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Lady_Lunevis

Forelsket

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Norway blinked in surprise when Denmark tited his head to look at her, his sky-blue eyes sparkling, a faint hint of a smile on his lips. Almost instinctively, she lowered her eyes, before something other drove her to return his gaze, darkest blue meeting the sea's waves. She kept her gaze locked onto his as she spoke, and then with a start she realised the other was replying, his calm baritone echoing around the otherwise silent halls.

"I should love to see such beauty," Denmark replied, and she smiled softly, memories of her homeland dear to her heart.

"But not as beautiful as the sight I see now," he finished.

Norway stopped abruptly, nearly tripping over the hem of her dress. Come again? Had she heard correctly?

She cleared her throat and resumed walking, allowing him to guide them around a corner as her eyes were locked onto his gaze. He had an eyebrow raised, his grin wide and echoed with the appearance of a sly wink. Norway felt her pale features flush up just as she tried to calm her beating heart, and--

She had heard correctly, right?

"Thank you," she replied, voice small, almost hoping he would miss it. She lowered her gaze before continuing, voice remaining hesitant. "You have a country full of women, Denmark. You could have any you desire--you need not come thousands of miles for one."

She blushed, thinking of snowfall and dusted windows, of sharing mulled wine over an open fire and watching the snow blanket rows upon rows of trees.

All actions she enjoyed, all actions she wanted to repeat . . . only, in her daydreams, there was now a certain Dane that she wanted to share such beautiful sights with. However . . . dreams were only dreams, after all. Or . . . ?

She risked a peek at the other, blushing faintly.

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Denmark's compliment had, apparently, paid off. Norway was blushing due to his words. And she thanked him for them. His heart swelled slightly in his chest; he hadn't been rejected by her.

This was not like last night, when frostiness had radiated off her like a freezing shield, preventing anything to get through to her heart. Now she was thawing before his eyes - it even looked as if she was heating up, with those slightly pink cheeks. And he was finding it... adorable?

Was he really thinking of her that way?

Why yes. Yes, he was.

"Not all women were created equal, no matter what those Christian gods may claim," he declared, a small amount of derision at the mention of the religious folk. There were no other gods than the Norse gods. They were the true gods.

"I would not just have any woman. There are few with which I can connect, and fewer who will not die in the blink of an eye..."

The tall Dane glanced across to her again, adjusting his arm such that she was pulled a little closer to him. It was a small gesture, but their contact made little fireworks explode on his skin, tingling up to his spine.

They entered the kitchen, and he did not let her go. It was not a conscious action. He liked having her there.

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Norway felt her gloved fingers gently touch upon Denmark's arm as the country drew her closer, almost protectively. The platinum blonde blushed, a faint pink dusting her cheeks as she felt small sparks surge through her being at the contact, at being so close to Denmark. She could sense his words, feel the way he moved to express his words, how gently his voice faded off as his sentence finished and he gazed at her with nothing but hope in those clear blues, and the blonde felt a certain something stir within herself.

"Immorality," she murmured, keeping her gaze drawn as they stepped foot into the kitchen, with him still holding her close and her refusing to let go, perfectly balancing her grip on his arm. "Those who dream of such deem it a blessing. And yet . . ."

She looked up, deep into his eyes. "And I not any regular man."

They drew close, and she felt his calm breathing next to her quickened gasps. She gazed at his lips, wondering what sorts of words they would form. Her heart thundered in her chest, almost filling up her ears. When had she begun to think of Denmark this way? There was no singular date. Perhaps it had always been there, oppressed, hidden away, and now . . .

She held her breath, wishing for a miracle.

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A miracle happened.

Denmark saw how she looked at him. It was- at least, he was pretty sure that his feelings were mutual. Those cobalt, dark eyes were trained on his own bright ones. Mystery, suffering, beauty was mirrored in them. He wanted to unlock their secrets.

"Norge..."

It was like a wave had risen in his waters - he was the ocean, and she was the rock he had to slowly wear down. And like that wave, he crashed upon her, lips coming to meet hers in an almost forceful kiss.

He wanted this.

He needed this.

Denmark hadn't realised just how much until now.

"Damn you Norge," he murmured against her lips. Each of his hands held her arms in an iron grip, his senses were on fire.

"You're no ordinary woman."

