Leaving England

[England]

Once, England swore that he wouldn't care if his siblings all fell and died. He'd been at odds with Scotland for too long - and oh, the bruises and scars he suffered as a result; he'd never forget Bannockburn, or Myton, or Stirling Bridge -, and was convinced that life would be better without his brother. No, wait, not just Scotland; all of them. Scotland, and Wales, and Ireland... and even little Northern Ireland, too. They all hated him, after all, and-- really, how much brighter would life be without the people that despised him the most?

But that had been before the Calamity.

Now, as he limped through burnt, frozen ground - it was grotesquely beautiful, how the ash glinted and shone in the sun that didn't seem to radiate any warmth -, he couldn't help but worry about them. Was Scotland okay? Wales? Ireland? Northern Ireland? Had they survived the disasters? Were they hurt?

At that point, England chuckled, a dry, pained little sound that hardly sounded like what it was supposed to be. Here he was, barely able to stumble through the ruins of Weymouth, worrying if his siblings were unharmed. Knowing them, they were probably fine and dandy, and would've laughed if they caught wind of his concern.

If they were alive.

No, no. They were alive. They had to be alive. Wales had always been rather talented at surviving under the unfavorable circumstances - he could almost hear the bastard saying something like, 'damn scrut, the feck d'ye think I am?!' -, and... hell, if the bastard wasn't so concerned about his people, he'd probably be having a fucking field day with how much of an adventure this was. Ireland and Northern Ireland, while they did have their fair share of differences and conflicts, worked rather well together... and England was willing to bet that they'd sought each other out as soon as the calamity struck. As for Scotland?

England scoffed, shaking his head at the ridiculousness of worrying over Scotland. If the apocalypse had any one physical form, he was certain that the Scot would absolutely pulverize it within minutes. (He wasn't admiring his brother or praising him for his strength, oh bloody hell no! It was just... a fact. Scotland had a rather nasty temper, and strong fists to go along with that. His magic was terrifying, too.)

And if they were fine... surely, surely, America would be fine, too. The lad was strong, and-- and he'd been so bloody paranoid about December 21, 2012... surely, he'd been prepared.

Surely...

England slowed to a stop, frowning. But what if - what if! -- ... no. No, no. He wouldn't think about that; it would just be utterly silly. America was fine. The other nation was probably lifting tons of debris and helping his people rebuild their homes, because-- bloody hell, the boy always had such monstrous strength, even as a child, and he had that ridiculous hero complex that just wouldn't let him die so unheroically... (Because America... Alfred, his precious stupid Alfred, was a hero, no matter how much England denied it. And heroes-- heroes... just didn't go and die when there were still people who needed them... when England still needed him.)

"He's fine," England told himself, his voice cracking as it strained to slip out of his parched throat. "He's fine..."

And it was at this point that he tried to direct his attentions to how to bring his own people under control, because... well, he was a nation, and nothing was more important to a nation than its people. (And it just didn't seem right for him to care about America when his brothers and his people were all suffering and dying... but he did, and-- and hell, something was just terribly wrong with him, and he refused to acknowledge what it was.) He'd already encountered a fair amount of men and women who've used a variety of tactics to try and rob him of what little he had, from the knife he clutched in his hands to the very meat on his bones, and... honestly, it sickened him just as much as it saddened him.

His people shouldn't have been living like... like such animals. They were civilized human beings - Englishmen! -, and... he'd definitely failed on some level if they had been reduced to this. It was worse than the Anarchy, the Wars of the Roses, and the English Civil Wars all put together, because this time, they weren't killing one another for power. They were killing one another - stealing from one another, eating one another! - for survival.

Few things had ever hurt him more than seeing his people like that.

As he walked - closer and closer towards Penzance, oh, what a coincidence -, he saw the ruins of Bournemouth. What made him stop, though, was that unlike Southampton, there were people... and they were trading.

'Civilization,' England thought, and he couldn't have gotten any happier. His people had already begun building ships, using whatever materials they could salvage and find. (It'd almost made England smile, to see the ghosts of their ancestors hovering everywhere, grinning proudly as their descendants made ships not unlike the ones they'd sailed centuries past.) While some had already begun sailing across the Strait of Dover to raid the French of whatever resources they had, others were just trying to reach Ireland, or take a shortcut to the coasts of Wales.

