Times' Changes (Nor/Open)

[Vatican City: Catholic Church]

"Sir?" asked a young voice hesitantly. Vatican looked up from his work, a demanding expression on his face. The priest was a young man, well, by Vatican's measure, and unused to the nation's moods and standards. Nevertheless, he got the message quickly.

"Sir, I was just... I mean, have you slept recently?"

Hmm. Good question. Shuffling through his memories like a master card dealer, Paolo realized that no, he hadn't slept any significant amount of time in the last few days. An hour here or there to keep the nation from collapsing but nothing more. He scowled at the lad.

"What's it to you?" he asked gruffly, turning his blue eyes back on the missive.

"Well..it's just...you haven't left this office in days." Vatican raised an eyebrow.

"And..." the priest trailed off, trying to gather his words. Clearly he worked with numbers, not words. "Is what you are doing really so important as to forego your health?"

Let's see, he thought sarcastically, discovering what's become of the little ones, reforming this damn corrupt body, keeping the others from making the same mistakes all over again, why yes, I think that is a little more important. He didn't say anything for a long moment, reining in his desire to tell the boy off and tell him that when the fate of the world was at stake, coffee breaks and naptimes had to be foresaken.

When he felt some semblance of control, he took a stack of addressed envelopes and gestured for the priest to take it. Inside each was a letter, short and simple, asking each nation for their preferred dates, times, and locations for a much needed world meeting. For all Vatican knew, his compatriots were already doing the same thing, writing notes and sending them as quickly as possible. But he hadn't survived for two thousand years by relying on assumptions. And from his observations over the years and the suddeness of their arrival in the past, he knew that some would be in bad shape, others too stunned to start thinking yet. Someone had to move quickly before everyone got too comfortable.

"Make certain that those missives arrive at their destinations as quickly as possible. And instruct their carriers that they aren't to leave the addresse without a response, understood?" he ordered.

The priest stared in shock for a moment but a dark harrumph sent him scurrying, a quick 'Of course, sir,' on his lips. When he was certain the man wouldn't hear him, Paolo whispered, "May God be with you."

He shifted in his seat until he was eying the small crucifix adorned on his office wall. "You brought us here," he whispered, his head bowed, "Please help me ensure it won't be for naught."

Whether his Lord heard him or not, Vatican went back to work again, selecting the most trustworthy men he could find and dividing them into different piles. One group he'd send out into the world in search of the little ones, the nations whose countries had yet to be formed. Mexico, Canada, Cuba, the rest of Latin America, the Africas, the Oceanias, America...it would be a frightfully huge undertaking. He winced at the last name. What would the rest of the world do now that the boy was weak and unable to defend himself? He'd made so many enemies and friends over the years Vatican couldn't even begin to guess. Perhaps some countries would be willing to help Paolo's cause but who? Who wouldn't take advantage of the situation and try to reconquer those areas? And what about the native nations in power? Gah, this was a mess. He growled, running a hand through his stringy hair.

His second group of priests, bishops, cardinals, and monks were those who wanted change and who could bring about it. Corruption ran rampant through his nation at this time and tempting as it was to just ignore the problem and focus on other matters, he couldn't. Not this time. He'd ignored all the warning signs before and it had cost him dearly. His fingers vaguely traced the absent scar on his chest and torso. He'd lost his family, his standing, his pride, his power, everything that he was because of his willful blindness. He wouldn't make that mistake this time. He couldn't. He'd once promised a nation that he would change the past if only he could and he was going to stand by it.

And this way, this way if they forsake the Lord, no if they forsake me, it isn't my fault. The thought came to him quietly, unbidden, and once he thought it, he couldn't un-think it. He couldn't control the other nations, he knew that now, and they would do what they would do. He could, however, control himself and fix things. That way, if they left again, it wouldn't be a simple act of rebellion. And maybe, perhaps, he wouldn't carry the burden of guilt through the centuries this time.