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It came suddenly, as all good things do, and Norway's knees felt weak at the feeling of Denmark suddenly pressing himself up against her, his lips slightly chapped, widened upon hers. She pushed into the kiss almost instinctively, as if everything felt right, and in that split second the world stopped.

Norway felt something inside of her click into place, as if a key long abandoned had finally found a home. Enveloped in Denmark's hold, she felt his arms tighten around her, a firm, warm hold as she was pressed further against his chest. Her heart beat in her ears desperately, and when she heard him speak the world seemed to spin all too suddenly at once and all too perfectly.

She laughed against his mouth, feeling his words brush faint winds upon her lips. She tilted her head back, arms linking around his neck.

"Forelsket," she murmured. "And I do not doubt that of you, either."

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Denmark smiled down at Norway, fingers interlinking at the small of her back. He was fire and she was ice. He was the sun and she was the moon. They were so different and yet so similar. He hadn't ever found someone like her before.

For a moment, he was filled with a feeling of... fear? How could he fear such a small person? No, it was different, this was... fear of what he was feeling. He quirked an eyebrow.

"Breakfast awaits, no?"

The blonde let his arms slip down from around her, returning his attention to their initial task. And to be honest, he was unsure of what to say now. They were in the kitchen, and he was a tall and hungry man.

"What do you wish for?" he asked her, a hand coming to gently guide her inside at the small of her back. "There are eggs, bread, bacon, herrings..."

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Norway shivered in the air of early morning, feeling Denmark's fingers grace her back. His hands were large, strong and warm, holding her close in an embrace. She tapped gently on his chest with slim fingers, marveling at how little her hand was compared to his.

They were so different in . . . well, everything. From the beginning to the Viking age to now, they had spun around each other in a cycle of repeat. When he rose, she fell, and when she shone, he darkened. And now . . .

What did this mean?

I wish we could stay like this forever.

But they were countries, were they not? Countries, eternally fated to a life of rise and ruin, to see citizens and friends die, to see golden ages pass and crumble to dust.

Until there was nothing left but them . . . she would enjoy this to the very last breath.

At his words, she stirred and rose, the moment broken yet not entirely forgotten. "Indeed," she agreed, breathless. Dark cobalt eyes looked around, and Norway leaned into his embrace. "Anything is well," she replied. "Though I am feeling for bread. What about you?"

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Denmark smiled lightly, glancing down at her.

"Bread and some Danish butter?" he offered, his fingernails lightly scratching the small of her back. Mm, he was sure it would look even better than it felt through the fabric of her clothes. They were cheeky thoughts, but they were his own.

"I actually baked a fresh loaf yesterday, rye. How's that?" Rye was very popular in Denmark, and he usually added fish in the afternoon or evening. With such good fish at hand, how could he want for anything more?

Removing his hand from her, he ducked into the pantry and re-emerged a second later with a dark, floury loaf and a butter dish. He placed it on the side (which was in poor need of a polish) and retrieved two plates from the cupboard.

"What are you wishing to do today?" he asked, glancing her way again as he sliced. Denmark was reminded once again that she was a prisoner... But she was not a prisoner in the typical sense. It was more like she was a bride for an arranged marriage she was not keen on. He hoped she was keen on him, however - and not using him, for being influential of his boss.

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"Ah, rye?" Norway echoed, a simple murmur as she felt Denmark's fingers stroke the small of her back, playing just within inches of his spine. His touch was soft and gentle, his fingertips dancing like the small fairies of her homelands admist the folds of her clothing.

She smiled softly to herself at such a thought--oh? Was she possibly equaling Denmark to her home country? Whatever could this mean?

Denmark removed himself from her company with all the grace of a familiar lover, and Norway watches as he disappears into the kitchens and returns with a loaf of freshly-baked bread in tow. He sets it down and begins slicing, working away casually as he regarded her with a gaze.

"What are you wishing to do today?" he asked, and she hesitated. What she wished to do? She knew not of the lands of Denmark--they were familiar in her youth, but in the eons that had separated them due to famine and war, his country was now only a disappearing memory to her. She could not fathom what must have changed since her visit during her adolescence--for no matter the time past, the rivers still beat true and the mountains high and vast. Denmark had a beautiful home, yes, and it was more a palace than anything, yet she longed to break away from the chains of a simple housewife's duty and explore just as she had done back in the founding of her nation.

