[Fanfic] War

[olynthus.livejournal.com]

Title: War
Author: olynthus 
Characters: Norway
Rating: PG; language
Warnings: Um. Language. Little actual!history. Also, Norway is Norway. Something like this has probably already been written before. And I shouldn't write. Ever.
Summary: What is it about war? Whatever it is, Norway is living in the middle of one, and thinks a bit about the past. (WWII)

There's something about war.

Definitely there is something about it, it's something that's been happening forever, as long as Norway can remember. He was even born into it, the best he can remember—the time when Whohisson and Whathisson were fighting, when everyone who had a little bit of something called himself a king.

Those petty kings, always fighting with each other.

And then war, gradually, slipped from an internal thing to an external thing, as Norway cooled down, couldn't raid anymore. His invasion of England was crushed for the last time.

That was the end of the era. Or not quite, not until the various factions within himself finally settled down. The civil war years are blurry, feverish, as men with claims to royalty that cannot be verified fight for control. Norway's memories of this time are murky at best, and frenetic, as he passes from hand to bloody hand.

In the meantime, his people were farming.

And then one day he found himself farming, simply living, as Denmark and Sweden and he are all in a union—a family—but of course this didn't last, these things never do. Denmark and Sweden then went to war, fought, bickered, argued--killed.

The humans were the victims in this, the Swedish nobles.

Norway heard about what Denmark did, but what could he say? It was not his war. He was not the one with the factions that wanted to get away, because he was one with Denmark, and Denmark was where his royal line was.

Norway believed in the birthright. Still does.

And so where Denmark suffered from wars of succession in addition to the wars—sibling rivalry—with Sweden, Norway only was bothered by the wars between Denmark-Norway and Sweden. And even then it had not been so bad—at least until Sweden took half of his body. What was Norway supposed to do about that?

Protest, maybe, and he did. Put up some resistance, but his struggle wasn't like Denmark's; he had nothing to prove. And so the most he can say is that these wars were a drain on his resources and men, especially when Denmark's taxes rose higher and higher. Sometimes, his people even rebelled.

And then the wars shifted again. Or maybe that's not it, not really, just Norway's place—he has to say goodbye to Iceland, Denmark, Faroes, everyone, everything, the past. He was given away to the Swedish king.

Which, of course, he couldn't stand—that's why he went to war with Sweden. Less than a month, but he took his stand. It wasn't the same kind of war as the wars between Denmark and Sweden because this was a war between Norway and Sweden only. A war to say: I am me.

And the end, too, was different—Sweden and Norway unified. Became neutral. Isolated. As the rest of continent was in engulfed in war (and Denmark almost died) Norway learnt how to fight the diplomatic battle; started a war of the soft kind with Sweden.

A war that was not so much a war as a growth pain. Kind of like the fit of the young adult who, realising he has to settle down, becomes resentful of authority that has already gone through his ordeal before.

But Norway was learning, and growing is never easy.

–

And then there are the modern wars.

England was the one who (sort of) pulled him into these. First the Great War to end all wars, the one with a magnitude that shifted centuries-old experience and swallowed a generation of men. Norway tried to be neutral in this one—just then he was busy being himself without Sweden—but that couldn't be. Wouldn't work. Even if always been on the fringe, he's European.

At the end of the war Norway was still neutral. Something like the Neutral Ally.

It's an apt nickname, perhaps, because in the next war—this war—Norway tries to maintain neutrality again. Germany makes his move on Poland even after he has been given so much. But to Norway, what does this mean? Poland is on the continent, and not since Denmark-Norway have the two meaningfully co-operated in a war. Denmark's old ally, not his.

And then Finland falls to Russia.

Maybe, some think, the northern countries will consider fighting now. England asks, but the answer is no, mostly.

There are some considerations, though. Probing. What would you think if--

There are delays and delays, but no-one really denies that Norway and Sweden have valuable minerals, minerals needed to feed the ever-ambitious German war machine.

All right, Norway says, perhaps England might lay mines on his coast—just in case. Just to be safe.

And then, while mines are being laid, Germany invades.

Denmark falls—surrenders, as some will say—in little more than a day.

Norway, the strange, less modern one, falls in two months. (Part of the invasion comes from Sweden, the use of Swedish railroads. This is just part of the price Sweden will pay for neutrality.)

–

In the first few weeks of the occupation, Norway tries to think back.

How did this happen anyway?

It's a question fit for a history book.

–

Occupation is hard, because the people are starving, and so the nation-tan starves. The nation-tan grows weak, because the economy grows weak. And the nation-tan grows agitated, because the population grows agitated.

And on and on.

There is one difference, and that is that the nation-tan cannot die. Not by occupation, at least. Norway does not have the fragility of humanity. He cannot be shot like his people, for resisting Germany, for smuggling resistors. Make no mistake—his people are resisting for sure, even if they are not as brave and valiant as those elsewhere.