Rather than worry about America, or Scotland, or any of his other siblings, England busied himself with helping his citizens rebuild - at least, in the little coastal town of Bournemouth. He taught them how to make better ships - ones that would most definitely last the trip to Ireland -, and set up a little ramshackle government system not unlike the one they had before the calamity. It was difficult to get his hopes up, though, because this was just Bournemouth. He could feel anarchy all throughout his lands, destruction and death and just pure chaos as people sacrificed children and robbed each other of what little they all had.

It wasn't until a group of men and women approached him with the intention of heading over to America - for supplies, they reassured him, because America had some of the things that England, Wales, Scotland, and even France did not have; it'd be a peaceful barter, and they showed him all the things they would trade for materials such as wood and metals - that all the worry he'd been unconsciously suppressing bubbled up within him again. (And perhaps it was because he'd been trying to forget about it that the concern hit him twice as hard. This time, he worried about all the members of his Commonwealth in addition to America and his siblings, and the thought nearly drove him mad.)

He tried to tell them that he couldn't go - that he wouldn't go, because there were still people in Bournemouth and all the other destroyed cities of England that needed his help -, but they insisted and insisted, because none of them knew how to navigate a ship properly. He gave in, and soon, they began making preparations to leave.

(No one dared mention how easily England had caved, or that it'd only taken only one proposal from a very willing group who'd seen him eye the seas with a longing that was just too utterly painful to watch.)

[Norway]

Snow... Snow everywhere.

Norway had always liked snow. Always. Ever since Torstein Skevla and Skjervald Skrukka skied all the way to Nidaros with the young Håkon Håkonsson in 1206. Maybe before that too. After all; Norwegians are born with skis on their feet. And that would prove to be damn helpful, if it hadn’t only been a saying.

The snow glistened painfully in his eyes; his breath came out in small puffs of smoke before evaporating. The sun shone brightly from a cloudless sky, making the temperature drop even lower. His fingers curled into the fabric of his polar mittens as he held the ski poles in an iron grip. His feet moved tirelessly as the skies moved him forward. Slowly... so agonizingly slowly. The scenery didn’t give him much help... it was like skiing on a barren glacier; snow, snow and more snow. Well, except for the remains of a cars, the skeleton of houses and a few frozen corpses here and there.

Huh. He really must have reverted back to his survival-Viking-mode. Seeing corpses usually bothered him. Maybe he was bothered, but refused to acknowledge things that didn’t matter.

Maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe... His mind was filled with nothing else. Maybe the rumours were false; maybe the transport ship didn’t sail between Kristiansand and London. Maybe it sailed from Bergen to Newcastle... maybe it sailed from Kristiansand to Hirtshals. From Norway to Denmark. Maybe there was no transport ship at all. Maybe Iceland was still trapped on his island. Maybe Iceland had sailed to Canada. Maybe Iceland was dea- ... no. Iceland was too tenacious to give up... he would cling to the last straw and manage perfectly. Just look at the Cod War. He was not a child anymore.

Not that it would stop big brother Norway trying to find his little brother, and if there were no such thing as a ferry between Höfn and Aberdeen, then he would personally venture into the woods and make himself a longboat. No problem. But in case there indeed was a ferry, then he would rather not spend three weeks making a boat for nothing.

The ruin of Kristiansand was approaching his view, and what a sad, sad sight it was. His warm, sunny, cosy archipelago paradise... buried beneath snow and ice. And a freezing wind. Håkon pulled his snow hat further down his head and put the ski goggles before his water eyes as he continued down the railway. He passed the wreck of a red train, lying on the side with the windows shattered and the door broken next to the railway. Probably raided for food and water by survivors.

Continuing down the harbour, he saw lights in the distance. Fires, no doubt, but it sparked a flicker of hope within him. Survivors. But his hope died as he continued to ski towards the light – and the ocean came into view. For as long as he could see, far, far into the distance, the ocean was frozen solid. No transport ship, be it an icebreaker or not, could not possibly get to them. Håkon felt his heart about drop, but it had felt like this for a long time... ever since his people had lost their loved ones, and their hope. What a horrible, horrible week this had been.

Nevertheless. He was not about to give up now. He approached the survivors cautiously, talking in their dialect as he came nearer. He was a country with the many dialects; the southern almost-Danish drawl, the eastern playful glissando, the western speedy tempered and the northern hearty staccato. And despite all these mini-dialects in between, his people had one thing in common; they immediately relaxed once a stranger proved to be from the area, simply by talking in that specific dialect.