Ah, if only life could continue as she wished, forever and ever.

"I do not know," she replied earnestly, taking a seat. She folded her hands in her lap, simply and elegantly, and waited for him to finish his task. "I would . . ." she continued on, and then faltered slightly, "I would like to take a walk, perhaps." A pause. Would he grant her such a simple request? It took the harsh wound of reality to realise that, no matter their circumstances nor personal feelings, she still remained in his custody--he owned her, for lack of a better term, for legal contracts dictated that the countries of Sweden and Norway were now in Denmark's hold, and she was unsure how he would react to granting her the freedom to walk outside as she liked.

She wished with all her might to feel the wind rushing through her hair, to ride a horse and gallop until her heart sang with the birds. Feeling apprehension close up in her throat, the girl cast her eyes downwards and waited.

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Denmark returned his attention to breakfast as Norway thought, spreading the dark floured bread with creamy soft butter. He took the plates in hand, and had turned to her as she requested a... walk. He paused too, a moment of silence drifting between them. He shrugged after that, with a nod.

"Why not?" he said, walking through to the dining room and placing the plates on the once-shiny table. It was finger food; no need for cutlery. It was extra washing, anyway. He pulled out a chair for her.

"You used to be more daring," he commented with a wry smile. But the Dane knew all too well why. She was a prisoner, and he her captor. She had surely remembered that. But Norway was slightly mistaken; she was a prisoner that he cared for. So long as she behaved, he could be lenient.

"We could walk through the gardens and forest," he mused. "Otherwise, we could take the ponies and make a trip to the village." The one functioning part of the castle was the stable; a necessity for transport. There was one stableboy who cared for the four Fjord ponies that Denmark owned. "We could ride, or take the carriage."

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"Why not?"

Denmark lead her to the dining room, placing the plates down of slices of bread with creamy butter. He pulled out her seat for her, to which she gave a polite smile and a dip of the head, whispering a 'thank you'.

"You used to be more daring," he remarked, and she blinked--indeed, that was true, for back during her youth she had not a fear in the entire world. But the tides of time had changed, had they not? Now, they were different people entirely--he, the king of a grand land, and her, a simple girl confined to a life of misery for the unforeseen future.

Then again, perhaps she was being melodramatic. After all, there were worse ways to spend imprisonment--yet status could never be truly forgot, or the nations would crumble upon their foundations.

At his suggestion, she instantly perked up--ride? Ah, yes, she had gone far too long without the feeling of being on a horse without having to do the proper orderly conduct as expected of a lady, where one had to sit side-saddle and march at an orderly pace. She longed to race through the hills of the Nordic airs, with the wind accompanying her flight onwards.

"Could we ride?" Norway asked, unable to contain her excitement as her eyes sparkled with happiness she had long thought forgotten. She has unaware Denmark had ponies, nor that he cared all too much for horseback riding, but at this simple mention her dreams came alight with possibility. She took a bite of bread, savouring the fresh taste, and waited a response.

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After helping her in, Denmark took his own seat across from her at the grand table. They were close, but the wood stretched far away from them both on one side. As he picked up his bread, he paused. A grin slowly spread across his lips as he looked at Norway, measuring her with bright blue eyes.

"So that was what you wanted," he commented with a hearty laugh that was entirely his. Shaking his head, he bit down into the soft, dark bread. It was slightly bitter and sour - just as it should be.

"Fine. We will ride to town. I shall ask Larson to use the saddle for ladies, no?" His eyes flitted down her dress; most ladies rode that way, due to their dress. Some women had ridden astride before in his presence but that was a rare occasion - usually during war, or if he had really needed an extra warrior. Denmark assumed that Norway would prefer this way of riding; she looked ever the lady.

Edited by Chicogal

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Norway felt a flush rise in her cheeks as Denmark's face slowly spread into a wide grin at her suggestion, his playful blue eyes twinkling with the air of solved mystery.

He laughed, commenting on her choice, and took a bite of his food. Following his fashion with flushed cheeks, Norway too took another bite to break her fast and focused her gaze onto the bread, watching as the butter oozed between the layers of dough as she listened to him speak.

Ride to town? Such an event seemed like a dream--she had gone far too long without visiting the commonfolk, and the prospect of a night spent amongst merchants and adventurers warmed her heart.

