![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Rota Fortunae [FemSweden/Norway]
Title: Rota Fortunae
Characters/Pairing: femSweden/Norway
Rating: 10+
Length: 750
Summary: As Norway falls, Denmark reaches his height, and Sweden rises. The wheel turns.
Other: Set during the Kalmar Union. Inspired by my friend Clara's tl;dr, as I was bored and she supplied me some wonderful ideas. :)
Rota Fortunae
The wheel turns.
Once, he knew what it was to stand by himself. Norway remembers it well.
He remembers that he was sturdy as his own rugged land, as firm as his very mountains. His hands were heavy with gold, and his grip was sure. Straight-backed, he held his course, bowing to none.
He was strong, once.
Pesta came with her rake and broom, taking so much and leaving next to nothing in her wake. Norway fell, cut off at the knees. There was nothing more to say about it.
Denmark offered his hand.
"Come on! We'll be a great team, you and me."
Norway looked up at him, at that broad smile with teeth like knives, and the wide, strong hand held out to him.
He took it without a word, helpless to do anything else, wondering to himself, Is that so?
Now, with the ache screaming in his bones, Norway is pale as death, and almost as silent. He stays by Denmark's side like a ghost, tight-lipped and listening. He remembers Denmark's offer and considers it again. We'll be a great team. Is that so?
He is not the only one Denmark brought into his house.
She is there. Sweden. She stands taller now than she did before, when it was the two of them. When they clasped hands and made their pact, their union. Taller still than before that, when their tolerance for each other was thin as early-autumn ice, and there were no welcoming words between them.
When she speaks, the words are low-toned, almost rumbling. When Sweden and Denmark argue, his voice is sharp; it bites. But hers grows, gathering, until her voice is a roar.
She catches Norway's eyes, and her own are hard as granite. Why won't you take my side? they ask.
Norway watches, and listens, and says nothing.
She comes to him now and then, taking his hand and dragging him from his books without a word, only a look. He has to quicken his step to keep up with her. When did her legs get so long? It is only when they are out in the sunlight that she says anything.
"The fresh air'll be good for ya."
Nothing more, nothing less. He puts up with it for the feeling of her hand clasping his own, and the way she sits near to him, quiet and content, as he reads to her in the gardens beneath the trees.
Sweden stands taller still as time goes on. Her back is straight, her shoulders broader than most women. She no longer slouches, doesn't try to minimize her height.
Norway has to tilt his head up to look at her.
The arguments are more frequent. They are more than arguments. Denmark and Sweden's voices echo through the halls, shaking Denmark's home to the foundation.
Norway watches. Listens. He says nothing.
She comes to him one night when the noise has made him retire to his room. The closed door muffles Denmark, whose yells die down after a time, but her roaring goes on for hours.
Her hand is broken. She doesn't need to explain, and he doesn't ask. They are far less fragile than their people, and she is far stronger than he is.
"Ought not to provoke him."
"Ought t'come with me."
Norway lifts his head and stares at her. In the candlelight, her hair is golden as a lion's hide.
"What?"
"Leaving tonight." Sweden cups his face with her uninjured hand, steady and sure. "Come with me."
Norway looks at her. Takes in the sight of her, her long hair in disarray, her face quiet and strong. The words don't come. He closes his eyes and tilts his head into her touch and doesn't speak.
Sweden's kiss is firm. There is pressure in it, as if by being held he might crumple under her. Close-lipped, Norway returns it, and draws away to face her.
"I'm staying where I am, thanks."
Her lips part in surprise. He sees teeth. "Rather be under him?"
"Rather be on my own."
"Y'look like a corpse. Can't stand by yerself."
She is right.
"I'll hold ya' up. Come with me."
Her words dig in, but he doesn't flinch. She'll hold him, perhaps that's true, but he can hear in her voice that she'll never let go. He lowers his head. "I'm staying where I am," he says, and wraps her broken hand without another word.
It will be whole by morning. He knows this. He can feel the strength in her.
She will be gone.
The wheel turns.
End
---
Notes if anyone is curious:
01. Title and concept taken from the classical/medieval concept of rota fortunae, or the Wheel of Fortune. The principle is that the wheel is constantly turning, and that those who rise to good fortune will eventually also fall. In the medieval period, more emphasis was put on the fall aspect; everyone will eventually be brought beneath Fortune's wheel.
02. Pesta is the Norwegian personification of the Black Plague, depicted as an old woman with a broom and a rake who travelled around the countryside. If she visited a farm with her rake, then some of the population would survive; but if she brought her broom, then the entire population would perish. Some of the best-known illustrations of Pesta are by Theodore Kittelsen.
