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Post by Konungariket Sverige on Jan 27, 2011 20:32:29 GMT -5
28thJanuary, late 22nd Century
---
Sweden sits at his desk, tapping his ballpoint pen incessantly on the desk, a pile of documents lying idly in front of him, pretext for being here and not home, which in the middle of Halmstad felt far too isolated. Too cut off from the world.
Company has become a god forsaken gift instead of the difficult hassle it once was. To Berwald, human, living organisms were much more comforting than the sleek, unfeeling utilitarianism of droids of artificial intelligence. Even if said company was some paper pusher who was too callow to be much of a conversationalist; a depressive youth who subscribed to the hedonism, which in Berwald's mind, was the very mindset that destroyed humankind's vitality. Strength was the outcome of need; security had set a premium on feebleness.
Berwald stands, restless and not wanting to work. His eyes darts to the East side of his panoramic window that shows his courtyard, still kept and natural as always. Just beyond the gates, he could see a little figure walking towards the building. Strange.
Hardly anyone enters unless it’s on official business these days, he muses as he reaches for his coffee. Then, as the figure nears, Berwald suddenly recognizes those unmistakable features, and he almost knocks his coffee over in surprise.
"Talk of th' devil," he mutters.
It was Denmark. Denmark, who walked on the other side of the spectrum, whose actions and beliefs never failed to baffle the Swede, whose ability at managing his own country rivaled only Russia. What in the world could he possibly want, when he had made it clear he wanted nothing to do with Berwald?
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Post by Kongeriget Danmark on Feb 10, 2011 4:35:39 GMT -5
[yeah, the language sucks, but in my defence- was in french grammar class while writing this. SORRY FOR THE LATE REPLY. <3]
His feet hurt. He had a feeling they had innumerable blotches on them, not that he cared enough to look or that it mattered anymore, what mattered was to get help. His hands were smudged and sticky. Old blood dried up and flaking from his fingertips, revealing dirty chopped up nails and pale skin. Denmark suddenly stops up and looks at them, closing his hands and opening them again, trying to regain some feeling in them.
The Dane turns around to check how far he had walked, some proof or reassurance that he had been walking a distance to somewhere- closer to his destination. Walk through the pain
A certain bird had whispered about Berwald’s location to him some months ago. That specific day he held his hand over one of his last and best soldier’s heart and felt it stop under his palm. He was so tired of fighting. He had forgotten why he was fighting, what he was fighting for. Years of seclusion consisting of blood, tears and regret had left him utterly numb. He had become a man he barely recognized, a man he loathed, a man who was filled with hatred for his own people.
He had a picture of his family gathered in front of a random building in Germany before one of their world meetings. A picture difficult to take, but with the right pushes and a big smile, he managed to make it happen somehow. Norge’s dull eyes, Finland’s kind smile, Iceland looking somewhere else at God knows what, Sealand standing on his toes and raising his hands energetically to appear taller and lastly Sverige’s stern face, with a stiff upper lip. Year after year, that picture never discolored or aged. It didn’t matter how much everyone had changed, or rather how much he himself had changed, because he still had that picture of a perfect family in front of him. Maybe perfect wasn’t the right word, but it was Magnus’s idea of a perfectly dysfunctional family. Even though he had pushed them away and cut every tie with all of them, he still yearned for their presence.
He carried that picture on the inside of his warm jacket, wrapped inside a small plastic bag. He knew that he had managed to fuck things up thoroughly with his actions, but it was the right thing to do at the moment, wasn’t it? He wasn’t sure anymore. Why did he always have to humiliate himself before realizing he needed help?
He finally saw the building. As he moved closer to it, he felt his heart beating faster. Shit, too late to turn around now.
His car broke down a long time ago and he couldn’t get a horse for the life of him, considering how they were no longer used for transportation, but for nutrition.
He put his hands inside his pockets and the only sound he could hear was the loud beating of his heart. Man the fuck up, it’s only Berwald.
He stood in front of the big white door, sighed and knocked three times. Shit… Shitshitshit. This is it.