They were suspicious at first, like true Norwegian, but they gradually warmed up to him. Kristiansand was the southernmost city of Norway and so the cold had not been as fierce here as in the northern parts. Still, Håkon found it difficult to believe that any place could be worse than this... with the ocean frozen solid and all. But he chose to stay there nevertheless. The people were kind and had developed a small trading business, and a sharing system. They asked him questions about the country; where did he come from? Had he heard of any other survivors? How was Oslo faring? And he questioned them in return. How had they survived? Had they been in contact with any other city? And most importantly: was the rumour about a ferry true?

It was indeed. Every Thursday the transport ship carried Britons from England, across the North Sea, to Kristiansand where they could take another ferry to Denmark. Håkon wasted no time being relieved; he traded his skis for food and water and waited patiently. One early morning, he was awoken by the sound of crushing ice. Apparently, an icebreaker had to break the ice every time it came here because the path froze before nightfall.

Taking in the ship that would take him to England, the Kingdom of Norway felt a sudden sting of guilt. He was to leave his people when they needed him the most... but he was still worried about Iceland. If only he could find Iceland, reunite the Nordics before Sweden or Denmark tried to claim his land in his absence, then he would make sure his people would be taken care of. Just let him find Iceland first...

The voyage took around a day and a half, the temperature rising significantly as they came closer to the island. The scent of the ocean in his nose, the wind in his hair, a wave splashing occasionally in his face, brought back memories. He felt the urge to find his old, forgotten wolf and bear pelts, grab his sword and raid a poor unsuspecting Engla Land. The sensation was weird altogether, mostly because Scotland had been his main victim, but also because he had never really had any ‘Viking’ moments... he mostly left them to Sweden and Denmark.

However, the captain never sailed into Sheerness docks. He continued southwards, to let people off in Calais, before heading to Portsmouth. When the icebreaker finally docked, Håkon had to put away his Antarctic Expedition jacket and salopette. He was also mildly frustrated... he had to cross the entire island to get to Aberdeen. Some things just never went as planned. And what was with Portsmouth and not having sufficient supplies? He couldn’t cross Great Britain without food or water.

Rumours were whispered... rumours about Bournemouth being one of the best towns in the entire England at this point. Well, the rumours had served him well this far, maybe Loki would be kind this time as well. The small coastal town proved indeed to be better than Portsmouth – and a few notches better than Kristiansand – but Håkon could also see the that the ruins of houses still dominated the town. It seemed as if the townsfolk were more focused about leaving the island instead of rebuilding it. It was a shame, he mused, what would Arthur think?

He wandered aimlessly, his ultramarine eyes taking in the scenery, and he couldn’t help but to wonder just how strong the earthquake must have been to cause such massive destructions...

[England]

The graves had been dug just yesterday, at this exact time, but already, the corpses had been stolen. (And he had no doubt that the bodies were used for food; it wouldn't be the first time he saw such atrocious behavior, and people were desperate.). For a moment, England didn't care about America, or his brothers, or anyone else; he just cared about his people. He wondered if things could go back to normal, or if mankind would simply destroy itself before the world caved in.

With a soft sigh and a shake of his head - a fruitless move to clear his thoughts -, he grabbed his wooden crutches and struggled to stand. His leg was healing fine, albeit slowly, and though England wished that it would heal faster, he constantly reminded himself to be thankful. After all, if he hadn't been a nation, he probably would've had to amputate the whole limb.

Before turning around, though, he closed his eyes for a brief prayer. He personally wasn't all that religious - at least, not anymore; he'd had enough of Catholicism and Protestantism and Christianity and just... everything -, but he felt that he could spare his citizens at least this, since he'd been failing to take care of them as well as he would've liked. After that was done, he turned around and began hobbling his way back into the heart of Bournemouth, his expression deceptively clear except for the obvious guilt that lay heavy in his eyes.

He was just about to pass the little makeshift convenience store when he saw a familiar face, making him freeze almost immediately. Light blonde hair, ultramarine eyes, and that face...

"Norway...?" he murmured curiously, quietly, brow furrowing as his mind tried to process the sight of another survivor - a nation! - just a few feet in front of him. Oh, no, but that couldn't be Norway... even if it looked exactly like him. What would that man be doing here, in Bournemouth, of all places?

(A part of him was glad to see such a familiar face, and if it wasn't so bloody uncharacteristic of him, he would've sprung forward for a hug - anything to reassure him that Norway was really there, and not just another brief hallucination. Another part was just a little miffed, because if that was really Norway, it would mean that the older nation had built better ships before he did. Again.)

