, or at least a person-shaped thing, with what looked suspiciously like an axe handle sticking up into the air. "I'm glad no one was around to see that," came the irritated, expected continuation, and as he released the magic, Viðarr smirked.

"You're an idiot Dane, aren't you?" he called, completely ignoring his appointed task as an ambassador to their people.

The spiky hair intrigued him; none of his people looked that... dishevelled, even when in a moment of weakness. Perhaps it was perpetually windy in this boy's land. But as Viðarr drew closer, he could sense something about him - a presence he couldn't explain, a certain vastness that did not reflect the boy's stature. "...who are you?" he asked, immediately suspicious again. A human, he could deal with. But if this boy was a spirit, he might be in trouble, all by himself.

[Denmark]

It soon became obvious that he had been daydreaming about his future too intently when an unexpected voice alerted him to the fact that he was not as alone as he'd assumed.

"You're an idiot Dane, aren't you?"

Mathias started at the unfamiliar voice and hurriedly regained his footing. A quick glance confirmed what the voice had already told; this was not his over-powering 'mother', nor anyone else from the village who would order him back to the long-house. He relaxed again and checked himself for any damage.

"Mm," he offered, too busy brushing the long grass off of his clothes and repositioning Harvald's battle axe across his back to really listen to what the voice was saying. The tumble had left him with grass stains over his clothes and a smear of dirt down the side of his face. Móeiðr would be annoyed when she saw the mess. She had this thing about cleanliness that Mathias had never understood.

His mind finally processed the 'idiot' part. "Hey! Danes are the strongest and the smartest people in the world!" How strange that this new person didn't know how great they were. Mathias thought the superiority of his people was pretty apparent. It was too short to be Berwald, who might say something along those lines, so this stranger must be holding some kind of grudge to call them 'idiots'. A thought occurred. He began to reach for the handle of Harvald's axe as subtly as he could. "You're not French, are you?"

The stranger was approaching through the long grass. The question went unanswered. Mathias narrowed his eyes and looked the speaker over. It was a boy of similar age, though shorter and thinner than Mathias himself. His hair was much neater, too. Clearly not French, though; the long braid and familiar style of dress put those worries out to pasture. Mathias stopped trying to get to the axe and instead put his hands on his hips, looking at the other boy with greater scrutiny.

Certainly the clothes were pretty similiar, but the jakke was slightly longer than Mathias' own and different shape to the sort the Swedes wore. The boy's skin and hair were paler, and his eyes more intense than even Berwald's in a bad mood. Still, blonde hair - check; blue eyes - check; Viking clothes - check. Mathias cocked his head and grinned as the boy drew closer. There was only one possibility.

He opened his mouth to accuse the boy of being Norwegian, and jealous to boot, but the other was quicker.

"Who are you?"

Mathias frowned at the boring question, completely missing the wariness in the other's tone.

"Only the fiercest Viking ever," he said with an impatient shake of his head. He turned away from the shorter boy and scanned the horizon for signs of Svein and the raiders. "Or at least, I will be, once I catch up with the others."

There was no sign of them. He strained to listen but could not hear their raucous voices or the clattering of horse hooves. Hopefully they were not making too much headway. Common sense told him he should make an excuse to get away from this kid and run after them before the raiding party got too far ahead - or before a furious Móeiðr came hurtling over the field to drag him back to live-stock duties by the ear, which would have somewhat of a dousing effect on his self-created reputation as a warrior to be reckoned with - but he couldn't force himself to leave his new audience unti lthe boy had a proper appreciation of how awesome Danish people were. Particularly himself. It was ridiculous that news of their fearsom skill hadn't travelled. No wonder they had needed to come to Norway. This view needed to be corrected.

"They're going to make songs about me one day. 'Mathias the Fierce'. It's gonna be great."

He turned his gaze back to his present company, looking him up and down again. Móeiðr certainly would not be letting this kid out on the raids in a hurry; he looked like he needed a few hearty meals and some intensive strength training before he could lift even the lightest of the Danish axes. Mathias felt a pang of sympathy and complete perplexity as to why the boy was wandering the fields.

"Who're you? You look like you'd make a good side-kick. You can polish my axe'n'stuff. 'Cept, shouldn't you be at home washing shirts at the moment?"