@sunorweek2023 Day 5 - Kalmar Union (with delay, obvi)
Originally written for @sunor-hq Zine in 2018, with minor alterations (ever asked yourself why some nations need glasses? Here is a possible explanation and it is eh, no fun)
TW: abuse, hinted SA, post torture
Everything was dark in this chamber; the air was as cold as ice and still so full of humidity that breathing had become a terrible exercise for him. Breathing in, breathing out, and in again.
This was nearly the only thing he could do, the only thing he could do except from experiencing this terrible pain in his whole body.
There was something cold dripping on his surely bruised cheek, something even colder than the air and the cold floor made of stones in his back. If Björn hadn’t been able to hear just the softest, the faintest of sobs, he would have thought those cold drops were plain water from the ceiling and nothing else.
The dark that surrounded him was so deep without even the slightest source of light and he was not sure anymore if it was the natural dark of the cellar he knew so well by now or if he had been blinded. He had tried to open his eyes a couple of times already since he had awoken from his painful slumber, but it was absolutely useless. His head ached so much while he tried to remember what had happened yesterday. Yesterday? The day before? He was not even sure when exactly Christian had locked him in here after another violent fight that the Swede had lost against his elder. Björn had lost his sense of time and not only this sense – the only thing he could smell was dried up blood and the fould scent of a cell that was all moldy and cold, the only thing he could feel were the cold stones in his back and the chill metal around his wrists and, of course, those cold drops that fell so steadily on his face. His mouth tasted like death to him – what differed this from death anyways?
His heartbeat was slow and shallow, his lungs were ripped, his breathing rigged, his body torn – now what was different? Everything was cold, everything felt meaningless except for the warmth he could suddenly feel on his broken arms. And those quiet sobs that echoed so loudly between these walls of stone, those sobs gave all of this a meaning. If even always-not-caring Kjetil was crying, Christian must had beaten him to the very verge of dying.
Strangely the sadness, the desperation and fear that he could sense in Kjetils behaviour made him angrier than the fact he had been abused and locked away again.
Honestly, by now Björn was used to it, was used to the weekly arguments, the fights – he had always known that a union between the three of them would destroy their bonds rather than strengthen them. It had been tough during the Viking ages once they had drifted apart and what started as the idea of a united, strong North, had ended in violence and anger.
Those arguments would always star slowly, but exploded within mere minutes into unfair fights, first with insults and accusation. But since a few months it never stayed verbal at all.
They were nations – that was the reason his weak, hurt heart kept beating – they were nations and they were bound to be brutal, merciless creatures.
His hopeless thoughts were suddenly ripped into pieces by a sharp pain coming from his eye sockets – the warmth of Kjetils hands was gone and instead he could sense a cold liquid pouring on his face and into his opened, bloody eyes. The sobs hadn’t stopped completely but they were disrupted by chanted words uttered by a shivering voice. Björn had opened his cracked lips, probably in an attempt to scream because the pain was worse than anything, but a soft hand was clenched onto his mouth while a second pressed his jaw back with gentle force.
“Quiet.”, the Norwegian’s voice was back to his usual cool tone as far as Björn was able to hear it with the exploding pain in the back of his head. If he had listened more closely, however, Björn could have heard that the fear still stained his heavy, melodious tone. But the only thing that kept the Swede busy was pain, pain, and even more pain.
Was that even Kjetil? Why would he hurt him like that? Especially in this state?! Especially even when he always proclaimed that he loved him even though he behaved so cold most of the times.
His anger got worse, filling his veins with burning blood, but a small voice inside of him told him that it was probably just a way to quicken his healing progress. Kjetil was a healer after all.
When the explosions in his brain finally had stopped, his vision had begun to clear up. Björn wondered if his eyes had ever been closed at all or if they had been bloody sockets with a mess of flesh inside of them. He still wasn’t able to see the lines of the stones at the ceiling, but the face of his companion appeared in front of his now restored, sea blue eyes.
Kjetil looked sick, his face even paler as usual, his dark blue eyes held a shade so red that they stood out like drops of blood on fresh snow. On the left side the red, puffy eyes were accompanied by a deep purplish greed spreading around it. Unshed tears still filled the deep orbs of the younger, whose face was stained by those he had shed and his whole figure was shaking, from fear or cold, Björn couldn’t tell.
He felt the need to sit up and pull him into his arms but a hand on his chest stopped him from doing so.
Just now he realised the soft blue light radiating from the places that the younger one had touched.
His arms didn’t feel as cracked as before and even though his clothes were still stained by his dried blood, he could imagine that his ribcage was closed again, with fresh, sensitive skin stretching over healed bones. Björn didn’t want to imagine what amount of energy sick, sick Kjetil had used to repair him like that. And even though he tried to raise his voice to tell him to stop, it was as if Kjetil controlled every movement of him.
It took hours and hours for him to heal, even with the energy and the chants of the Norwegian and after a while the both of them could hear hard and heavy steps coming down the stairs. Kjetils eyes – now even more tired looking than before, shifted from his patient to the metal door that separated the cell from the hallway. He froze for a second – of course he should have thought about this more closely, the sleeping potion did not last as long in Christian’s body than it did in Emil’s. The Norwegian wanted to stand up but a hand around his wrist kept him on the ground – even though Björn had looked so weak and destroyed during those hours he had spent by his side – he still was far stronger than he himself war. The Swede had finally managed to free his tongue from whatever Kjetil had used to keep him quiet. “Stay.” He could not even bear the thought of Kjetil going out there, having to face this monstrosity of a nation alone. “Please.”
Kjetil turned his gaze downwards to him again, his face softer than it had been in a very long time. He looked him with a mixture of warmth, desperation and the quietest love while his lips had curled into half of a smile. “I can’t. I am sorry.”, the younger one reached down with his free hand and loosened the grip of his elder, intertwining their fingers for the shortest of moments. “I can’t.”
The sounds had become louder, and Kjetil stood up, his eyes gleaming as he tried to pull all of his courage together. For little Emil, for Björn, even for little Tino. Then he went to the door once he knew that Christian had stepped onto the last stair, opened it and locked it behind him, very well knowing that once his mostly muffled screams had reached the inside of this cell, Björn could break his chains.
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