Characters/Pairing: femSweden/Norway
Rating: 10+
Length: 750
Summary: As Norway falls, Denmark reaches his height, and Sweden rises. The wheel turns.
Other: Set during the Kalmar Union. Inspired by my friend Clara's tl;dr, as I was bored and she supplied me some wonderful ideas. :)
Rota Fortunae
The wheel turns.
Once, he knew what it was to stand by himself. Norway remembers it well.
He remembers that he was sturdy as his own rugged land, as firm as his very mountains. His hands were heavy with gold, and his grip was sure. Straight-backed, he held his course, bowing to none.
He was strong, once.
Pesta came with her rake and broom, taking so much and leaving next to nothing in her wake. Norway fell, cut off at the knees. There was nothing more to say about it.
Denmark offered his hand.
"Come on! We'll be a great team, you and me."
Norway looked up at him, at that broad smile with teeth like knives, and the wide, strong hand held out to him.
He took it without a word, helpless to do anything else, wondering to himself, Is that so?
Now, with the ache screaming in his bones, Norway is pale as death, and almost as silent. He stays by Denmark's side like a ghost, tight-lipped and listening. He remembers Denmark's offer and considers it again. We'll be a great team. Is that so?
He is not the only one Denmark brought into his house.
She is there. Sweden. She stands taller now than she did before, when it was the two of them. When they clasped hands and made their pact, their union. Taller still than before that, when their tolerance for each other was thin as early-autumn ice, and there were no welcoming words between them.
When she speaks, the words are low-toned, almost rumbling. When Sweden and Denmark argue, his voice is sharp; it bites. But hers grows, gathering, until her voice is a roar.
She catches Norway's eyes, and her own are hard as granite. Why won't you take my side? they ask.
Norway watches, and listens, and says nothing.
She comes to him now and then, taking his hand and dragging him from his books without a word, only a look. He has to quicken his step to keep up with her. When did her legs get so long? It is only when they are out in the sunlight that she says anything.
"The fresh air'll be good for ya."
Nothing more, nothing less. He puts up with it for the feeling of her hand clasping his own, and the way she sits near to him, quiet and content, as he reads to her in the gardens beneath the trees.
Sweden stands taller still as time goes on. Her back is straight, her shoulders broader than most women. She no longer slouches, doesn't try to minimize her height.
Norway has to tilt his head up to look at her.
The arguments are more frequent. They are more than arguments. Denmark and Sweden's voices echo through the halls, shaking Denmark's home to the foundation.
Norway watches. Listens. He says nothing.
She comes to him one night when the noise has made him retire to his room. The closed door muffles Denmark, whose yells die down after a time, but her roaring goes on for hours.
Her hand is broken. She doesn't need to explain, and he doesn't ask. They are far less fragile than their people, and she is far stronger than he is.
"Ought not to provoke him."
"Ought t'come with me."
Norway lifts his head and stares at her. In the candlelight, her hair is golden as a lion's hide.
"What?"
"Leaving tonight." Sweden cups his face with her uninjured hand, steady and sure. "Come with me."
Norway looks at her. Takes in the sight of her, her long hair in disarray, her face quiet and strong. The words don't come. He closes his eyes and tilts his head into her touch and doesn't speak.
Sweden's kiss is firm. There is pressure in it, as if by being held he might crumple under her. Close-lipped, Norway returns it, and draws away to face her.
"I'm staying where I am, thanks."
Her lips part in surprise. He sees teeth. "Rather be under him?"
"Rather be on my own."
"Y'look like a corpse. Can't stand by yerself."
She is right.
"I'll hold ya' up. Come with me."
Her words dig in, but he doesn't flinch. She'll hold him, perhaps that's true, but he can hear in her voice that she'll never let go. He lowers his head. "I'm staying where I am," he says, and wraps her broken hand without another word.
It will be whole by morning. He knows this. He can feel the strength in her.
She will be gone.
The wheel turns.
End
---
Notes if anyone is curious:
01. Title and concept taken from the classical/medieval concept of rota fortunae, or the Wheel of Fortune. The principle is that the wheel is constantly turning, and that those who rise to good fortune will eventually also fall. In the medieval period, more emphasis was put on the fall aspect; everyone will eventually be brought beneath Fortune's wheel.
02. Pesta is the Norwegian personification of the Black Plague, depicted as an old woman with a broom and a rake who travelled around the countryside. If she visited a farm with her rake, then some of the population would survive; but if she brought her broom, then the entire population would perish. Some of the best-known illustrations of Pesta are by Theodore Kittelsen.