Leave a “Remember Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about my character trying to get yours to remember them [be it from an accident, meeting them after years apart, feel free to specify.]
Perhaps it was presumptuous of him.
It makes sense, he supposes, that Nils wouldn't remember him. They have only met once before — back when his name was Leifur, when he was cut off from the rest of the world and only had one foot planted in this reality. He doesn't remember their first meeting, himself. The realization makes Eirik's shoulders loosen slightly, though he doesn't allow himself to sink back into his chair.
He had, at first, been reluctant to speak to him. All he knows of Nils, really, is what he's been told through the years — and none of it has been particularly favourable. It's only this past half-century or so that Eirik has started to realise that every story has a narrator, and every narrator has a perspective.
Still, he has heard a lot about him. How is he to know what is true, and what's not? He doesn't know the man. Elias, however, he does.
But the room they currently occupy feels too big, too quiet. He wants to break the silence, just to hear something. He doesn't often have this impulse, and it feels strange. He's very used to the silence of this house; when Elias is away, he is the only one who can fill it. But what good would it do? It would only waste energy, and since the eruption of Laki, Eirik has learned to carefully ration his.
But here they are. There is a clock ticking on the mantle, and the wind outside, which often rattles the windows when it gusts, is treacherously silent. Nils does not seem particularly inclined to fill the silence, and yet it grates terribly on Eirik. The reason, he cannot work out.
Perhaps, after all he has heard of Nils, he wants to see what he is truly like. He wants to see if he is as Elias has said, or if he is different. Perhaps he wants to defend his brother, to bare his teeth defensively at this man he has heard tell of, and all the bad things he has done. Perhaps he wants to know the man that his loved ones once loved — He wants to know the man that should be known to him already.
But Iceland is just an isolated, unimportant little island, isn't it?
"My name is Eirik," He suddenly says. "Iceland."
As soon as the words leave his mouth, he regrets them. That is not how he learned to introduce himself, so he'd be making a bad first impression. He suddenly twists in his chair so he can muffle a harsh coughing fit into his elbow, while the other grips the arm of the chair tightly. His face burns, and he won't look at Nils for a second after he manages to catch his breath. He has to make a good first impression on him. He has to show him that Iceland is strong - that Denmark is strong, along with it's colonies.
He is going to say more, to try and jog Nils' memory of him. He wants him to know that even if he doesn't know him or remember him, that Iceland is important. Iceland and Denmark are strong. But when he looks up and meets Nils' eye across the room, it all dies on his lips.
Nils is a stranger. It hardly matters if he remembers him or not. He likely doesn't care about Iceland — nobody does. What good would it do?
Eirik closes his mouth, sits back in his seat, and looks down to his hands.
I was growing inward incessantly; like an animal that hibernates during the wintertime, I could hear other peoples' voices with my ears; my own voice, however, I could hear only in my throat. The loneliness and the solitude that lurked behind me were like a condensed, thick, eternal night [...]
The Blind Owl, Sadegh Hedayat
I inherited a dark wood where I seldom go. But a day will come when the dead and the living trade places. The wood will be set in motion. We are not without hope. The most serious crimes will remain unsolved in spite of the efforts of many policemen. In the same way there is somewhere in our lives a great unsolved love. I inherited a dark wood, but today I’m walking in the other wood, the light one. All the living creatures that sing, wriggle, wag, and crawl! It’s spring and the air is very strong. I have graduated from the university of oblivion and am as empty-handed as the shirt on the clothesline.
"Madrigal," Tomas Tranströmer
Above the forest of the parakeets,
A parakeet of parakeets prevails,
A pip of life amid a mort of tails.
[...]
His lids are white because his eyes are blind.
He is not paradise of parakeets,
Of his gold ether, golden alguazil,
Except because he broods there and is still.
"The Bird with the Coppery, Keen Claws," Wallace Stevens
Jānis had just finished his lessons today. To receive proper education felt...unreal. The Swedes abolished serfdom, expanded education, and now...they're building infrastructures over Livonia. He admits that it feels all strange to him... but it seems things are going well for him.
