The First Time We Died

The battlefield had long since been deserted by the time he woke up.

The rancid smell of death hung in the air, far thicker than when the battle had been ongoing. It could no longer be covered up by adrenaline that coursed through their veins or the sense of fulfilling and belief that their actions were honourable and important; now there was just a feeling of desolation and abandonment, accompanied by a heavy weight on the chest. For Denmark, he realised that this weight wasn't just figurative and was the literal source of the difficulty he was having with breathing.

He gave the hardest shove he could to whatever it was, difficult in the way that his arms were majorly pinned to the ground. His body, barely aged 10 years, ached in protest but he did his best to ignore it and eventually he succeeded, letting out a final, strained grunt as the object rolled off of him to rest at his side. When he looked over to inspect it, he was met with the blank stare of a pair of eyes no longer seeing. Denmark screamed.

The sound rung out, echoing through the emptiness, as he scrambled away. His hands were slipping in pools of melted snow and blood and it wasn't too long before his back bumped into another (still lukewarm) body. The scene was stretched out expansively in all directions as he raised his eyes. The carnage was everywhere. A second scream got caught in his throat.

He wasn't used to this. He never stayed around long enough to witness the true amount of bloodshed of the battles he fought in. His eyes only focused on whoever his victim was at the moment; they locked onto valuables and didn't register the price they came with. Once there was nothing left to take he quickly lost interest in the area and went to find something else to do. He knew there were sometimes men who went back to salvage weaponry and other valuables from the bodies but he never joined them. He was far too enamoured by whatever he had already taken and boasting to Norway about how he had fought.

Norway was always the one who told him that battles like these weren't as glorious as they may seem.

Denmark only just understood what he meant.

He tried to calm his breathing but a new thought made him panic. Norway had been in this battle too. They had fought together then, but where was he now? He couldn't remember. At some point his eyes had clenched shut and he was terrified at the thought of opening them. He held a hand to his chest to try and calm his breathing, but all he felt was his hand meeting tender flesh and a sharp stinging cutting through. He brushed his fingers across the area again, digits finding their way through a tear in the cloth plastered to the skin with dried blood. He remembered what that was.

It was where the sword had gone in, before it came out the other side, after he turned his back on the man with dead eyes. He turned his back on him because he saw the axe get lodged in Norway's back.

He suddenly had to find Norway.

Stumbling to his feet, he looked around again with his face now set in stone. He knew what had happened; even if it had never happened before it was obvious. Both of them had died. Both would have been left exactly where they fell. The only thing that separated them from the other men whose blood now soaked Denmark's clothes was that they could wake up.

The young nation started scanning the impromptu graveyard for sight of his dearest friend. Norway obviously hadn't re-awoken yet (he wouldn't have just left Denmark behind) and Denmark had watched him die, so he couldn't be too far off. He squinted through the glaring rays of the sunset, the light dying the area a much deeper red, in vain. Daring to take a few steps forward and around the randomly strewn bodies, he finally caught site of a hopefully familiar head of hair. Weaving through further until he reached the boy, thanking God that it was in fact him.

Norway looked a mess; his hair was stuck to his face with the same mixture of blood and sweat Denmark felt all over his own skin, and the angle at which he had bent his limbs out in awkward ways. Still, the Dane supposed it was slightly more dignified than being crushed under the body of your own killer who's also twice your size. Norway's eyes were still shut and if it weren't for the scenery then one could say he looked almost peaceful. Denmark rolled him into his arms, laying in a proper manner, and brushed the hair from his face.

"Norge?" He shook the boy gently, prompting him to wake. "Norge, are you there?" There was no response and when Denmark moved his hand to the boy's neck there was no pulse either. He was still dead.

Taking another breath, Denmark hauled the boy (corpse) into his arms calmly. "I'm gonna find somewhere to clean us up Norge. Then we'll head back to camp and everything will be back to normal," he reassured his friend (cadaver) quietly as he stood and began the slow journey out of the mass of (other's) remains. Beyond the battlefield there was a forest in which Denmark was quick to find water; they must've been on his land, because locating it felt so natural. Against his arms he could feel the same raw flesh from the axe wound on Norway's back and tried to avoid it, remembering how much his own hurt to the touch. The boy (body) was so cold in his arms everywhere except that one scar which burned like fire.

He set him down on the river bank and started to clean himself first. It took all his might not to just fall into the welcoming water and let it wash everything off. He probably would've had he not felt so inclined to pass out again. As he scrubbed the blood and dirt from his arms, he vaguely wondered if this was what dying would always be like; waking up sore and scarring, all energy drained from your bones. He drunk some of the water as well as he recalled the moment it happened. The sensation had been unlike anything he'd ever felt, with the world flashing bright before dark and how the loss of feeling crept up from his fingers to his head. The searing pain still throbbed though as his whole body protested, fighting for any chance of survival.

He wondered if that's how humans felt too as they died, but he'd never be able to ask.

He wondered if that's how Norway felt too, so maybe he'd ask him.

He finished all he could without proper bathing and moved on to washing Norway. He originally hoped that the other nation didn't wake up as he cleaned him, but as time went on the dead silence became unnerving. When was he going to wake up? The axe hadn't gone right through him like the sword had with Denmark, so why wasn't he awake yet? It was after dark when he was finally clean and there were still no signs of life. Denmark lay next to him, pressing his ear to his chest in desperation. Nothing; nothing but the hollow sound of an empty chest.

Denmark curled up more, keeping his head in place, silently promising not to leave until a steady beat could be heard again…
________________________________________
Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

"Dan… Danmark."

THUMP.

"OW!" Denmark shot up as something hit down hard on the sore patch of his back. Propped up on his elbows, Norway was glaring tired, annoyed daggers in his direction. The effect they had on the Dane was probably not the intended one. "Norge! You're awake!" He tackled the boy back to the ground with a grin, much to the displeasure of the victim.

"I won't be if your fat head goes back to cutting off my air supply," he grumbled, pushing back. He hardly put up a fight though, his body weighed down by the same lethargy the other experienced the day prior.

"¬You were dead and I was so worried 'cause you weren't getting up and your heart had stopped and geez, can you not freak me out like that?" Norway looked mildly taken aback by the reference of his death, but recovered quickly.

"Are you going to react like this every time I die?" he sighed. Denmark didn't answer, burying his head deeper against his chest. "I'm in for a long life…"