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The sound of anxious footsteps hovering in the doorway distracted Norway from the narrow script of Sweden’s latest terse missive decrying Denmark’s bold encroachment on Swedish rights. He considered snapping at the intruder before guiltily acknowledging that he was glad for the interruption, eyes and mind already weary from a long morning of contemplating the intricacies of this Kalmar Union. Swiftly, he folded the parchment and left Sweden’s concerns for another hour, brushing his fingers over the folds of his tunic as he turned to find one of the wretches from the stables staring at him with apprehensive eyes.
Norway frowned and waved his hand, gesturing for the man to deliver his troublesome news, already preparing himself to hear bad tidings of some horse escaped or some scullery maid stolen away. He was not prepared for the sudden thrill of fear that had him pushing out of his chair and gripping the messenger’s collar to demand to be taken immediately to Iceland.
The man who had dared to tell him of the Little One’s misfortune quailed beneath the fury of his gaze and Norway was certain that feet had never moved more swiftly down the dark halls of Denmark’s castle to the cloistered and candle-lit chambers that Iceland kept when Norway did not allow him to share his bed. He did not always have room for a child’s needs in an adult world of intrigue and intimacy, for all that the quiet and mysterious little land was dear to him in ways that belied all sense and reason.
“Send for Denmark. And then begone from my sight. You have done more than enough today.” Norway banished the trembling groom and swept silently to Iceland’s side, taking in the unnatural pallor beneath pale cheeks, touching one finger to the sweat staining his child’s brow.
“What have you done, Little One?” Norway murmured softly, bending down to inspect the swelling of his shoulder, doubtless dislocated when the child tumbled from his horse. “Have you taken a foolish tumble?”
Iceland’s eyes were clouded with pain and his small hand reached for Norway’s dress, gripping loosely at his waist as though he wished to tug him near. Norway acquiesced, letting the child grasp his hand with clammy fingers, though he knew he could not remain here long if the bone was to be reset. Norway sighed, sorrowful at the prospect of causing his brave little ward to suffer further, but seeing no alternative but to help him endure the hurt.
“Norge! What’s the matter?” Denmark barreled into the room, shouting his apprehensive greetings so loudly they startled the Little One into a sudden movement that had him gasping with pain, the sound of it grating against Norway’s nerves.
“Silence, you idiot,” Norway hissed, swishing the skirt of his tunic so Denmark could see Iceland’s pathetic and prostrate body on the bed linens. He shot Denmark a steely glare, willing the fool to understand the absolute need for calm confidence to assure the child. “There’s no need to make such a fuss over Iceland taking a silly little fall.”
Denmark bit his lip and slowed his steps, shedding his riding coat and gloves as he came near. Norway watched Denmark bend over and give Iceland a cheerful smile, winking ridiculously at the sulllen boy as he chortled softly, “Ahhh, and here I thought it was Norge who was the clumsy one in our family!”
Norway rolled his eyes at the insinuation, smiling gently when Iceland’s fingers tightened around his own and the Little One managed to grumble with pained effort, “I am not clumsy! It was the horse.”
“Norway always blamed it on the boat when he got tossed into the ocean,” Denmark answered laughingly, though he met Norway’s questioning gaze, nodding brusquely when Norway pointed subtly at the boy’s injured shoulder. Norway swallowed his relief that he would not have to say allowed what needed to be done, for once glad that he and Denmark knew enough of injury and each other to move silently through the motions of healing and repair.
“I did nothing of the sort,” Norway rebuked him coolly, turning to Iceland as he stood and made to climb onto to the bed. “Do not listen to foolish lies, Little One. He speaks from his ass.”
Heartened by the sound of Iceland’s rasping giggle, Norway took the opportunity of his distracting to lift the boy into seated position, stroking the fragile skin of his wrist in apology as slid behind Iceland and held him close against his chest.
“Norge is the one you shouldn’t believe, especially when it comes to how often he finds himself on his ass, let alone talking out of it.” Denmark said casually, keeping the Little One’s attention with his cheerful words as he laid all of Norway’s past shames bare while coming close to take Iceland’s injured arm in his rough, yet gentle, hands. “I bet you'd would never guess that one time, when we were off having fun at England’s place, Norge slipped and fell in the mud and split his head open a rock so badly I had to stitch him up right then and there on the battlefield.”
Norway shook his head, preparing to contradict Denmark’s ridiculous and false account only to stop his words at the sound of Iceland’s whispered question, “Did he cry?”
Norway closed his eyes briefly and held the boy closer, brushing his lips against his matted hair as he gave Iceland the permission he needed, “I certainly did cry, Little One.”
Denmark smiled tightly, ruffling Iceland’s hair as he made ready to reset the joint, promising him quietly, “And if someone as mean and scary as Norge cried, what can be expected of the rest of us mere mortals?”
Norway felt Iceland nod and stiffen, preparing himself so bravely, little fingers curling around the hand that Norway offered freely, a hand that wished it could take on the suffering sting to come. Norway met Denmark’s fond and worried gaze, glad that he was not alone to listen to Iceland’s cries, mouthing the order for Denmark to put all to rights.
And when it was over, when Iceland had endured the snap and pop, when Denmark had stopped saying “sorry, sorry, so sorry,” when Norway had ceased kissing the fevered skin of the Little One’s face, they turned to each other and found that Iceland had not shed a single tear.
“He is stronger than he has any right to be,” Norway murmured as he tucked the covers around the tiny frame, brushing his hand down the length of the injured arm as he pulled a chair near to watch over the child as he slept.
“He gets that from you, I think,” Denmark said quietly as he joined Norway’s vigil, kneeling tiredly on the stone floor. He felt Denmark’s hand, still shaking, splay against the back of his neck, fingers stroking idly at the curl of his hair.
Norway pulled his eyes from Iceland’s visage, tense in restless and pained sleep and pressed a grateful kiss to Denmark’s honest and worried mouth, telling him without words that he was thankful. Denmark kissed him sweetly, without the usual razor’s edge of passion, returning this unusual sentimentality born only of mutual affection for what was theirs to protect.
“And perhaps a little from you, as well,” Norway whispered against the parting of Denmark’s lips, confessing his admiration just this once before letting the room fall still and quiet but for the sound of Iceland’s steady breathing.