Leaving England

[Norway]

His name sounded funny when foreigners tried to pronounce it... mostly because he had chosen a name with a foreign letter. But his name hadn’t started out like that; Håkon had once, a very, very long time ago, been Hákonr. And even before that, Håkon had vague memories of his guardian calling him Norðweg. As time changed and the young nation grew, his name changed and grew with him. Hákonr became Hákon, removing the inconvenient r from his name. During the dreaded four hundred year night – as his people fondly had nicknamed the Kalmar Union – Denmark had modernised his name, replacing the accented a with double as.

Sweden had scowled at his name after the Treaty of Kiel incident. Haakon was a tad bit too Danish for him, and with a simple signature, Berwald had changed Haakon to Håkan – just to prove who was in charge in the so called Personal Union. But to tell the truth, Norway had not been in the mood to discuss names back then – his mind was set on different things, such as: how to gain independence?

After the Calamity... names seemed to be a diffuse acknowledgement. Could Norway still be called Norway, even if no one was around to watch the borders? If Russia moved in and swallowed his lands?

Håkon shook his head, returning to reality.

The first he noticed, was all the food around him. His eyes widened slightly at the sight, but his expression evened out as his insides started to twist again.... Iceland. What if Ísland was starving at this very moment? How could Norway eat if his brother was not? "It is... impressive." His gaze fell on apples. Lovely, green and red apples. And he couldn’t help but to think it was unfair; his land was frozen solid making it impossible to grow anything. (For a moment, his mind wandered to Hardanger.)

"I..." he started, avoiding England’s gaze. "... would very much enjoy an apple, if that is not too much to ask for." It certainly felt like it, it felt as if he was asking for the whole district without as much as a øre to pay for it. And he would repay Arthur, and ignore the Brit’s claim of not being indebted. Håkon had, after all, his Hardanger fiddle in this town of no music.

[England]

Arthur smiled slightly, feeling rather proud at the bit of praise. It'd be rather difficult to gather and organize the food, and to set up a nice barter system so people didn't steal and fight - at least, not often. Fruits had been difficult to grow, given the destroyed state of the land, and even fish didn't seem to want to draw near to the shores. Still, his people persevered in the way that only Englishmen could, and now, they had... well, this. There were still plenty of improvements to be made, but it was impressive.

"It's no problem, Håkon," Arthur assured, turning to the vendor to purchase some apples. He received a few in return for a lighter, which had only a bit of gas remaining in it. (It wasn't as if Arthur really needed it; he knew how to create fire without the aid of such tools.) "Here. They might not be as sweet as some of the ones we've enjoyed before, but... they're not all that bad, I think."

He handed them all over - half because he was more excited than hungry, and half because... well, it was difficult, if not impossible, to use the crutches and eat at the same time. Arthur couldn't wait. Surely, with Håkon's help, he'd be able to get efficient ships built faster? Surely, that meant... he'd be able to reach Alfred America faster? He paused, then, a sudden thought striking him. What of the people Norway cared about? Surely, he'd be worried about the other Nordics, too...

Hesitantly, he said, "You don't have to stay here for long. Just help me figure out the best ship we can make with whatever supplies we find, and go on ahead back north. I'm certain that the other Nordics are looking for you."

[Norway]

Oh dear non-existing Lord in Heaven.

Apples. He had apples – in plural

Håkon eyed Iðunn’s gifts with a carefully placed apathetic mask, letting his inner-self go through all the known expressions of joy and giddiness his outer-self was too afraid to show. Then, he carefully took a bite and closed his eyes as he savoured the sweet taste. He had probably tasted better apples, that were true, but right now he didn’t care. It really, really didn’t matter. "Thank you," he said calmly as he opened his eyes. "They are really not that bad."

He was about to suggest them finding a place to sit down, but Arthur’s comment cut through his thoughts.

"They will manage. Sweden is probably out looking for Finland, Finland vice versa. Denmark is playing with the idea of going Viking again, possibly to even out the score between him and Sweden, I presume." He shrugged, refusing to talk about his younger brother whom he just knew was in trouble. Besides, if he stayed in the fridge of a country, it would only be a matter of time before Denmark would drag him along the crusade... or even worse, make him stay with the Dane as a safety precaution. "They will be fine." He finished vaguely, not only trying to convince Arthur.

He took another bite of the apple. "Perhaps you would like to sit down? It must be tiresome to stand upright all the time with the crutches." Yes, steer the conversation to a safer ground. "How did you end up like this anyway?" Håkon questioned, his abyssal eyes revealing a trace of curiosity.

[England]

Arthur nodded, leading Håkon away from the chaos of the marketplace and off to the side, to a clear area where they could sit. With some difficulty, the Englishman lowered himself, grimacing slightly as he was finally able to sit down and place his crutches beside him. "Good. I think if we keep going, we'll be able to grow orange trees, too."

He paused, though, grimacing a bit at the mention of Denmark going the viking route again. He still remembered all the trouble he suffered through back when he was younger, and had precious little to defend himself with from all the intermittent viking attacks. (And this time around, he had no Alfred the Great to help him.) The Englishman opened his mouth to answer, except he noticed that Håkon had mentioned four Nordics, when there were five. And really, this fifth Nordic was one that England personally didn't forget often.

Arthur frowned, studying Norway's face carefully. There was no way that Håkon was not worried about Iceland; after all, those two were quite close. Had something happened to Iceland? Possibly. Or perhaps Norway felt like how he did about America - wishing, hoping, praying that someone was alive, but not knowing if he was; wanting to hope, but afraid to do so, in case that hope failed...

With a soft hum, he let it go, not wishing to intrude. Instead, he moved to answer Norway's question. "I'm not quite sure," he answered honestly. "There was a tsunami, and when I woke up, my ankle was broken, and there was a spike driven though..." He paused to point to a specific part of his leg, "...this thigh." He tried for a small, sheepish smile as he continued, "I suppose I'm not that good in water as I thought I was."

[Norway]

Håkon removed his backpack as he sat down next to Arthur. He could feel the shape of his fiddle through the fabric. "When were you ever good in water...?" he questioned innocently, knowing full well the Brits swimming abilities. He meant no harm, he only oh-so remembered a few incidents back in the Viking days... and in Napoleon Wars and the World Wars... Well, Håkon was in no position to criticise; he had been a slow learner too.

Turning his attention to his backpack, he opened it carefully and curled his fingers around the delicate neck. A content sigh escaped his lips as he pulled his most prized possession out of the bag and into his lap. If there was one thing he could not live without, it had to be his 1862 Harding fiddle. With it’s round, rosemaling decorated belly, the pegbox shaped like a dragon’s head and the faded red, white and blue colour scheme along the neck left no doubt of the owner’s nationality. (Even if Sweden once had attempted to re-colour it to make it look like the union badge of their union.)

Håkon could remember the first time he had laid eyes on the instrument. It had been in the late Norwegian romantic nationalism movement, and he had just walked right into the shop and bought it. And then, he had spent hours and hours practicing, much to Sweden’s chagrin. Aaah, good days.

He placed the fiddle lightly on his collarbone, letting his other hand pull the bow from the bag. The position felt familiar, and in that sense also relaxing. Håkon drew the bow across the strings, letting the understrings resonate under the influence of the upper. It sounded hauntingly, eerie, almost echo-like. After a moment, he put the bow into his lap and made a few adjustments to the turning pegs. Then, Håkon fixed his abyssal eyes on Arthur.

"Any specific music you would like to hear? I know most of them," as if to emphasise his claim, he began on a slow homophonic version of La Marseillaise.

---

Yes, this is how it sounds

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