"Norway?" England called again, just a bit louder this time. And then, so as not to cause any confusion amongst his people, he hobbled closer, this time using the other's human name. "Blimey, Håkon, is that you?"

[Norway]

This place... it looked like Sigwyn’s bowl was full and Loki had thrashed around furiously when the poison fell on his face the few seconds it took Sigwyn to empty the bowl. Either that... or Ragnarok was just around the corner. The end of cosmos was, after all, supposedly be preceded by Fimbulvetr – the winter of all winters – that would end all life on Earth with three winters following each other. Then a wolf would devour the sun, a second the moon and the world would plunge into darkness. The stars would disappear and three roosters would wake the giants, the gods and raise the dead.

The Earth would shutter with earthquakes and every bond would burst... freeing Fenrir to swallow Odin in the last great battle. Jormungand would raise its head and stain the soil and sky with its poisonous breath. The waves the serpent caused would free Naglfar, and the giants would sail for the battlefield. In Helheim, Loki would free the dead and a fire giant would leave Muspell to join against the gods.

The more Håkon thought about this winter being the first of Fimbulvetr, the more he felt his insides twist. True, it felt more real back in his Viking days, when the inhabitants believed the roaring thunder and lightning being the result of an annoyed Thor, but seeing this massive destruction of England... it took his breath away. Just like back then.

No. Focus Håkon. Fokuser. Ikkje mist grepet allereie no.

First, he had to find supplies. Supplies that would last the entire trip to Scotland, in case he didn’t find supplies elsewhere... and possibly a backpack too. But in this chaos, four eyes were better than two... six eyes better than four.

"Du kalla?"

Two fairies fluttered their delicate green wings as they hovered in the air above his shoulder. Håkon gave them a brief look before continuing on his path. "Finn ein plass kor eg kan få tak i nødvendig materiell." He muttered without looking at them. If it was a negative side about being able to summon and see mythical creatures, it had to be that no one else but and England and himself could see them. It made him look as if he was talking to himself… except that no one was paying attention to him right now.

He saw the fairies fly off in different directions when he heard someone calling out his name. No, surely someone had just mentioned Norway in a sentence… it was silly to believe that anyone here knew him at all. Least of all a human. He took a few more steps when he heard the voice again… calling his human name. And…he knew this voice, didn’t he?

Håkon stopped in his tracks and turned around slowly. He wasn’t quite sure what to expect… most likely someone who had mistaken him for someone else. But he was surprised; almost to the extent he felt the relief crack his usual deadpan expression. "Arthur," he replied and let his eyes take in the nation. England looked tired, as if he had been to hell back, and dirty… and what had happened to his foot? – But at least he was alive. The thought of not being the only nation left made Håkon feel slightly better. If England could survive this, then surely Iceland must be alive too.

"How are you?" He asked hesitantly, his eyes lingering at the crutches. It was a superficial question – almost rhetorical, but it was part of the English society. Even though the answer was pretty obvious right now.

---

Translation:
1. Focus. Don't loose [your] grip already
2. You called?
3. Find a place where I can get the necessary supplies

[England]

Bloody hell, it really was him.

Arthur shifted slightly, moving the majority of his weight to his healthy foot, and couldn't help but feel a little self-conscious. Håkon looked fine - more than fine, actually -, but here he, the proud nation of England, stood, hardly able to walk without the aid of two pieces of wood. Arthur tried to straighten his back and stand tall, but he knew that no matter how proudly he stood, he'd still look like he'd been thrown around in a storm... which he technically had been.

"...I'm managing," he replied after a brief moment of consideration. "What are you doing here, all the way in Bournemouth? It's been a while since you last visited my lands."

The Englishman paused just after he said that, though, eyes widening slightly. If Håkon was here... did that mean that the other Nordic countries were dead? (Because surely, Norway would've made an effort to visit Iceland, Finland, Denmark, and Sweden before coming to England.) Hesitantly, Arthur added, "Did you come alone...?"

Deep within his mind, Arthur begged repeatedly for the answer to be no. He begged whatever deity that existed for Finland and Sweden, at the very least, to be alright, because they wouldn't have let anything happen to Sealand. Would they...?

