Work Text:
Est. 1700.
His clothes do little to stem the wind, wet and unyielding unlike anything he might think on his back beneath tall pines. It comes over the ocean to crash against the walls shaped of mountains suddenly looming from the water, and what does not fly over them is forced into the sea-valleys, then the land-valleys. Dying, perhaps, somewhere at the very bottom of the valley at the very bottom of the fjord. Or continuing, perhaps, from where the valley ends and deeper eastwards, to tundra and then to rivers and forests and lakes and brackish water.
Norway's fingers are red as he skillfully works the wooden spool in between the gaps in the net, but he does not seem to mind it - neither that, nor the wind. When they were in the boathouse, Finland noticed that it isn't really so cold outside - certainly, not as cold as he has been at home, sometimes. But the wind does not take notice of anything smaller than the mountains; it drives the air by them and through them, and old-new snow is whipped past them from where it has piled up by the walls.
"Must be pretty bad," Norway finally says without looking up from his work, "for them to send their children here, is what I mean. Not exactly the best place to live."
"But they live," Finland says despairingly, unable to tell if Norway simply isn't understanding, or if he isn't sympathizing.
"Barely having enough."
"But they have enough," says Finland, "I - mine - don't."
Norway looks up at that, eyes unreadable as he stares at Finland. Stares for a long while, before he turns back to sewing up the net.
"As I said, I don't have a problem with it. There's room enough, and nobody owns the sea. As long as you're not planning on taking it over completely - "
"Why would I do that?!" Finland cries, because he only came to ask - beg, if he needed - that Norway lets them in. It has come to this through years of failing crops and people who cannot go back south. Some can make it; some can feed their children. Others cannot, and although Norway might be distant and taciturn, he is not unfriendly. He has the sea, and the sea will provide for anyone willing to work for it.
"Sweden wants it," Norway says simply, working the thin rope into a firm knot before moving on to the next.
"But I'm not - "
"I'm only saying it as it is. He won't get it, so what does it matter? I don't mind the children."
"Of course," says Finland, feeling numb from the wind and maybe from Norway's indifference. The wall of the boathouse does not provide much shelter, but it faces south, and there are no lamps inside. It is nearing noon, and the sun can only be seen as a glowing pink tint to the sky above the mountains to the southeast. That, at least, is familiar both to him and to those who will be coming.
"As long as you don't mind giving up on them," Norway says without pausing his work.
"To you or to Denmark?"
"Whatever Denmark might be saying and thinking, these lands are mine. My people live here, and they will be living here along with them."
"It's better than letting them die," says Finland, wondering if his giving up on them will mean that they will forget him - if being with Norway will mean speaking his language, wearing his clothes, doing things his way until they can't do it like Finland any longer.
They lapse into silence again after that, Norway mending the net with skilled and confident hands that are glowing red and probably numb from the cold. Finland's toes are aching and he can't feel his butt any longer, but he remains sitting beside Norway, and lets his gaze rest on the stretch of horizon visible beyond one of the outer mountains. The Atlantic is deep gray with white foam where the waves crest, and Finland knows that this is colder, salter, wilder, infinitely vaster than the Bay of Bothnia. It doesn't freeze over even when the winter is at its darkest, whipped up by rank wind that hasn't been filtered through green leaves. It's too cold here for proper forests, too heavy gusts for trees to grow tall.
"Can I ask you something?"
"About what?"
"The Lapps - "
"The Lapps are mine," Norway answers curtly.
"But they talk like - "
"They settled by the sea. For a while, they were the only ones here. I know what Sweden wants, and he can forget it."
"I see," says Finland quietly, because he has begged enough favors of Norway today, and because his word has never been heard about the business with the Lapps ever since Sweden and Russia and Denmark all decided that they had claims on their own, no matter where they once came from.
After Norway has fastened his last knots and cut the remaining rope off with the knife in his belt, he stands up with the net in his arms.
"I don't mind," he says, and Finland isn't sure if he is imagining that the wind is dropping as Norway dumps the the artfully knotted fishing net into his lap.
-
Est. 1850.
America grows, with promises of riches that Norway doesn't have, but Norway has other riches that Finland never did.
"Sure," says Norway with a shrug, "I have room for them."
He is likely not lying, because Norway's own people are leaving his land in far larger numbers than Finland's are coming to him.
And because Finland's people often live better lives with Norway, he lets them go.
-
Est. 1900.
"I'm getting tired of it," says Norway and dips his pen.
"Tell me about it," says Finland and clenches his fists. Norway looks up, his hand resting on the blank page, and Finland realizes that they are talking about two very, very different things.
"I'm me and he's him," says Norway and puts the pen down, and the look he is giving Finland is dark with emotion, "it's always been that way. I can understand the necessity of being together before, but there are new ways to rule now. I don't need his king any longer."
"I don't need a king at all," says Finland, leaning forward and sitting on his hands to keep from fidgeting, "I don't need his protection, I don't need his language."
Norway does not answer, but picks up his pen and starts writing words that he says are his but sound more like Denmark when you read them out loud.
The sun is warm by the wall of the school, and Finland can't help but notice that the leaves are just springing from the skinny birches by the road.
It's May, and before the class began, they watched as the children played. Three different languages buzzed in their ears then, but after the teacher stopped talking, no muffled sound has been heard through the window they are sitting beneath.
