Ad Astra - 6th Chapter: No Return.
Title: No Return
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Iceland, Finland, Norway
Rating: G
Warnings: nagstfic with much nagsting!
Summary: What became of Finland when he found out Sweden was gone.
No Return
Finland had never made a full recovery. His other leg had healed a little shorter than the other which caused him to walk with a slight limp. It did not get in the way of scouting where he, quite the opposite, seemed to be improving by the day, having a long time ago become the most skilled of them all at the use of the long straps.
He had also never shed a tear. This was perhaps not surprising, seeing his position as both the Höfðingi and a scout, but nevertheless it made Iceland feel ill at ease in his company, the way they had to pretend that everything was back to normal. That he had gotten over his loss just like everyone else, which admittedly he had, just not the way that would have done him any good.
It had not happened immediately of course, they all needed some time to take in all of their feelings and accept them, and they had not had their hopes up when, the night their fleet returned from the first netting round they had had to tell Finland Sweden was dead - gone - fallen with his world, unable to be separated from it. At first it had seemed Finland might go by the same way as he had, and Iceland had rued himself for not having actually strapped him down like he had so lightly mentioned earlier on. Yet somehow he had also had the feeling that Finland was not really surprised at all.
Maybe he had guessed what had happened. Maybe he and Sweden used to have their own call signal no one else knew of. It would not be unusual, what with scouts and their many secrets, to come up with one such a contacting system of their own. Maybe he had noticed that Sweden had not been on any of the ships of his fleet and realized that had he been on Norway or Iceland's he would have found a way of contacting him before they sailed away.
They had all been in the scout's tent with the curtains drawn over, just to allow Finland every piece of freedom, no matter how tiny, that a scout could have on a longboat. They must have spoken of it with him but how and what had been said Iceland could not remember. He had a vague, stretched out memory, as if watching himself from the outside, how words were being drawn out from his mouth one by one, and how Finland's had opened as he drank in the message, as if willingly poisoning himself.
Next he watched himself try to catch Finland as he fell on the heavy, soft carpet. Indeed, the idea of poison had seemed fitting. His broken leg must have hurt him as it twisted underneath his body but he hadn't even winced. For a long while nothing else happened. It was just the three of them, Finland half sitting half laying where he had fallen, Norway and Iceland watching him helplessly from above, not knowing anything that could have made things any better. Eventually Norway had crouched down and wrapped an arm around Finland's shoulders. It was then that Iceland had somewhat returned to his own body and quickly followed suit in a futile attempt at following some kind of a rule of comforting a friend, but alas this friend of theirs was far beyond receiving any. Love was always a difficult part of a scout's life and when it struck between two, the bond could be tighter than most. After all, who would better understand a scout than another one? Who could always accept that their partner valued the flight higher than anything, other than another one who felt the same?
Sitting uncomfortably on the floor, watching Norway straighten Finland's leg he had thanked his good luck that at least Norway had survived along. He always seemed to know what to do. Or maybe it had been because he had cried earlier, on their side voyage to gathering as many pieces of the other fallen worlds as they could carry. Maybe, Iceland hoped fleetingly, maybe if Finland would only do the same. But he did not. His mouth hung still open and a small drop of saliva rolled down his chin. There really was nothing to do, no help available to any one of them, and so they had laid him on his back on the thick carpet. Iceland had decided to have a look at the leg and whether it was worse now, but it was hard to say as it was just as bad as ever: stomach turning black and blue, swollen to twice its original size. It was hard to look at but still easier for the eyes than Finland's empty face.
Norway had muttered something to himself. Startled, Iceland looked up, but Norway continued his sentence before he could reply.
“Or well, I guess we'll just have to keep watch over him and - and hope he'll get over it. Is there any brennivín on board?”
Iceland shook his head, wondering if he could find the words that he wanted to shout at Norway but at the same time he, as much as he hated to admit it, he understood. It was cruel but at the moment it was vital that each one of them looked at their own well-being first and foremost. If there was nothing they could do for one of them the next best option was to make sure that at least the remaining two would stay as calm as possible.