[Norway]

It was no wonder why Bournemouth was the best towns in England if Arthur was here. But if a nation displayed the country’s health, then Håkon would consider himself lucky. The majority of his people immediately froze to death when the centre of the storm passed them. There was no time for suffering or pain – except for those who survived, only to find their neighbours dead and their city a ruin. And he was glad for that, he would have been miffed if he had to walk such great distances with crutches. It would severely limit his movements.

"I needed supplies and rumours said Bournemouth was one of the most functional towns in England." He answered truthfully and measured Arthur’s expression with his emotions hidden behind his eyes. "I came alone. Contact with the others have seized for the moment..." Håkon suddenly realised something; this wasn’t really that far from 1349.. The year the Black Death hit his shoes. True, his people’s suffering had almost been the death of him, but he had managed. In Denmark’s embrace. And back then, Iceland had been with him. Not stubbornly trying to manage on his own, like he was now, but that was going to change.

He took a deep breath and let his eyes wander. It was impolite to look away when he was talking, but the people here were preparing for something. As if... they were planning to... "Are you leaving as well?" His eyes returned to England. Håkon couldn’t exactly blame Arthur for packing and leaving – he had done the same after all – but Håkon had every intentions of returning once he found Iceland. Would England return to his island when he knew America was safe...? No matter. It was none of his concern.

Movements in his peripheral vision alerted him of the fairies return. But it would be rude to ignore Arthur when he had asked him a question. Håkon merely let the two fairies settle on his shoulder as he waited patiently for England’s reply.

[England]

"It's one of the most civilized towns,if that's what you mean," Arthur replied, keeping his eyes guarded. At this point, he felt far too vulnerable - not because he didn't trust Norway, but because his pride had already been hurt when he'd been sighted in such a sorry condition. He didn't need to cause himself further injury by actually admitting that some of his people were resorting to cannibalism and petty thefts. Upon hearing that Håkon had come alone, however, the Englishman felt just a bit of despair seep into his face. "...I see," he managed softly, frowning. Did that mean that Denmark and the other Nordics were hurt? Or perhaps even dead?

(Then what would've happened to everyone else? Sealand, and Canada, and India, and New Zealand, and Australia, and... and America? Were they alright, or would contact with them also be impossible... not for now, but forever...?)

Arthur's frown deepened at the thought, and his grip on the crutched tightened. No, he was being silly. They were alright; they had to be. None of them were children anymore, after all, and each one of them have proven so in the past. If he and Norway had survived, then surely... surely, everyone did as well.

With his rather desperate hope cemented firmly in his mind, the younger of the two nations opened his lips to reply, pausing only when he saw Håkon's fairies approach. The sight of the creatures lifted his mood somewhat, and he was able to answer, "Yes, to America. My people are hoping to trade with the Americans, if... they are willing." He looked away, then, just slightly embarrassed. "That's the only reason. But, ah, supplies..." He turned to the store they were talking in front of and said, "This is the best place for some food, if you plan on travelling some more. You'll find some clothes down the road..." Arthur turned again, pointing at the little shop in the distance, "It's relatively easy to find, once you're near. Weaponry - God forbid you'll actually need to use it, but just in case - is right next door. You should be able to find some shelter on the other side of town."

[Norway]

Norway had never been a front figure, no matter how much his Prime Minister wanted him to be. He was quiet, preferring to listen instead of voicing his every opinion... like a certain American. This habit to observe others carefully, told him exactly when nations behaved oddly. It could be no more than a twitch of a muscle, like Russia, or entire mood swings, like Romano. England, at this point, looked so blue Norway had to resist the urge to give him a hug. That, and the body language of the Brit screamed insecurity and distress. This was a side Håkon hadn’t seen ages... or perhaps he had not paid close attention lately.

He saw how Arthur’s fingers clenched around the crutches, he saw the frown masking the anxiety of simply not knowing. "I doubt there are reasons for concern. In these times they will put aside their stupidity and do what they must. Ignorant and silly as they are at times, they are not stupid." Blue eyes stared dully at the ground. If anyone asked, Håkon was talking about his fellow Nordics.

"Trade, hm. At least you take your people with you. That is commendable." He continued quickly before turning to stare out of the provisional town. It was so much alive compared to his fridge of a country. They were struggling, but surviving. Further down the docks, he could see primitive ships beginning to take form. It almost brought back memories...