"What was that?"
The shrill words are softened by the glass between them, but they ring clear enough to leave no doubt that the teaching is interrupted. Finland gets on his knees on the bench, peering through the window to see the teacher staring down a boy sitting on the second row from the door with a quivering hand in the air. He might be seven or eight years old, and asks to be excused in words that inescapably aren't Norway's.
"Speak properly!" the woman demands, and the boy lowers his hand and stares at her with in a helpless lack of words, and does not answer. A girl sitting behind him raises her arm and speaks.
"He was asking - "
"He can ask for himself!"
Nobody asks anything any longer, and Norway has not once looked away from his work.
"What are you writing?" Finland asks when the silence has grown long enough to help him forget the voice of the teacher.
"An A-B-C book," says Norway without looking up, but his pen stops. He stares at the page. "I need to settle on one way to write, you know," he adds, speaking the words slowly, "I used to write like Denmark. And they got used to it. Then they found a way to write that was more like myself, but it is... difficult to do it differently. So now they use both, but I only need one, right?"
He doesn't sound very certain. If he had any doubts to add, he does not get the chance as the sounds of running feet is heard from the inside. A second later, the door bursts open as the children pile out, chattering in three different languages as they make their way home. Finland tries to spot the boy from before, but he does not come. Norway has not looked up from his book, so he gets to his feet and walks over to the gaping door.
The boy is on his knees by his place, scrubbing the wooden seat with a wet rag. The teacher stands by him, staring at his bent neck without speaking. When he finally climbs to his feet, she turns away without a word.
The boy doesn't notice Finland as he runs out the door. His head is hanging in shame, but Finland catches a glimpse of red-rimmed eyes before seeing that the seat of the boy's trousers is wet, clinging to his legs as he runs off.
"They need to speak correctly."
He had not realized that Norway had even noticed the episode, but there is something in Norway's eyes - not regret, and most certainly not shame. Closer, perhaps, to sympathy?
"They're living here, now. They need to be like the others," says Norway.
"But they are, aren't they?" Finland says weakly, "they're living like all the others, right? They're not like the Lapps, they're not -"
"But you don't want the Lapps either, do you?" When Finland fails to answer, Norway makes a little sighing noice, and turns back to his A-B-C book. He picks up the pen, and dips the nib into the ink jar sat precariously beside him on the bench.
"I'm finally finding myself. I can't afford to be disjointed," he says, and his pen drips ink onto the page with the not-quite-Danish words.
Finland, who felt the acceptance like a blow to the face, wants to ask him why - when I can be - but his people are changing their language, change their names to become more like his oldest people, aren't they? And it feels better, it feels safer, it is easier to keep his balance with only one language to listen to, and Finland keeps his mouth shut. Sweden's people and Sweden's language has been with him for as long as he can remember, and only very, very recently did he start asking himself if it was right that the language that so few speak, is the language of those making the decisions. Like Denmark did to Norway, like Russia tries -
But no matter how much Russia tries, he will never take his language away from him. They are too different, and Russia is too forceful - his blunt motives feed the resistance against them. Both Sweden and Russia speak too differently from Finland to do what Denmark did to Norway - to feed the pattern of oh-so-familiar words into his fingers until he no longer can match his voice with his letters.
Norway never minded Denmark's language, as little as Finland had minded Sweden's. But Sweden's language has been with Finland since his birth, and Finland's only came to Norway when Finland, himself, asked on their behalf. So maybe Finland can understand, in a way, why Norway is doing this.
It does not make him feel any less sick to his stomach.
-
("She doesn't look ill to me," says Finland, watching as the girl drifts out of consciousness as the nurse pulls out the syringe. Her arms are spread at her sides, her usually so enchanting [exotic, foreign, alien] face is somehow ugly with the pretty black hair hidden beneath the hospital cap.
The procedure is quick; the surgeon performs it with skilled and confident hands that are delicate and nimble, not worn from labour. Quick cuts into barely-tanned skin that looks like anybody else on the inside, quick cuts to make sure no children will bear her weaknesses.
The room smells like hospitals do, unnaturally clean, antiseptic. The artificial lightening is uncomfortably white; there are no windows.
It feels like he hasn't even blinked twice by the time it is over. Small, dark stitches decorate the girl's abdomen; it will be difficult to see the scars.
"So what's wrong with her?" Finland asks.
Sweden, standing at his left side with his arms crossed, still won't answer.
1939 has come and passed)
-
July 1, 2006.
Norway's smile is forced and awkward, but his shoulders are set; the deciscion is made, and he looks determined to keep it.
"They've been here as long as I have," he says, and the corner of his mouth twitches, "they're no less mine than any of the others. It was wrong to treat them differently."
Sweden nods once, face betraying nothing. Finland understands more now than he did then, but the Sami were never close enough for him to have anything to give back to them. Any gestures from his part would be empty, and instead he asks: "Do they really learn the language in school now?"
"They have the option," says Norway, and his smile widens a little more, his shoulders rise just another nanometre too much. "Yes," says Norway and sounds oddly out of breath, "they can, if they like." His smile grows ever stiffer, and his final words are garbled by an emotion that Finland makes himself not hear. "Those of them who still want to."