Days passed and Finland did not move. It was hard to tell if he knew what was going on. He ate when fed and drank if you helped him sit up and poured the liquid into his mouth but aside of that he was more or less like an empty set of clothing thrown carelessly on the floor, abandoned.
Then one evening Iceland saw him stand by the railing, leaning onto his crutches. He felt vary for a moment but no, Finland showed no sign of wanting to jump. Quite the opposite, his buckles were tied securely and meticulously and as he moved he stepped deftly over the strap every time it got on his way. He had even changed his clothes, a luxury that very few of them had anymore, but the scout's tents tended to have extra sets of tunics for a very good reason. Flying was sweaty business and no one wanted to arrive from a side voyage smelling like a cliff beast, let alone live with one inside the small tent. Iceland walked slowly to where he was standing and looked at the profile of his face for a long time. No mistaking it, Finland was perhaps still inside the tent or on Gimli or maybe gone after Sweden: this was still just the set of clothing and nothing more. It moved and looked like it still had some kind of a plan of existence, but a man it was no longer.
It was such a common way to go among the scouts that it even had its own name: it was called mindloss. Scouts succumbed to it for various reasons. Some, like Finland, fell headlong into the illness after something tragic happened. Some let it creep slowly closer and closer to it until one day they would be a little bit gone, the next day a little bit more and so on and so on until nothing remained. And then there were those who lived their life as if nothing was amiss, who smiled at people and greeted them politely on the street, who drank their coffee in a certain, preferred way and their brennivín from a glass of their choice and one morning this person who just the previous night had been so full of life woke up and, at the same time, never ever woke up again.
The Höfðingi never fell the same way. No one else but the scouts suffered mindloss. The reason to this was not clear but it was assumed that jumping into the great nothingness time and time again chipped at their soul until it fell apart, grown brittle with too much pressed down fear and other such emotions that scouts should not, could not let out.
There was no cure to mindloss. It had been widely studied but there wasn't a single case of anyone ever returning to their body once they had let their mind escape to wherever it was that minds wanted to go. The merciful thing to do was to undo the scout's ankle straps and send them on their very final scouting trip. Maybe it sounded awful but having the empty shells of humans walking around was still worse, and in any case it was not as if the mindlost scouts cared this way or that.
Yet, things were vastly different now that they only had three scouts. In a strike of luck Finland proved to be of highly functional type of a victim of mindloss though and that at least made things more or less bearable. He dressed himself automatically, ate whenever he was given food and slept when he was told to do so. He was as deft with his hands as ever and capable at both making and repairing harnesses and straps. He flew better than ever and could answer simple, flying related questions that had a yes or no answer by shaking or nodding his head, but other than that he never, ever spoke again. Mindlost scouts forgot how to create sounds the very moment their soul tilted its head back, raised its arms to its side and took a wild, sudden leap into the great big unknown.
Iceland felt the now familiar feeling of weight on the bottom of his stomach again as Finland turned to look at him and smiled happily. The smile, no matter how genuine it seemed, meant absolutely nothing. It was but something that he had had a sticky habit of doing, smiling, something that Finland had always done when he faced anyone at all. Now seeing his face light into that familiar look merely meant that he had been smiling at so many people during his life that the gesture had burned itself into his very core, so deep that even when his mind had flown the little that was left behind reacted automatically to a familiar situation. Finland did not recognize Iceland any more, he smiled that empty smile because that was what he had always done, putting on an eternally cheerful face as a mask that he presented to the world instead of his real face.
Perhaps there was nothing anyone could do about it but, Iceland vowed clenching his hands into tight fists as he watched Finland turn back to look into the Sky without really seeing it, they would begin the search on new possible scouts the very next day. Once they were all fully trained he would personally undo Finland's buckles and send him onto his last flight. That at least he owed to his old friend.