When Arthur was done talking, he felt a tiny hand press against his cheek. "Det var det me og skulle sei, bortsett frå at me ikkje anbefala våpna. Dei virke alt for provisoriske og gamle... ser ut som om dei kan gå i lufta kvart augneblink¹." The small fairies frowned as they hovered in the air just above his right shoulder. Håkon ignored them, turning instead to Arthur. He had to ask the question – but he was afraid of the answer. Nevertheless, he began: "Do you-" But his voice faded without his consent and he felt his eyes narrow in disapproval and embarrassment. His voice never faded away, søren ta!²

Håkon cleared his throat. But his words failed even before he could open his mouth. How utterly troublesome, how was he else supposed to know if the Höfn – Aberdeen connection was true? Arthur usually had full control over his little island. "... Do you need any help with the boats?" No, he was not scared of the truth... He just couldn’t bear asking the question, and he would go to Scotland anyway no matter what Arthur said. So there never really was a reason for him to ask his question.

Flott Håkon. Fortsett å fortel det så trur du kanskje på det og ein dag.

---

Translation:
1. We were supposed to say that too, except we won't recommend the weapons. They seem provisional and old... and looks as if they will blow up any moment.
2. Damn it!

[England]

"I know," Arthur responded, if only because agreeing made him feel just a little bit better. (Deep inside, though, his pessimistic nature brought forth doubts and horrendous certainties that he just didn't want to hear. It was impossible to hope for everyone to have survived the Calamity; impossible, impossible, impossible... always and forever, impossible.)

"It isn't that I'm taking my people with me," the Briton continued, lifting his head again. "Rather, they're taking me with them. No one knows how to navigate ships without any modern aid anymore. I don't want them to get lost in the Atlantic just because they weren't able to use the stars to guide them to America."

It was... only half true. Even if Alfred wasn't there, he still would've agreed to sail with his people, for exactly the reason he stated. (But the thing was, Alfred was in America, either dead or alive, and England just couldn't recover until he found out which of the two his former charge was. It was no secret that he was fervently praying for the latter, because he really didn't know what to do if he found that Alfred really was dead.)

At the fairies' chatter, however, England paused, listening carefully to their rapid Norwegian. He could hardly understand what they were saying. Perhaps it was a good thing, though, because it most certainly wasn't very nice to eavesdrop, but still. It wasn't until Norway offered his assistance with boats that Arthur's eyes shot back up to meet Norawy's blue ones, wide with surprise.

"E... Excuse me?" he asked, stumbling over his words in his shock. Well... he definitely hadn't been expecting that. Still, it was a good thing, and during times like these, England was in no position to reject a helping hand. "If... you're okay... then of course. I'd be honored to have you help me."

[Norway]

The atmosphere wasn’t as tense anymore, he noticed, and Arthur looked less troubled. Maybe because Håkon had just volunteered to do something he hadn’t done in a few centuries. And he hoped the Brit knew the design of the boats would inevitably change to resemble longships. Oh yes, Norway had grand designs for this...

First, these Englishmen needed to learn how to build proper Busse ships. It would take time and consume a lot of wood, but a busse was capable of carrying a lot of cargo and people – especially with their 34 rowing positions. It would be perfect; not everyone would need to navigate, just a few on each boat, while the rest were rowing. While the busses carried most of the cargo, the people would need the smaller snekkja or the slightly larger skei – depending on the need. Snekkja were easier to navigate, had around 20 rowing benches, but they needed in turn to make more of them and needed more people to navigate. Skei were larger, capable of transporting more people with over 30 rowing benches, but consumed much wood and were difficult to navigate.

At last, Håkon would start on the Drageskip himself. Elegant and ornately decorated, the Dragon ships were used by men with King or Chief Statuses to raid England. Oh yes, the irony was absolutely thrilling. The prow would be cut to resemble the head of a dragon, while the tail would curve around the stern. It would smell a warm and sweet scent of dark timber and the earthy smell of proper vaðmál. But how exactly they were going to get hold of the undyed wool fabric, especially since Håkon couldn’t see any sheep nearby, was still a mystery. In the end, they would probably need to find fabric for sail and ropes elsewhere...

"Show me to the harbour," He said almost dreamily as he stared emptily into the air. Yes, this was going to be exactly like the good old days – only better without a Dane to rush ahead without making the proper arrangements. Håkon could almost see Sweden rounding the corner with his leather boots, the sheathed long sword hanging in his belt and the blue cloak around him. Iceland would fol- ... wait, Iceland. Before Håkon could stop himself, he turned around to face Arthur again. "Have you heard any news about Skottland?" The usual dull look was replaced by concern as anxiety flooded over him. How could he have forgotten his own brother in a time like this?

