Warning: There is still discussion of abuse in this chapter, as well as a brief hint toward earlier suicidal thoughts.

Chapter Thirty-two

Although, he knew he could continue to put it off for a while yet, Norway knew that he would have to tell his family the rest of his story soon. He had his control back to a certain extent, and he was relieved about that, but he was afraid it wouldn't last. He knew that if he talked about it, he would risk breaking down again. But he also doubted his ability to repress everything the way he had for so many years.

In addition to that, he was worried about having missed October's world meeting. Nothing had been said about it, openly, so he was also a little worried that his family might resent him for having caused them to miss the meeting. They had already missed two meetings during the summer because of him. And there was also the issue of the embarrassment he felt over what had happed at the previous month's meeting. He wasn't sure if he could face anyone again after that. What had happened at January's meeting was bad enough, but now the whole world thought he was suicidal. (He ignored the fact that there was some degree of truth to that, as he still sometimes had moments when he would think about it, and he still caught himself rubbing the scar on his wrist. For the time being he was still managing to push those thoughts aside, but until the thoughts were completely gone, he did not feel up to facing people who only know a very small part of the truth.)

It was not until the middle of the second week of October that Norway resumed the story of his childhood. He would have been quite willing to put it off even longer, but he realized that the longer he waited the more difficult it would be.

As it was, he had not anticipated how difficult it would be to resume the story, and several moments of silence passed before he found the courage to tell the next part of his story.

"I didn't understand the things that father did to me," Norway said. "I couldn't understand all of the things he told me, but I understood enough to know that he hated me . . . And I believed that everyone did. I heard Father's opinion so many times that I really thought it was the only opinion anyone could have of me. By the end of the first year I spend with Far, I could barely remember what it felt like to be cared for. I no longer cried, even on the worst nights, because I no longer believed there was anything worth missing. I believed that you were glad I was gone.

"The things that Far did never changed much in that first year . . . He would usually just say the same things he always said . . . And he would hit me if I did anything that he didn't like, and sometimes I felt like everything I did around him was wrong. I tried to avoid making him angry, but he always found something.

"The nights were always the worst though." Norway looked down at the ground, trying to fight back the tears that threatened to fall as he remembered. He would not break down in front of his family, he was determined not to. "Every night . . . he would make me come and sit by him . . . and he would . . ." He could not continue speaking, as the tears finally began to fall. And that was when he realized that he might not be able to talk about what his father had done to him. Just trying to say those words hurt too much.

"Norja, it's alright. We're here with you. And you don't need to tell us anything you don't want to."

Norway tried to make himself stop crying, but just like the last time he had started talking about this, he just couldn't. After several moments, he managed to stop crying enough to speak again. "Even if I don't talk about it, I still can't forget it," he finally said. "I can't forget the way Far would touch me—first it was just my curl, but then he eventually started . . ." Once again he could not complete that sentence. "I can't forget how, by the end of the second year, it wasn't just a few minutes by the fire . . . He would make me share his bed. That was when it started to move beyond just touching . . . I can't forget the feel of him holding me down. I can't forget how much it hurt when he . . ." Once again, the memories threatened to overwhelm him, but he still tried to force himself keep talking. "When he . . ." But he could not bring himself to say the word for what his father had done to him. And by this time, he was crying too hard to be able to speak. He closed his eyes, too ashamed to look at his family.

A few moments later, he felt himself being lifted up off of the couch. His first instinct was to struggle, but the arms holding him felt so familiar that he allowed himself to relax. He was carried a short distance, and then whoever was holding him sat down one of the other chairs. Norway opened his eyes, and through the tears that blurred his vision he saw (unsurprisingly) that Denmark was the one holding him—that he was actually sitting on the larger man's lap. Although part of him wanted to escape, he felt so safe in the arms of the person that he once trusted completely, and he hid his face against his older brother's shoulder and cried until he had no tears left to cry.

When the tears had finally dried up, Norway felt embarrassed over his break down and how weak he had just made himself look. He looked around at his family, but the only thing he saw from them was concern. They weren't ashamed of him—they were concerned about him; they cared about him. His mother had been right; his family really did care about him. Then he remembered other things—the way they had sat in his room with him during the couple days he was sick, the way they had watched over him all summer, the way they had stayed with him during his breakdown in April. All of those things proved that they really cared about him, but he had been raised believing no one could care about him, and it was difficult to believe that anyone really did—even when the evidence was right there in front of him.

Still that realization made him comfortable enough that he allowed himself to relax in the embrace. But there was still one thing he needed to know. "Did you hate me because I was the only one that Far actually raised?"

"No," Denmark answered immediately.

Norway had expected that answer, even if he didn't completely believe it. But, he had asked two people that question. He turned to look at Sweden, not knowing what answer he would get.

"W' didn't resent y', Norge," Sweden answered after having apparently taken the time to think of an answer.

Norway actually was surprised by that answer. He had always believed that Denmark and Sweden had resented him for being their father's "favorite." At the time, they would have had no way of knowing what life with Scandia had really been like for him. He had only been Scandia's "favorite" on the rare occasions that anyone had actually been around. The rest of the time he had been quite aware of the fact that his father hated him. Well, as long as he was asking them other questions, he might as well ask one more, "What exactly happened on the roof?" He had only heard about what had happened after he passed out from people who had witnessed the incident from the ground.

The arms holding him tightened, to the extent where he actually did want to protest. But when Norway looked at his older brothers, those words went unsaid. He had not realized he had worried them so much.

"We almost lost you." Those words, spoken out loud, expressed the same thing that the tight embrace he was being held in did.