However, all thoughts fell from her mind like a glacier crashing through the ice, a castaway thrown off the boat and left to a life of misery. The saddle for ladies? Norway's eyes flickered, her dark gaze hidden by golden-white eyelashes, and she steeled herself and looked into Denmark's eyes with all the strength of the Nordic fjords.

"There will be no need," she addressed, "I shall change my attire. I will be perfectly comfortable suiting for men."

Her heart thumped in her throat, and she gulped--she put on a show of bravery, yes, but she did not know how she would feel if Denmark--her best friend, her childhood companion, and now her . . . lover?--were to rip her from the last semblances of her honour as a warrior. She may be a woman, but she was still a country at heart.

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Denmark missed the change in the weather across from him, instead having become somewhat involved with his bread. He was a man, and a tall man - he had quite the appetite. He was just biting down on a rather large chunk when Norway piped up - huh?

He slowly chewed, looking at her curiously. His face was expressionless for a few moments. Oh, he was a tease. He stared at her for a few seconds, almost a little affronted before-

He laughed.

It was a Viking laugh, rough and hearty and brave.

"Oh, you have always amused me Norge," he chuckled. "Of course. Whatever the lady desires. I will let Larson know of your wants."

There was no reason why he would not let her. She was a country, and he would not remove her dignity unless forced. She was a friend. Perhaps now a lover. And he could not treat such a person badly. And in fact, the Dane did not particularly care which way she rode a horse. Did it really matter anyway?

Still grinning, he finished his bread.

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Norway met his blue gaze head on, unfaltering as her heart jumped in her chest. However would she deal, if the one person she trusted beyond words imaginable were to destroy her last dreams . . . !

However, that was not to be. Denmark's laugh shattered the silence, loud and booming, and Norway sighed in relief. Ah, his tone . . .

It brought back images she long thought forgotten, of days spent sailing on the waters, cuddled together underneath the decks for warmth, of days spent pillaging, adventuring, lovemaking . . .

She was certain those were the golden days, and so far away were they now she thought them only mere dreams, wavering on the border between reality and fantasy.

"Of course. Whatever the lady desires. I will let Larson know of your wants."

Norway bowed her head, intending to reply back respectfully, yet her excitement betrayed her thoughts. At long last . . . she would be free!

"Thank you, Den," she replied softly, a small smile touching her lips as fondness radiated in her eyes, making those dark blues soft and boundless as the calm oceans.

"You were always good to me," she said softly, she too finishing her meal seconds after Denmark. She stood, watching him. "Shall we go on?"

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"Of course. And you have always been dear to me."

Rising, Denmark led the way to the kitchen. He placed his plate in the sink, and filled it with cold water - there was not hot water in those days. Turning around, he grinned at Norway.

"Shall we just leave them to soak?"

It really would not make a difference either way, but he was eager to get going on their trip. It would be fun! Usually he had to ride alone, and although he was not scared, it was not so fun as riding with a companion to talk to and joke with.

The tall man started wandering toward the door, throwing a white grin over his shoulders. "Get dressed, and meet me at the front door!"

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You have always been dear to me.

The words sent a strange warmness through her, and Norway dips her head--her heart drums in her chest, and the Norwegian woman smiles lightly to herself. She accompanied him, she too dumping her plates into the sink as he spoke.

Nodding eagerly, Norway excused herself with a dip of the head, a smooth curtsy, and a whispered word--"thank you", she said softly, with a hint of tenderness upon her lips and all the light shining in her eyes, and retreated.

She went to her chambers, newly minted, and threw back her wardrobe. Upon sight, she began digging through layers upon layers of dresses to find her old riding wear, back in the days when the war required her frequently to ride horses in the traditionally male sense. After all, having a war general in a skirt upon a horse was simply ridiculous.

If only people still had the sense now that they had had back then.

She decides not to contemplate on the woes of this era, instead changing fast. Attendants flew in and out of her quarters, and within half an hour she was prepared and ready to go. After ages of wearing dresses, pants were a new--and welcome--sensation, and she eagerly gathered her fair hair up into wisps of a ponytail and made her way down the halls to the front door.

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Denmark lazily loped back up to his room, knowing he would not take long. After all, ladies took forever to get dressed. It was almost a rule. But they looked rather good in the end, so it was always worth the wait.