Håkon wasn’t even aware of his name-slip, only stared at Arthur as he fought to regain the grip of his emotions. What a silly thing to do, having an outburst like this! What would Arthur think? His breath was uneven, his clenched his trembling fingers into a fist.

By Odin, Håkon would summon Sleipnir and ride the eight-legged horse to Iceland himself!

[England]

For a brief moment, England allowed himself to wonder just why Norway seemed so willing to help. It was no longer the time when anyone could just offer assistance without expecting something in return, after all. However, when the question about Scotland was posed, Arthur paused his train of thought and replied, "No, I'm afraid not. I haven't been able to locate any of my brothers." Not that he has been searching, anyway. He was worried about them, yes, but so far, he's only been able to traverse the length of his own lands - and even that took the utmost amount of effort. Walking all the way to Scotland just seemed impossible, with his current condition.

Still, the realization that he hadn't been searching for his brothers struck him hard. His hobbled steps towards the harbor paused for a moment before he continued, biting his lower lip as guilt weighed heavily on his chest. "...He's fine, though," Arthur spoke lowly, though he wasn't sure if he believed even himself. "You know how stubborn he is."

(But really, how far would determination and stubbornness carry one through an apocalypse?)

With a shake of his head, England cleared his mind, trying to focus on less... emotional topics, lest he embarrass himself in front of his Norwegian guest. "We don't really have the best material right now, so don't expect too much when you see the ships. The best ones are probably the ones made from supplies stolen from France, but... I'd rather not use them, if at all possible." A pause. "Because... I don't trust anything that comes from the frog's land."

It wasn't quite true, but the fact of the matter was that he did feel guilty about using something that had been forcefully ripped away from France's people. Yes, he hated the Frenchman, and yes, the Frenchman probably hated him back, but... in the end, they were allies. (Were they still, in a setting like this? England didn't want to find out.)

[Norway]

Yes, Håkon knew how stubborn Scotland was. Stubborn, proud and rash. He would take care of Iceland until Norway arrived... he hadto. His brother-instincts were screaming at him, telling him to get out of here and head north. And truth be said – what was he doing here? Building ships only to have a potential ally sail away? ... So silly. But, he had given his word to help England and Kongeriket Noreg never went back on his promises. Except when Denmark was involved.

... Still, not having heard from any of his brothers...

No. No. Focus.

Turning his head to look at Arthur, Håkon noticed that the Brit seemed pretty distracted as well. It was no wonder, really, just look at the status of his country. At least everything was calm in Norway. Calm, and buried under 30 feet snow. "Stolen from France?" He repeated, his face and tone showing no trace of interest whatsoever. Underneath the mask, however, he was mildly amused. "Be that as it may," Håkon continued as the harbour came into view. "You can not afford being picky at a time like this. Unless, that is, you find a forest or timber lying around."

Håkon knew enough to question French engineering. He didn’t mean to offend Francis in any way, but there was a reason to why the French were engineers in hell. Peugeot, Renault and Citroën. ... and... was that supposed to resemble a ship? Håkon blinked as his eyes settled on what was about to become the new proud British Navy. A snort escaped before he could stop himself, but he hoped Arthur would disregard his rude behaviour, and turned his attention to the fairies still sitting in his hair.

"Eg bryr meg svært lite om kor lang tid det tar, bare finn ein brukbar skog til meg. Den kan bestå av trær som står, eller trær som ligger, bare sørg for at dei kan brukast på ein eller anna måte. Før dokke komme tilbake, så vil eg og at dokke skal finna ein flokk med sauer som dokke tar med tilbake."¹ The fairies sighed, as if there mere thought of more flying was troublesome, but they fluttered their wings and took off in each direction. Håkon watched as two purple orbs disappeared out of his view, and knew it might take a while before they returned...

No matter. He pulled on the strap of his backpack, and the sound of his fiddle shifting from inside was a comfortable sound. It also made him aware of just how quiet the town was. Sure, people were talking, shouting and whispering – but no one laughed. Children were quiet, following their parents obediently without a sound. Everything was business and survival – no time for leisure and fun times. "You need to rally your people, or at least those to wish to leave." Somewhere deep inside his mind, he was aware of the fact that he was currently trespassing on Arthur’s good will as a guest

But once the fairies returned with the news of either a forest or timber, the two nations couldn’t do everything on their own. One group could carry the wood and build the ships, while a second group could make ropes and sails from the sheep wool.