He makes his way to the town square, passing through the regular citizens. With only a book in his arm and a pouch of coins, he plans on buying some food from the markets before heading to the wheat fields. What could he possibly cook today? Maybe some speck would be nice...
He approaches the available food in the market. There’s a variety of them--fresh fruits, fish, and other kinds of meat. Although he isn’t that amicably close to the Swede himself, he feels fresh from the burdens of his earlier Polish ruler. Although he’s no longer a Polish territory, he can’t help but think about the siblings he left. He never wanted to, but they signed a truce--something he had no choice in. All the seemingly good food just...made him remember the warm meals they shared together as family, before everything went downhill. Much especially that things are going well for him. “Man...it would be nice if they experienced this, too.” He solemnly ponders to himself.
He wrote them letters the other day, but he isn’t sure if they got them. A heavy sigh escapes from Jānis’ lips. Oh well, gotta continue with the day, right?
He resumes to shopping after musing--but something else caught his eye. Well, someone else--and in fact, it’s no regular person. Said person is a blonde, clad in a cloak that's seemingly concealing the extravagant uniform beneath it. He's familiar, too familiar until he takes a closer look...
“Sweden?” Jānis mutters to himself. What is he doing here? Did he come here to attend church, since he’s sitting at the church entrance? Jānis looks around to see if anyone else notices him. Hm, it seems like they’re just...passing by him. Some would glance, but not for long--probably because they’re intimidated? Well, He seems to blend so well with the regular folk... it puzzles Jānis. The Livonian decides to take the ‘leap of faith’ and slowly approach the Swede.
“Erm...God dag, Sir Rosenqvist...” Jānis awkwardly makes himself visible to the Swede’s eye, making a tiny hand wave. Seeing the empire himself sitting in the town square is an...unusal sight. It isn’t like the Polish embodiment, who preferred to comforts of royalty. Remembering the Pole’s arrogance still makes him eyeroll to this day--but he won’t do that in front of him. Better not give him the wrong impression, right? So he tries to give him a smile--but it comes off awkward. “...So, you planning to attend church here?” He scratches the back of his head, curious as to why he is in Riga.
Perhaps for the first time in his life, he is trying. One more time, he opens the oven door to check in on the pie, aware but uncaring about the heat that’s escaping the oven. Trying, yes, but not efficiently, necessarily. All that matters is that the pie doesn’t burn and that it tastes alright. It’s the only thing he has to offer for what feels like a very large favor that he’s asking.
Sadly, Arthur notices that some of the sardines’ heads are sinking into the filling. He must not have pinched them quite right. He sighs. Yes, fine, it’s all aesthetic—but that’s half the point of the pie, he’s thinking, rapidly straightening up when he hears a set of footsteps behind him.
“... So, what do you think? Would it be possible? To make some changes, I mean,” Arthur asks, closing the oven door.
He’s let Hjalmar take his time to look around the house and now that he’s come back, Arthur can only assume he’s finished and has a verdict on what may or may not be possible.
“Obviously, there’s quite a lot ... well, quite a lot of stuff obstructing the rooms. All of that would be cleaned out before any restoration or ... reconstruction, but it would be nice, if ... maybe the study and library could be expanded, and some of the rooms made into bigger bedrooms ... I don’t really need this many rooms anymore.” Granted he can get rid of a couple of things. Or a lot of things. But he isn’t going to think about that right now or his pie is going to burn. “And maybe it could be more modern, but all of that — well, it’s all vague ideas in my head, right now. I wouldn’t make any changes to begin with, but ...” Arthur taps his fingers on the counter, pursing his lips as he thinks of how to phrase it. “Well, James has been insisting a change in atmosphere and design might liven things up a bit; maybe even make it easier to work from home. Since I’m reluctant, I figured I might as well ask someone I can trust for ideas.”
COMPARED TO ENGLAND, the weather had never been this drastically cold. The holidays up north were always a wonderous sight, despite Annelise's disdain for the season but the sight of the lights & decorations spewed about made those feelings melt if only temporarily.
❝ You really go all out for the season, huh? ❞ A smile perked on rosy lips, emeralds catching the glimpses of twinkling Christmas lights that hung above head. ❝ I can almost see why you love it so much.❞