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Post by Konungariket Sverige on Feb 12, 2011 4:45:35 GMT -5
He had two choices; ignore the knocking and prevent what could be a catastrophe waiting to happen, or he could open the door and see through... whatever it was that Denmark wanted. Despite the news being stagnated or expurgated by political extremists, it wasn't completely unreliable and if what he heard about the civil and foreign warfare was true, then Denmark wasn't in any state to bring upon any harm.
Perhaps he wished to expiate?
He snorted at the thought. History may have a cruel sense of humour, but at least Berwald had grown enough to realise that Denmark never sought redemption. Not for lack of trying though... or for lack of making Berwald think he was trying.
The knocking desists after three taps. Perhaps this was what caused the Swede to finally stand up, uncurling his fingers from the cup of coffee, and walk past the long expanse of his office to the door. He hesitates only for a second. Unlike the Dane, he was not volatile by nature and apart from that, senselessly curious. Besides, the Dane may have fresher and more empirical information on that world of theirs that kept on teetering within the realms of hostility. It was disconcerting.
And so, with this in mind, he clicks open the door and walks through the corridors which, stripped of their artistic decor and replaced with sleep minimalistic designs, felt even more vacant and empty than it should). Berwald fiddles with the security system to allow the Dane access into the building. He then continues to the foyer which, has retained some of the traditional portraits on the walls and waits for the Dane there.
When he finally walks //stumbles?// in, Berwald has to stop himself from taking a step back. Sweeping over the Dane with critical eyes, he finds himself painfully gripping the banister, just managing to keep from gaping. He looked a mess. Why. What happened. Why?
Instead of demanding answer or running over to wipe all that blood off his clothes or forcing him to his medical staff, Berwald simply stands where he is.
"Danmark," he greets, his voice hoarse. Why?
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Post by Kongeriget Danmark on Feb 24, 2011 17:46:14 GMT -5
Magnus stumbled inside the house, the oh-so clean house that smelled wonderfully clean and Swedish. It smelled like Berwald. "H-heeeey" he saluted the man nonchalantly, trying to make the smile seem as authentic as possible. Magnus was panting and tried to catch his breath. He looked up at the taller man and smirked. Sve still had it, he still managed to piss him off even when he did nothing at all. "Nice place y'got here! Difficult t' find though" Magnus wanted to turn around and leave, but he was too exhausted. The sound of his panting filled the silence and he felt tremendously dirty in comparison to this house. This fucking clean house made his eye twitch. God, how he wanted to live there.
Magnus leaned his back to the door and continued panting "Pheeew, cold outside isn't it?" Why was he chitchatting? Magnus looked down at his battered shoes, still smiling, still breathing heavily, still trying to find the right words to say. The conversation seemed ridiculously superficial, but at least it filled the awkward silence between them. He looked around, trying to find something to sit at and decided to waltz into the living room next to them, he sure as hell wasn't going to wait for Sve to open his mouth and ask him to sit. He wasn't going to give him the satisfaction.
"Uhm... How have you been?" He asked and sat down on the comfortable sofa, Magnus was trying really hard to conceal the satisfying look in his eyes as he felt the pressure faintly disappear from his feet and the fluffy texture behind him welcoming his tense and sore back. How was he going to ask him for help? If he knew Berwald as much as he gave himself credit for, he wasn't going to make it easy on Magnus. He looked out the window.
Could he turn back?
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Post by Konungariket Sverige on Feb 25, 2011 4:10:19 GMT -5
Sweden surveyed the Dane closely, knowing very well that anybody else would have been quivering in fear under his scrutiny. But Magnus wasn’t just anybody. He was unequivocally... hopeless. And looked just about ready to defenestrate out of that window. Berwald made to note to himself to drag him back by force (kicking, biting and screaming?) if that was to happen.
Though Sweden couldn’t hope to mend the psychological hurts that, knowing Denmark, was probably wrought upon by himself, he could tend to the physical. To be honest, he felt that he owed it to himself as a human being. Or, how humane they could ever hope to be. Which, considering that he was acting out of propriety and nothing else, couldn’t be counted as much. At Denmark’s trifling chatter, Sweden mused with some idle comfort that, some things don’t seem to ever change, regardless of circumstance.