---

1. I care very little how long it takes, just find me a suitable forest. It may consist of rooted trees, or fallen trees, just make sure they can be used in one way or another. Before you return, I also want you to find a heard of sheep you take back with you.

[England]

"Perhaps," England replied, lips quirking upwards into a slightly amused smile. It lasted for only a fleeting moment. "But I'd prefer to be as picky as possible in this situation. I wouldn't want either myself or my people to sink in the middle of the Atlantic because of some poor wood, after all."

At the little snort, Arthur couldn't help but getting a little defensive. "It's the best we could make with what we have," he said, even though honestly, the current status of a majority of his ships were rather depressing. "Those are the ones that just want to make it through the Strait of Dover and reach Calais. Those two," the Englishman continued, pointing to two ships that looked just slightly more advanced than the rest assembled in the area, "Are meant to reach Ireland... Youghal, I think, at the furthest. The one that I'm hoping will eventually get us across the Atlantic is over there." He pointed to a ship that was stationed a little ways west from the remainder of the ships. Although it didn't look anywhere close to being finished, it was obvious that it was far more advanced and sturdy than the rest of the ships available in Bournemouth.

Arthur turned his attention back to Norway, and watched as the fairies departed. Such beautiful creatures, they were; it made him miss his own magical friends. He'd sent them to his brothers' lands, hoping that they'd find the siblings that he couldn't - at least, not physically. Though he'd yet to hear word from any one of them, he knew that it was only a matter of time. (Though really, 'hoped' would be a more accurate term.)

"I've enough people that are willing to help and leave," Arthur spoke, beginning to hobble towards another direction. He paused after a few steps, however, and waited for Håkon to follow. "Though, if more are required, it shouldn't be too hard to find more people. Follow me; we'll get you something to eat, too."

[Norway]

Oh look at that, the Brit had made a point! Too bad he hadn’t used the same thinking in 1912…

Håkon listened and watched intently as Arthur presented the ships in turn. They looked as if they were about to fall apart any moment, but it was impressive the Brits had managed to salvage material to at least start on promising projects. When he thought about it… perhaps he could join the ship to Ireland? Sure, he had to cross the island, bur at least it was smaller than England and closer to Scotland.

Now, the ship that was supposed to carry the English alive across the Atlantic looked… better. Not near perfect, and way off finished, but it certainly looked ten times better than the domestic ships. If his fairies could return with news of wood and wool soon, Håkon could probably get these ships finished within two weeks or so.

Two weeks he could have spent looking for Iceland.

His stomach turned violently, making him clench his jaws in discomfort. Was it guilt that tightened its claws around him, or was it something else? No, he didn’t want to think about it. Arthur had asked to follow him. "… Only if I can repay the favour." he replied flatly and walked up next to England. The thought of being treated to something made him uncomfortable, because according to the social context it meant he was indebted to that person.

Just the very word made him shudder. Debt. Loans. It was a reason as to why he was so… reluctant to let go of his oil money. Besides, it was better to have too much than too little…

[England]

England smiled slightly, and though it was a bit strained, it was genuine. "Don't feel indebted to me, Nor--" he began, but quickly corrected himself by finishing with, "Håkon." After all, there were still people walking about, and it wouldn't do to create much confusion by informing them that all the nations of the world had personifications... and that the personification of England and Norway were right in front of them. Who knew how much more trouble that would cause in an already chaos-ridden world?

"Getting you food and some other basic supplies is the least I can do for your help," Arthur continued, pausing their conversation for a moment to greet some people who had waved at him. "You're helping me with my ships; I think, if anything, I should be the one indebted to you."

After all, England had more riding on the success of this sea voyage than he'd ever care to admit. There was, of course, the possibility of fresh supplies, of people who were willing to help as long as they were helped... but more importantly to him on a personal level was the chance of him seeing America and making sure that he was okay. (He most likely was, but England still couldn't keep himself from worrying sick.)

They reached the 'food district', as it was aptly labelled, first. There were rows of merchants and vendors advertising their wares, offering canned food and even the rare meat, fish, vegetables, and fruits here and there. People selling firewood and matches stood nearby, ready to sell their wares as soon as the purchase of raw food was made.

"Is there anything in particular that you'd like to eat?" England asked, turning to Norway and motioning to the food around them. "I know that it isn't much, but it's what we could gather."