7th Chapter: Scout Down.
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Iceland, Finland, Norway
Rating: G
Warnings: nagstfic with much nagsting!
Summary: What became of Finland when he found out Sweden was gone.
No Return
Finland had never made a full recovery. His other leg had healed a little shorter than the other which caused him to walk with a slight limp. It did not get in the way of scouting where he, quite the opposite, seemed to be improving by the day, having a long time ago become the most skilled of them all at the use of the long straps.
He had also never shed a tear. This was perhaps not surprising, seeing his position as both the Höfðingi and a scout, but nevertheless it made Iceland feel ill at ease in his company, the way they had to pretend that everything was back to normal. That he had gotten over his loss just like everyone else, which admittedly he had, just not the way that would have done him any good.
It had not happened immediately of course, they all needed some time to take in all of their feelings and accept them, and they had not had their hopes up when, the night their fleet returned from the first netting round they had had to tell Finland Sweden was dead - gone - fallen with his world, unable to be separated from it. At first it had seemed Finland might go by the same way as he had, and Iceland had rued himself for not having actually strapped him down like he had so lightly mentioned earlier on. Yet somehow he had also had the feeling that Finland was not really surprised at all.
Maybe he had guessed what had happened. Maybe he and Sweden used to have their own call signal no one else knew of. It would not be unusual, what with scouts and their many secrets, to come up with one such a contacting system of their own. Maybe he had noticed that Sweden had not been on any of the ships of his fleet and realized that had he been on Norway or Iceland's he would have found a way of contacting him before they sailed away.
They had all been in the scout's tent with the curtains drawn over, just to allow Finland every piece of freedom, no matter how tiny, that a scout could have on a longboat. They must have spoken of it with him but how and what had been said Iceland could not remember. He had a vague, stretched out memory, as if watching himself from the outside, how words were being drawn out from his mouth one by one, and how Finland's had opened as he drank in the message, as if willingly poisoning himself.
Next he watched himself try to catch Finland as he fell on the heavy, soft carpet. Indeed, the idea of poison had seemed fitting. His broken leg must have hurt him as it twisted underneath his body but he hadn't even winced. For a long while nothing else happened. It was just the three of them, Finland half sitting half laying where he had fallen, Norway and Iceland watching him helplessly from above, not knowing anything that could have made things any better. Eventually Norway had crouched down and wrapped an arm around Finland's shoulders. It was then that Iceland had somewhat returned to his own body and quickly followed suit in a futile attempt at following some kind of a rule of comforting a friend, but alas this friend of theirs was far beyond receiving any. Love was always a difficult part of a scout's life and when it struck between two, the bond could be tighter than most. After all, who would better understand a scout than another one? Who could always accept that their partner valued the flight higher than anything, other than another one who felt the same?
Sitting uncomfortably on the floor, watching Norway straighten Finland's leg he had thanked his good luck that at least Norway had survived along. He always seemed to know what to do. Or maybe it had been because he had cried earlier, on their side voyage to gathering as many pieces of the other fallen worlds as they could carry. Maybe, Iceland hoped fleetingly, maybe if Finland would only do the same. But he did not. His mouth hung still open and a small drop of saliva rolled down his chin. There really was nothing to do, no help available to any one of them, and so they had laid him on his back on the thick carpet. Iceland had decided to have a look at the leg and whether it was worse now, but it was hard to say as it was just as bad as ever: stomach turning black and blue, swollen to twice its original size. It was hard to look at but still easier for the eyes than Finland's empty face.
Norway had muttered something to himself. Startled, Iceland looked up, but Norway continued his sentence before he could reply.
“Or well, I guess we'll just have to keep watch over him and - and hope he'll get over it. Is there any brennivín on board?”
Iceland shook his head, wondering if he could find the words that he wanted to shout at Norway but at the same time he, as much as he hated to admit it, he understood. It was cruel but at the moment it was vital that each one of them looked at their own well-being first and foremost. If there was nothing they could do for one of them the next best option was to make sure that at least the remaining two would stay as calm as possible.