He didn’t answer any of the questions, instead opting to shut the double set of doors behind the Dane, closing the route out. Denmark was the one who chose to seek him; from then on, it was Sweden’s choice of hospitality. Berwald liked to think that at this point in time, he knew better than the other, the older, and oftentimes the stronger.
“Get up,” he orders suddenly. Without waiting for a reply, he drags Magnus out of his chair, ignoring the slight wince, and ushers him to a white hallway to their right. He points to a clinically smooth door on the far side of the hall, and shoves him forward. “I’ll be righ’ there.”
With this, he turns and once out of earshot, he barks for his assistant. Predictably, the nervous youth had come running, a stack of paper precariously lodged in his arms.
“Find me all documents pertaining to current affairs of the Danish state,” he says brusquely, perhaps tinged with needless vexation. The boy trembles and runs off faster than he could blink. Berwald listens to his fading footfalls. It calmed him.
Good god. Was he becoming a sadist?
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Post by Kongeriget Danmark on Mar 9, 2011 17:01:49 GMT -5
It was nice to see how well Berwald had done, compared to him. He felt something ticking inside of him as he smiled politely. He was happy that his brothers had done well. tick.
Magnus grinned at the Swede and when he realized what he tried to do, his grin disappeared and the whole turned into an ugly staring competition between the two titans of Scandinavia. The Swede's eyes could be colder than the harsh winters he had ever witnessed, but it still didn't scare him. He had seen this man completely destroyed, he had seen Berwald crawl on his knees before. Oh, Magnus enjoyed the thought of how Berwald licked his boots clean several decades ago when he owed him his life. Shit, it finally dawned on him- this was an awful plan. He looks out of the window for the second time, realistically counting how many ribs he would break if he did defenestrate like a maniac. Tick.
"Y'know, fer the first time, I feel like it would be better if ya responded, Ber" Magnus said with his head resting on the comfortable couch he was leaning back on. His upper lip curled disapprovingly of the droids running around the place, reminding him of unpleasant things he had to witness. You couldn't trust those things.
Magnus wanted to say something more... something, anything- to fill that silence. He wanted to hear the Swede talk, wanted to see those thin lips move, say something to comfort him, help him in any way- get over the trauma of killing his own people, reassure him that what he did was the right thing and that he didn't go through a major meltdown. His eyes softened a bit when he saw a weapon hanging on the wall that was clearly just for show, a weapon he had seen Sverige use a very long time ago when they were mere kids as vikings. He also remember them running through the vast woods outside Stockholm and Denmark had cackled uncontrollably because he was faster and couldn't be caught by Berwald after an argument.
He snickered and looked down for a second , but his train of thought gets cut off from two short demanding words. "Hv-hvad?" he chuckled and thought it was a joke. Was he going to throw him out already? Berwald suddenly took a hard grip of his arm and dragged him up "hvad fanden? Is this how ya treat yer guests, Ber?!" He retorted and hissed from the pain of having his bruises pressed at so brutally. Tick. He is shown to a smooth door at the end of the hall and gets . "'Kay, chill, bro. I'll wait" He walked on his own, shrugging off the hand that gripped tightly around his arm. He felt every step he took as if he was walking towards his doom and reached his destination. He got inside silently and waited, not taking a seat, he just slumped down and raised his knees, resting his elbows on them and hid his face in his hands. "Hvad fanden" he repeated, not completely sure of what was happening.
He waits. Magnus looks up and looks around the room, he had fallen asleep for a few seconds, or minutes. He had no idea. All he knew is that Berwald promised to return. He waits obediently. "No worries, he'll be back".
Tick.
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Post by Konungariket Sverige on Mar 14, 2011 16:52:33 GMT -5
Berwald tosses the documents back onto the desk, his lips set in an ugly grimace. What he had read was not pleasing. But he wasn’t despairing for his brother (and he wouldn’t, wouldn’t) – that Magnus still sat in this very building meant that the Kingdom of Denmark wasn’t gone, it meant that his scattered civilians still considered themselves Danish. This situation could be rectified with assistance. Assistance that Magnus hadn’t wanted back then. Berwald snorts at his own optimism, and turns on his heels to head back to the room he had asked Magnus to wait in.