And damn, he really had been in this office too long if his thoughts turned so melancholy. His stomach rumbled as he stretched and stood, locking all his documents safely away. The council of cardinals and pope would hear him early next week; no sense in spoiling the surprise. He smirked at the thought then quickly scolded himself for enjoying what would surely be a trying time for his government. Tack on another rosary for tonight for taking joy from another's pain, he mentally told himself as he left the office. Eh, it was worth it.

Paolo bypassed the kitchens, ignoring his pleading stomach (and he must be going soft; there was a time when he could go weeks without food and not even feel it), and headed into his quarters. They were spartan, a stark contrast to the indulgence of the day, and well-organized. It wasn't long before he left, his old (well, not by today's standards but...) sword heavy in his hands. He relished in the feeling as he walked to an isolated courtyard, the feeling of invigoration and youth he'd long forgotten. Even in his old age, he'd had energy to spare but time had robbed him of his might. He'd forgotten how it felt, this physical strength. It called him, tempted him to use it to achieve his ends. He wouldn't, not unless no other option presented itself, but it would be so easy. Too easy.

He entered the quiet courtyard, shoving the conflict to the recesses of his mind, and sighed, breathing in the still, clear air. Small flowers dotted the stone walls, accented the marble arches. Peace flowed as freely here as the breeze tugging at his hair. He loved it. Always had. Carefully, he set his rosary and his small bible on one of the white stone benches, out of the way, and unsheathed his sword, marching towards the courtyard's center. He took a simple, balanced stance, breathing deeply and slowly working his way through the warm up exercises. His muscles stretched, his mind settled, and his sword steadily picked up speed. Minutes passed as Paolo raced through the blocks and strikes, adding the occasional kata Japan once taught him to mix things up. Faster and faster his blade whirled, Paolo chuckling when he had the breath. How he'd missed this. How he'd forgotten just how much he missed it.

His boot slid on a loose stone, breaking the nation's rhythm and almost toppling him. He was breathing hard, shaking his head at his own carelessness. Mind your right leg; it doesn't seem to want to follow you. Paolo winced as the voice shot through him. He switched his blade to his left hand and pinched his temples with the right. If you're going to haunt me, at least do it properly, he thought irritably, brokenly. No answer came. Truthfully, he wasn't expecting one. He shook his head, wiped his brow, and continued his drills, his imagined foes taking on a more definitive form.

[ashensun]

It was a full moon.

Vilhelm's was impassive as glassy eyes stared aimlessly at the celestial body outside the large window. If the nations had been sent back further, there was a possibility that Norway would have been dancing around a bonfire late into the night instead of trapped inside Denmark's study, attempting to get some work done. He sighed and threw a document to the side before rubbing his temples with his fingertips. He needed to get this work done. It was important.

. . .Actually, he needed painkillers. Badly. Wait. Norway sighed. There's no such thing yet. . . He thought bitterly. He reached over to wrap his long fingers around the candleholder and bring it closer to his face, attempting to bring more light to banish the shadows that surrounded the documents he had tried to read.

It was no use.

Vilhelm crossed his arms over the desk and rested his forehead for a moment, staring blankly off into the dark corners of the room. It was times light this when he missed electricity. It took him a full minute to recogize the return address on the envelope he had been staring at.

Rome.

The Vatican, to be more specific.

The Norwegian made a face. He and Paolo did not get along. He stared at the letter for a while, wondering whether or not he should at least attempt to read the thing before shoving it at Denmark and demanding that he read it and summarize it for Norway.

Sighing and reminding himself that he was too far out of it to really remember anything, Vilhelm broke the seal and withdrew that paper stained with Paolo's script. For a moment he wondered how the holy man would look now. In the twenty-first century, the Vatican had aged into an older man. Sixties, perhaps. But now, after going back five hundred years, there was a very large chance that Paolo had gotten younger. Vilhelm sure had. In the future he had looked about 20, but he looked like a sixteen year old. He thanked the deities that sixteen year old boys did have some power in this time.