Yawning, he lazily pulled out a pair of breeches and a fine shirt along with his heeled riding boots. It took him all of two minutes to get changed, barely stopping to look in the mirror. He smoothed down his hair, smiling for a moment at his reflection. Sharp. As soon as he left the room, it sprang back up again.

He only had to wait a ten minutes for his companion once given Larson his orders - and she did look quite nice, actually. It was surprising; most women could not look so attractive in pants. However, most women in pants he'd encountered had been rather rough warriors... Not the type he'd take to bed.

Norway was different.

Offering his arm and a grin, he nodded to the door.

"Shall we take our leave, my lady in breeches?" he asked teasingly.

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Norway stifled a laugh at his comment, sliding her arm through his. In his grasp, she felt warm--and protected, as if nothing in the world could get through. Her arm delicately entwined through his . . . it seemed shockingly perfect, as if that was where it was supposed to be since the beginning of time, and would remain forever.

"We shall," she replied, smiling softly. Together they walked, away from the darkness of the castle into the blindingly white light of the morning. The weather was fair--not overly heated, but warm in the sense that grey clouds covered the skies yet no rain was shed from the heavens.

How poetic, she thought to herself, chuckling faintly.

"I love this weather," she spoke softly, as if afraid that the moment should break under too heavy a conversation, and raised her face to the clouds. "It is perfect for riding. For how long shall we go?"

He lead them towards the stables, and Norway's heart drummed with anticipation at seeing the ponies.

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Denmark felt a warmth in his chest at her touch - she was like a little bird, something for him to protect. He strode confidently, chest puffed out slightly like a robin. The Dane was a showoff, but that was just his personality. Often he barely even realised he was doing it.

"It is," he agreed. He was used to the cool, the touch of misty caresses that sometimes arose goosebumps. This sort of weather meant the ponies were more fresh, but also more likely to catch a chill. But Larson always seemed to know best for the ponies, so he never worried.

"Perhaps an hour each way? Depends on how fast we go," Denmark replied, glancing at her.

A moment later, they rounded the corner into the stables. In the middle of the courtyard stood two dun ponies. A young man was holding the reins of both, but fiddling with the bridle of the slightly large one. Their manes stood up stiffly from their necks, and they weren't tall at all. In fact, when Denmark came close, his chest came close to his pony's back. Taking the reins, he grinned at Norway.

"This is Vann, my lady," Larson said, with a slight nod of respect. "He is named after your word for water, for he moves well. May I help you with a leg-up?"

Next to Vann, Denmark was putting his foot in the stirrup and easily swung his leg over the saddle to sit down on his stallion, Brand. Brand was aptly named after fire; he snorted, jogging sideways away from Vann at the weight on his back. But Denmark was strong and tall and used to his antics; he was quietened a moment later.

The tall man looked somewhat like a long-legged insect atop a ladybug.

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An hour. Norway smiled at Denmark's words, tucking herself closer to him in the chill of the early-morning mountains. An hour riding, free from her worries, her duties, her responsibilities . . . truly, it sounded too good to be true. An hour with nothing but the wind's fingers, tangled in her hair like a lover's caress, the mountains alone watching her actions. An hour . . . of freedom.

Perhaps she was daydreaming, for it was all too suddenly they neared the stables and her excitement spiked.

"Vann," she repeated, stroking the nose of the creature. Small hairs bristled underneath her fingertips, and dewy eyes stared into her own.

"Hello," she whispered, smiling at the horse before her. Norway's eyes flickered, dark blue meeting gorgeous brown, and she turned to Larson after a moment's notice.

"That is a beautiful name," she commented lightly, tilting her head to the side. Vann seemed to acknowledge her presence, flickering his tail. "Who named him?"

She dipped her head in acknowledgement of Larson's words. "If you may," she allowed, stepping aside to allow Larson to help her up.

After she had safely settled herself atop the horse, Norway ran a hand through Vann's mane before clutching the reins. The horse was placid underneath her grasp, eager to go yet not so willful that he would take off without orders. She could feel Vann's excitement stir into her, awakening a childish urge to charge off into the wilderness, and Norway felt her heart beat against her chest.

She turned her gaze to Denmark, who was nearly, and could not help the smile that gathered on her face--the older man, though noble in appearance, dwarfed the smaller pony, and it was quite a comedic sight.

"The poor horse," she commented lightly as a jest, "what be his name? Surely you'll have to award him for his labours later on."

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