So, my Denmark/Sweden (Danmark/Sverige ahaha) fic is going to be a series of short-but-interlocked snaps of moments in history. With them. Concerning them. You know! (It's 6:23 AM, sorry XD) I haven't... really decided on how to convey which things mentioned/focused on throughout the fic are real, historical things... IF ANYONE HAS ANY SUGGESTIONS, IT WOULD BE GREAT. Even input on what you've seen and if it worked for you or. Anything. I almost don't want to add in all those historical footnotes, because I feel like a historical piece should be able to speak for itself to an extent. Make the reader trust that there is fact in here, you know? But all the same, it would be a shame to keep readers from intricate details. Urgh. No wonder I hear they have lectures in universities solely teaching how to write historical fiction, dude.
ANYWAY. That said -- this is taken from... straight in the middle of the section of the fic that deals with Treaty of Frederiksborg, 1720. It ended the Great Northern War between Norway-Denmark and Sweden. Sweden lost, and with heavy and lasting wounds at the hands of the war and the treaty itself. Russia did relinquish its claims to Finnish land, but shortly after this moment in time, parts of Sweden were actually partitioned by Danmark, Russia, Prussia, and (if I remember correctly) Germany.
ENJOY. Excuse the abrupt cut-to-scene, I wasn't sure what part to show. XD (Also excuse any anachronistic behavior, this is still drafty.)
"It’s mine now," Denmark tells him after letting his words settle. “Forget your alliances, forget Holstein. They’re mine now. Your land is mine now. Your navy’s shot. And,” Denmark laughs, “Prussia, Germany, Estonia-Latvia-Lithuania-Finland -- they hate your guts.”
To be outside, imagining it is the first step. Forget shame. Forget recompense. Forget damages.
This could be the start of something better, for all he knows. If he can imagine it, it certainly is possible for one such as himself.
Outside: in the mosquito-hummed air, where anyone save for these two strange souls would loathe to be, Russia and Finland share a cake gifted to them by the czar himself. Patches of summer mud surround their little picnic table like a moat, and sometimes, sometimes, Finland’s infectious laughter reaches through the open window and to Sweden’s ears. And then, Russia’s, giddier. They have not made amends yet, Russia has not imposed his will upon Sweden yet (he enjoys taking his time, and taking everything), but Russia sounds perfectly carefree. The acoustics of Frederiksborg Castle are beautiful.
They are probably telling stereotype jokes.
“Probably telling stereotype jokes,” Denmark says a moment later, and bounces up to his feet, his elaborate soldier’s uniform nothing of an impediment to that natural ease. He leans out the window, so far out that Sweden pinches the bridge of his nose savagely, so as not to give in to temptation to stand, stride over to Denmark, and kick his manic ass out the window.
“Are you telling stereotype jokes?” Denmark calls down.
“Should we be?” Russia calls back, delighted at this long-distance communication.
“Hell yeah,” Denmark says, and pulls himself back inside. To Sweden: “It’s nice out, mosquitoes aside. Hey, who says we can’t do this over tea!”
Sweden remains motionless. “’Nd,” he presses.
Denmark thinks hard. Sweden sits in his stiff uniform. Norway appears in the doorway and enters with Iceland in tow, a Shakespearian entrance.
“Would you finish up already,” Norway says, quiet and prickling. Iceland spots Sweden and disappears behind Norway.
“ -- And 600,000 Riksdaler for my kindness,” Denmark decides, so off-handed that Sweden begins chewing on his tongue in earnest, gaze harsh on the elaborate designs of the table.
Denmark sports only one testament to a twenty year-long torment: one bandage, a small bit of gauze and tape under his chin. Sweden aches to scratch at the many nicks and scrapes on his arms, agonizing under the unforgiving uniform.
“Sverige.” Denmark is smiling. How, why. Impossible questions to answer. Perhaps 600,000 Riksdaler means more to him than he would like to admit. Perhaps he’s gloating. Perhaps he’s brainless. Perhaps he has wanted nothing more than to see Sweden with his hands bound, finally pinned beneath the burden of their rivalry.
“Nn,” Sweden grunts, mouth dry.
“Want some tea?”
Denmark snorts, good-natured. “I call the shots here,” he chides, but shoos the attendant out the door, and she scurries to the kitchen.
Finland’s distant laughter breaches the silence Denmark considers companionable, Norway excessive, Iceland curious, and Sweden suffocating.
Stereotype jokes over cake.
Norway says, tactful, “You need a handkerchief.”
He’s bleeding through the bandage on his neck. He has adapted well to this environment, this era: the blood no longer transforms him into one of goddess Hel’s demons. Instead, it’s a shame, a vexation without cure.
Iceland has made his way to the window, seeing Sweden now as merely a damaged being. He leans out the window and rests himself there like a wilted flower.
The attendant has brought two cups of coffee, one for the hero of the story, and one for the once-villain. This chapter is ended, they have felt their way to a new one. They have been brave enough.
“A toast!” Denmark crows, raising his mug and splashing coffee onto his uniform. A cultural artifact, to be put away until the next bitter season. “To the painfully bright future!”
The possibilities of it are unbearable, unendurable. It moves fast, it allows not one moment to think on the big crash ahead, the forces fated to collide.
Denmark clinks his mug against Sweden’s.
There is so much here to dissect before he can spare a thought for his lost past.
WINKING FACE GOES HERE.