(no subject)
Norway, for the first time in a few hours, shifts. He leans back into the cushions and considers the blanks pages in the book he holds, two fingers on the spine as he prepares to close it. The content has been cut off in the middle. Then he leans over and places the book on a nearby table.
It has been a long time since he has last read Swedish poetry.
Eyes travelling to the fireplace, he begins to conjure in his mind the faces rhymed about. A woman, a lover, God-figures that often show up in anything considered literature. Maybe Sweden had a copy, or at least a fragment, of a saga laying around. To the library, then.
For a while Norway sits there while faces dance in the fading flames. The sunlight beings to retreat.
Eventually a man enters in the room. He goes over and closes the curtains in a quick, efficient manner. Norway wakes up, sitting up silently but for the sliding of fabric on fabric. Enough to alert the man who is lighting the first candle. Norway blinks, and they stare at each other for a moment.
“Good evening, sir.” A few words, with a deliberate Swedish accent.
Norway nods and eases himself up to walk over to the fireplace. He leans against the mantel and watches as the man continues to light candles, four of them. Eventually his attention drifts.
“Do you like it, sir” the man asks, his eyes passing over the stamped silver capitals composing the book’s neat title.
“What?”
“Our poetry.”
Norway, with no trace of body language to define his tone, says “I’ve read it before.” He stays leaning against the mantel.
The man moves over to tend the fire.
Norge, den første gangen på noen timer, skifter. Han lener seg mot sofaputene og tenker over de blanke sidene av boken han har i hender. Inhholdet er ikke der. Da lener han seg og legger boken på et bord.
Det har vært en lenge tid siden han har lest svensk poesi.
Ser på peisen, han begynner å tenke seg ansiktene som var i poesi. En dame, en kjæreste, Gud-folk som ofte viser seg på noe som heter