Even if they let their own die, they're still brave.

Make no mistake.

–

During the first summer, Norway often goes down to water. He stares into the distance, doing nothing else for so long that, if any German soldiers are on patrol, they are unnerved. Become suspicious. Wonder what this damned Norwegian is doing.

(He should be helping the motherland.)

And once, Norway does something that really makes them worry.

He goes right up to the waves, stands, and waits. Proceeds to take off his gloves and shoes, discards them on the shore. He takes his hat into his hands and then wades into the water.

And, all at once, he's under. Doesn't make much of a splash, but it's the only sound. Doesn't surface for a minute, two.

A suicide, they think. They'll have to get the body, probably. Explain this to someone, later. What a bother.

And then Norway resurfaces, floating on his back, his bangs sticking to his forehead, his hat half submerged. For half an hour he pretends that the current might take him out to sea, and by the time he stands up his hat has sunk and settled on the fjord's bottom.

The soldiers, by then, have long since grown bored.

–

Sometimes during the Germany occupation Norway takes a walk, going round and round the same path until he can be sure which footprints in the filthy snow are his. He's used to what the German soldiers call the off-ness of his time, the sun going down well before evening.

On these walks he sees things; young Germans grumbling about the weather, the orange butts of their cigarettes fading in the distance as he walks away, gashes in the snow where a resistance fighter was caught, the tracks of a German vehicle leading to no where in particular.

Once Norway talks to one of these soldiers he passes. It could have been any time in the day, really, but for some reason Norway will remember it as being at three in afternoon—fifteen hundred hours, military time.

“Hello,” he says to the solider, a boy who cannot be older than twenty.

The boy, stationed in this damned, cold country, is addressed for the first time like a human. So happy for this that he forgets he is an occupier, replies, “hello.” He does not know he is talking to a country. The only things he does know are that this man—or young man, he thinks although there's something about his presence that gives the impression of oldness, weariness—before him is sick, and that he is affable. This latter thing is wrong—Norway's just curious, bored, not himself—but he definitely is sick.

And this human boy is part of the reason why.

(But Norway doesn't blame him.)

“Hello,” the boy says again, when there is no reply. He tries not to smile, but he's also trying to be receptive, genteel enough so that this civilian will respond to him. Continue the conversation he has started.

There's a pause. The boy really, truly hopes that Norway will continue this exchange. But he won't.

A long pause.

“I dare you,” Norway says, his eyes flicking over the human's face for an instant.

He begins to walk away.

And like that, with no regard, he is gone, leaving behind a (confused) soldier-boy.

--

Because of war, there are always shortages.

That's part of the reason why Norway never writes letters to anyone. The other part is that he has nothing to say, even though sometimes--as he sits under a tree, sits on a tank, wades into water, walks to a resistance meeting, weeds a garden--he composes lines and lines of things he wishes to tell someone someday.

To Iceland, he would say:

I'm happy for you. You are yours.

To Denmark, he would say:

Don't worry. I know.

Or something like that.

There are plenty of other things he would write, too, if he could. Maybe he would describe some of the days that he has had, the ones that he can remember, the ones that don't really matter at all. Like this one:

In summer, he sits alone. Why is he alone? Because he wants to be. How is he alone? He can't remember—he just managed to get away; that's all that matters. But it's summer, and he's alone, the sky wide and open and blue above him, the grass soft and buoyant and cool under him, the flowers wide and bursting and overflowing with a fragrance that almost makes the air sickeningly sweet around him.

Nature is the same,

Norway begins in his mind, closing his eyes. He tries doing nothing for a moment. The easy nonsense of a brook and the birds soaring overhead filter through him.

Nature is as eternal as nations.

But that's a lie. Norway rolls over; blades of grass push against his cheek.

It is the nature of a nation to strive to be eternal. We have lived a long time. We have seen many wars. We have seen many flowers bloom. There was a boy that I talked to once. I don't know why I did it. I think he reminded me of you.

I dared him.

I don't know what I meant.

Do you?

He dozes, his thoughts become fragmented.

Wouldn't it be nice to go back? I remember what it feels like, to sit on a boat gliding through the water. The stars blazing overhead. The horizon irrelevant. We used to do that, in the summer.

Looking back on mental letters like these, Norway is always--always--glad that he never gets the chance to send them. What would he do if someone where to discover them? What would he do, twenty, forty years later, when the recipients, going through old things, suddenly rediscovered them? Surely they would bring these letters to him and ask: what did you mean by this?

Norway could then only stare at them and say: nothing.

Because that's what these things are. Nothing. During war, there's nothing but surviving. Days filled with whatever makes this simple goal easier—hopes, dreams, plans, those sorts of things.