Days passed and Finland did not move. It was hard to tell if he knew what was going on. He ate when fed and drank if you helped him sit up and poured the liquid into his mouth but aside of that he was more or less like an empty set of clothing thrown carelessly on the floor, abandoned.
Then one evening Iceland saw him stand by the railing, leaning onto his crutches. He felt vary for a moment but no, Finland showed no sign of wanting to jump. Quite the opposite, his buckles were tied securely and meticulously and as he moved he stepped deftly over the strap every time it got on his way. He had even changed his clothes, a luxury that very few of them had anymore, but the scout's tents tended to have extra sets of tunics for a very good reason. Flying was sweaty business and no one wanted to arrive from a side voyage smelling like a cliff beast, let alone live with one inside the small tent. Iceland walked slowly to where he was standing and looked at the profile of his face for a long time. No mistaking it, Finland was perhaps still inside the tent or on Gimli or maybe gone after Sweden: this was still just the set of clothing and nothing more. It moved and looked like it still had some kind of a plan of existence, but a man it was no longer.
It was such a common way to go among the scouts that it even had its own name: it was called mindloss. Scouts succumbed to it for various reasons. Some, like Finland, fell headlong into the illness after something tragic happened. Some let it creep slowly closer and closer to it until one day they would be a little bit gone, the next day a little bit more and so on and so on until nothing remained. And then there were those who lived their life as if nothing was amiss, who smiled at people and greeted them politely on the street, who drank their coffee in a certain, preferred way and their brennivín from a glass of their choice and one morning this person who just the previous night had been so full of life woke up and, at the same time, never ever woke up again.
The Höfðingi never fell the same way. No one else but the scouts suffered mindloss. The reason to this was not clear but it was assumed that jumping into the great nothingness time and time again chipped at their soul until it fell apart, grown brittle with too much pressed down fear and other such emotions that scouts should not, could not let out.
There was no cure to mindloss. It had been widely studied but there wasn't a single case of anyone ever returning to their body once they had let their mind escape to wherever it was that minds wanted to go. The merciful thing to do was to undo the scout's ankle straps and send them on their very final scouting trip. Maybe it sounded awful but having the empty shells of humans walking around was still worse, and in any case it was not as if the mindlost scouts cared this way or that.
Yet, things were vastly different now that they only had three scouts. In a strike of luck Finland proved to be of highly functional type of a victim of mindloss though and that at least made things more or less bearable. He dressed himself automatically, ate whenever he was given food and slept when he was told to do so. He was as deft with his hands as ever and capable at both making and repairing harnesses and straps. He flew better than ever and could answer simple, flying related questions that had a yes or no answer by shaking or nodding his head, but other than that he never, ever spoke again. Mindlost scouts forgot how to create sounds the very moment their soul tilted its head back, raised its arms to its side and took a wild, sudden leap into the great big unknown.
Iceland felt the now familiar feeling of weight on the bottom of his stomach again as Finland turned to look at him and smiled happily. The smile, no matter how genuine it seemed, meant absolutely nothing. It was but something that he had had a sticky habit of doing, smiling, something that Finland had always done when he faced anyone at all. Now seeing his face light into that familiar look merely meant that he had been smiling at so many people during his life that the gesture had burned itself into his very core, so deep that even when his mind had flown the little that was left behind reacted automatically to a familiar situation. Finland did not recognize Iceland any more, he smiled that empty smile because that was what he had always done, putting on an eternally cheerful face as a mask that he presented to the world instead of his real face.
Perhaps there was nothing anyone could do about it but, Iceland vowed clenching his hands into tight fists as he watched Finland turn back to look into the Sky without really seeing it, they would begin the search on new possible scouts the very next day. Once they were all fully trained he would personally undo Finland's buckles and send him onto his last flight. That at least he owed to his old friend.
7th Chapter: Scout Down.