It took the former Viking over half an hour to finally figure out what the letter said. Big words and the man's ramblings confused the Norwegian's fatigued brain.

Simple remedy! He would just call--- wait. No phone. Vilhelm dropped the hand that had twitched towards where his phone had been placed in the future.

"Thor, help me." He groaned, throwing his head sharply against the back of his chair. He needed to get out of Denmark for a while. And he had a perfect excuse sitting right in front of him.

Looks like Paolo was getting a visitor.

Norway slowly focused his magic, straining his brain and body even further. He didn't care. This would be very amusing.

A few minutes later a courtyard came into view, and Paolo was working with his sword. A ghostly Norway stood there, waiting for him to pause.

"Paolo."

He waited.

"I'll be seeing you sooner than you think."

[Vatican City: Catholic Church]

Training with a sword felt good after all this time. He'd kept up with it over the years, even as his body failed him and the world switched to guns. He never liked the things. Too easy to kill people with. More humane, one could argue, and he did so with himself and his ghost more than once. Given a choice, though, he'd rather not use either weapon. Well, now. There was a time....oh there was a time when he'd have taken arms against the slightest offense. A time when he'd win too. Those days were long behind, or just in front of, him depending upon the perspective.

That wasn't to say that he was against fighting under all circumstances. Sometimes all that one could do was fight. Or resist. It tore at his conscience in recent years, whether to call upon others to fight, to support others as they killed or multilated in their attempts to survive or change. He wasn't as young as he used to be, only called upon his remaining strengths and allies in an emergency, only guilted the others when he himself couldn't make a difference.

He growled and slashed hard towards a long beaten and dead foe. The foe dodged and Paolo blocked, thrusting upwards to set the other off balance. Fighting wouldn't work this time around; it hadn't the first time. But the others wouldn't see it that way. No, they'd simply begin an age long arms race, who could achieve the ultimate weapons first, who could control the lands which would one day change the world. And once the arms race was completed... total war. And anihilation. He mentally shuddered at the thought, performing a complex but effective sweep as he did so. And because they thought so, he'd have to be ready. He wouldn't develop such weapons himself, he was a nation of peace- it might take a little time for those within to realize that little fact but they would soon- and stability. He would fight for the little nations, fight for the natives, but he would not, could not, develop such monstrocities. No, he'd take the modern approach, no matter how good the sword felt in his hand. No matter how his missed strength begged to be used.

Paolo stopped as a strange whooshing sound echoed through his courtyard. He moved into a defensive stance as a bright light shone in front of him, nearly blinding his vision. When the light simmered down and his eyes could actually see again, he scowled at the figure in front of him. Standing there, looking like a hologram, was Norway with something of a smug look on his face. Oh, right, some of those brothers have 'old magic,' he thought. Well, at least it made for easier communication than the current technology allowed. Still, the boy didn't have to show off or attempt to frighten Paolo to death.

Paolo had never worked well with any of the Union. Between their raids on his people and his children's people all those years ago, he'd had a less than good opinion of them in his head and a sour taste in his mouth. Still, at least they'd all calmed down somewhat in the last several years, though whether that calming would shine through now only the Lord himself knew.

He lowered his sword when the boy said his name, wiping his brow and the stray strands of brown hair. "Norway," he retorted, mostly civilly. He breathed deeply to rein in himself. Being rude to another nation was not the ideal way to get said nation to cooperate. He nodded at the boy's statement, raising an eyebrow.

"Any particular date you have in mind or do I get to be surprised?" he asked almost pleasantly, "I haven't heard from the others yet so if you come soon, you might have to wait a while to get anything done."

There. Not too rude. Not overly nice but no one had ever claimed Paolo was. He waited for the boy's response, his breathing slowing as he ignored the throbbing in his right knee.