#vaerestor

[text] only without my shirt??

[text] ha! i'd win even if you were sober.

[text] rude

[text] obviously more than you

The room was dark, and the air was incredibly heavy. His calloused fingers were playing around with the glass that he emptied three times over, and the fourth round was lazily swishing around in the glass.

He stopped before bringing the glass to his mouth, dark blue eyes watching his calloused and broken fingers. All this fighting... it was a drain on him. It was such a heavy daring that some days he could barely hold a pen. This pathetic state he was in was Denmark’s fault, always having to rush into another war then another, then one more. Constantly. 

And they lost. The idea to align with Napoleon and that French man, was probably their final demise. The treaty was signed and it meant he had to ... Leave.  It was so easy to say: leave. It was easy for his bosses to say that they will attempt independence before submitting to Sve. They will be free, they said. He will be free. But somehow, though the idea sounded nice, it felt bitter sweet. It meant leaving Iceland - his little brother who barely had an idea over what was going on, behind. It meant living Denmark behind.

He emptied the glass in one simple sip and placed the glass down. He should wash it, he knew that much, but he couldn’t find the strength to do so. After all, he won’t be here anymore in the morning. It was may, yet Sigurd felt a cold, strong chill in his body. 

He was to leave his family behind. He was to leave the people he loved behind. He clenched his jaw and looked at the trunk that was sat beside him. It was packed beforehand, and he knew he had a carriage waiting for him at midnight to go back to Oslo, and to help with writing the damn constitution in hopes that it will save them from another submission. He knew that Denmark hated the idea of giving him up to Sweden. He didn’t want to do it either, but he knew that the chances of him claiming his independence were slim. And Iceland.. 

He poured another glass, drank it quickly and got up. His coat felt stiff and thick, but he forced himself to move. He hated knowing that he left them both while they were asleep. He checked on Iceland - the young boy still heavily asleep, and Denmark sprawled over their whole bed. When did they start to share a bed? He couldn’t remember anymore.  Still, he had to move.

Just as he wrapped his fingers around the doorknob, he heard Denmark’s familiar steps along the staircase and stopped, closing his eyes.

He has to do this.

Send one for a kiss from my muse.🔘 a kiss on a bruise/wound/etc.

Fine, he didn’t want to tell him how and why he got that wound on his shoulder. Fine.

In all honesty, Sigurd was fuming as he sat behind the other, dabbing medical alcohol on a cotton so he could clean the long cut on the Dane’s shoulder. It was odd that the other showed up at his doorstep, big grin and all, holding his bleeding shoulder. How he got it and why, he didn’t want to tell, only asking Sigurd to patch him up.

And he was mad. Not because he showed up announced, making him have to put his book and coffee down, not because he was sitting cross legged behind him, patching up the shoulder wound. It would heal by the end of the day, sure, but still. If it got infected it would take longer. 

He was mad because the other got hurt. It was irrational and stupid - Sigurd was fully aware of that, but he still loathed the idea of the other being and getting hurt like that. He wasn’t there to help. So his anger was mostly at himself.

Norway wasn’t aware if Denmark was talking or not, simply cleaning the wound and placing a gauze atop before securing it with a bandage around his shoulder. It’s been centuries of practice that he did this, so this was nothing new for him. Once he was done, Sigurd stared at the white bandage, with no trace of blood anywhere on it. Still. he got to bandage him somewhere safe, knowing he’ll recover in no time.

It wasn’t like before.

👋 What was the mun’s first impression of the muse?

👥 What is your favorite experience together as mun and muse?

Send me “+” for a completely irrelevant headcanon about my muse!

There was a period of time where as a younger woman she longed to become a nun. Hair shirts, hours of prayer, sleeping on a straw pallet, waking well before dawn…she was utterly devoted. 

Then one day someone implied/bluntly implied that being what she is, she is essentially unholy and doomed to never see the pearly gates.