He had already asked a medic to tend to the Dane – and though he was reassured by his fragility, Berwald still could not shake the nagging urge to return as soon as possible. And so his paces increased until he was almost sprinting back. Finding Magnus sitting comfortably on a chair, gazing at him with that expectant expression, Berwald simply stood in the doorway, blinking several times. He didn’t know what he had expected. Catastrophe, maybe.
“Mikael hasn’t arrived yet,” he states dumbly. Why were his human personnel so useless?
With his eyes still on the seemingly serene Dane, he approaches the frail figure and kneels down in front of him, diverting his gaze from his troubled face to the gashes on his shoulders. What weapons had they been fighting with? He knew that nations healed fast but these wounds… From what he discerned, at least nothing remotely radioactive was utilized. Teeth gritted, Berwald reached up to relieve the Dane of his shirt, expression steely when he accidentally tore some skin. Gud.
This. Him. Them. It felt surreal. Berwalds stands up and disposes of the tattered pieces of clothing, talking more time in preparing the antiseptic injection that needed. This was cowardly. Ridiculous. He stares at the tip of the needle, barely visible even in this light, and finally turns back.
“Jag-” he falters abruptly. Vad? Brows furrowed, Berwald simply stares, all senses hypersensitive in face of that something. "Did yer--"
---feel that?
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Post by Kongeriget Danmark on Apr 17, 2011 7:08:35 GMT -5
Something in the back of his head was ticking, hypnotizing him, sedating him into a blank state of mind. He sat there on a chair, next to a long mahogany table in a meticulously clean room, something that could’ve been taken out from an IKEA catalogue. The table was shiny enough for Magnus to count the few wrinkles on either side of his dry mouth. He’s living like a king Magnus thought, annoyed at himself for even letting it get to him.
The blond felt his body making futile attempts at healing itself. His open wounds were throbbing as the tissue tried to regenerate, but something in the process made it impossible for that to happen. He didn’t miraculously heal anymore like he used to.
His stolen clothes were saturated with dirt and blood. The stench of death clung to the previous king of Scandinavia. Magnus had grown accustomed to that horrible stench that would normally rape other people’s sinuses. It was the blood of his people that he had painfully outlived. The people Magnus himself had educated and fought next to. The people who were born in blood, who had forgotten about modern life and regressed to the viking way of life.
Magnus was lost, captured in his thoughts and memories, drowning in his own reflection, not moving a single muscle in his face, fearing that the single move would make that ticking sound clearer. Magnus’ staring competition with himself broke off when Berwald entered the room, closing the door with a loud thud.
The indisputable truth was that while Magnus had spiraled down, something that to him was, an inevitable self destructive path, Berwald had become the new king of Scandinavia, a title that the tall Swede had earned. Something he had worked pretty darn hard for.
Magnus was always the kind to give long and often pointless speeches to pass the time, while Berwald would always listen intently and offer a few sharp comments every now and then, but this time Magnus just smiled at him. He tried to find the color behind the spectacles. Inhale. Tick. “Yer truly th’ new king of Scandinavia, løve” he whispered. A sharp pain in his chest, a weak crooked smile.
CursethewhoresofValhalla, Berwald saw the picture. It fell out from his pocket. Fuck. Fuck everything. “Err, yeah. Thas sorta... I mean... Remember that time? Heh!” Awkard laugh followed by a hand on his heart as it stung. Ticking got louder. “I mean... Ya might not even remember! I’m always th’ one makin’ these things happen, right?” Tick “I mean, I was....Y’never really cared fer such things, never cared and yet yer th’ one who’s better off.”Another sting “Yet yer th’ one I gotta crawl back t’” Tick. Panic in his eyes. “Th’ fuck did I do? What have I done?” Everything dawned on him, everything became so clear and so painful.
Denmark had murdered his own people.
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