It wasn't a full answer to the question, and to some extent, it only raised more questions. Norway had been told that his older brothers had saved his life, and that they had apparently worked together to do so. But neither of them had said anything about the incident, so it was only in this moment that he realized the effect it must have had on them. They had been trying to bring him back from the edge, and he had only believed they had some ulterior motive. But that answer to the question of what had happened proved that they really cared—if he really was nothing more than a possession to them, then they wouldn't have cared if he had died that day.

Norway had known ever since he had woken up back in his hotel room after that incident that he had worried his family, but he had not realized until then the full extent to which he had worried all of them. He really had just wanted to be alone (mostly). The other thoughts, the ones that had almost led to him taking that final step had come later. "I'm sorry," he said, quietly, and this time he really meant it. He was sorry for having worried them all so much. That was all he could say, though. He couldn't promise he wouldn't do it again, because he still had those thoughts sometimes.

There were other things he wanted to ask about—especially since he still didn't know what had really happened, but he just felt so tired at the moment. Trying to force himself to talk about the abuse, and the emotions that what little he had said had brought up had been enough to exhaust him. And he felt so safe at the moment, that he allowed himself to close his eyes and relax. Before too much longer he had drifted off to sleep.

This time, he avoided getting sick at least. He had slept through the night, and although he still felt a little drained the next morning, he was still able to get up and eat breakfast. The safe feeling that he had begun to feel the night before remained, and he felt more at peace than he had since before his father's visit. He knew though that conversation that he had begun still needed to be completed—he would still need to tell them the rest. But maybe it would get easier now that he really believed that they cared about him. And he knew without a doubt that he was safe with them.

Throughout the whole course of the day, he continued to work on getting his courage up to tell more of the story, but right up until dinnertime he wasn't sure if he would be able to. It had only been during dinner that he had decided to tell the next part of his story. And so, that evening, once again, they all gathered in the living room, and Norway resumed his story.

"I'm not really sure how long I lived with Far," he said. "I know how many years I aged during that time, but I know that more years actually passed. After the first couple, though, they all seemed to blend together. It was always just more of the same treatment from him, and I wished more than anything for a way out—a way to not have to live with him anymore. As I got older, I began to spend more of the days out by myself. At night, though, I always had to return to Far. As much as I wished to be able to leave, I had no idea where to go.

"I wasn't always alone, though. There was a woman that lived nearby, and I spent some days with her. And, of course, I had . . . other friends. And I think they knew about what Far was doing, but I never thought to ask for help from them. By the time I started interacting with anyone other than Far he had convinced me that I deserved the things he did to me, and that it was all I was good for." He paused, and looked down at the ground again. He didn't feel overwhelmed by the memories yet, the way he had the last evening, but he also hadn't talked about anything as specific as the things he had talked about then.

"I can remember almost everything that he did, but I . . . I can't talk about it. And some of the memories of those years blur together, and I'm not sure what order some things happened in. Those years are just something I wish I could forget again, but I don't know how. I don't know how to deal with the memories, and I don't know how to get rid of them." Now the tears were coming, and Norway felt ashamed over having admitted to weakness.

"You don't need to force yourself to talk about anything you're not ready to. When you are ready, we will be here for you, but don't force yourself to talk about anything you're not ready for."

"I don't know if I'll ever be ready," Norway admitted. "I can't even say the word for what Far did to me. I can barely even think it. Using that word just makes it seem too real." Although, he felt like he was on the verge of crying, he was still able to hold back the tears, at least for the time being. "All of those years, the only thing I wanted was for it to end. For someone to notice and take me away from him, but if anyone did notice they never did anything." He turned to look at his older brothers. "Even when you were around more Far didn't stop. I kept hoping you would notice what he was doing and make him stop, because I didn't know how to . . . I guess in the end, you did." He remembered the way his brothers had saved him from Scandia the previous summer. He could remember seeing them standing in front of him, blocking Scandia's path to him. But that didn't stop him from wishing they had done so sooner. Of course, if they had . . . then Iceland might not have been born, and he wouldn't change that, even for the chance to have escaped earlier.

"After several years of that, though, something did happen. At first, I didn't know what was happening to me . . . I just thought I was getting sick. But when I mentioned something to the neighbor that I sometimes visited, she told me what was going on. That was when I realized that she knew what Far was doing. I wasn't sure what to do when I found out, but I knew from the beginning that I wanted the child. It was a way that something good could come out of all those horrible years. But when Far found out, he had a different opinion."

"You little freak! Do you realize the disgrace this will bring on our family?" Scandia was holding Norway's shoulder tight enough to bruise, his other hand raised as if to strike the boy.

Norway stood frozen in front of father, unable to defend himself. He felt like he was going to be sick again. For the past several days, he had felt nauseous almost all the time, especially early in the day, and he was barely able to keep anything down. And he felt exhausted, and his head was hurting. The first couple days he had assumed it was a reaction to something he had eaten, but several days had passed, and the sickness did not leave him. When he had learned what it was, he had attempted to hide his condition from his father, but eventually, Scandia had noticed.

Scandia was still talking. "I should have realized you were nothing more than a little freak when you started talking to things that weren't there. It might have been better for all of us if you had died with your mother."

This was the first time Scandia had ever directly said something like that. Norway was used to being told that his mother's death had been his fault, but he had never before been told that he should have died too. Although the only time his mother's death was ever really brought up was to serve as the reason he had to submit to what his father wanted. And he was not really surprised to learn that was what his father thought, even without the words having been said, those feelings had still been clear.

He wished his older brothers were around, because if they were, Scandia would probably not be quite so . . . angry. Scandia was always careful to never show any sign of the real way he treated Norway when any others were around. That meant that Norway had to put up with comments about being Scandia's favorite, but it also meant that Scandia would only bother him at night. He wanted to believe that his brothers didn't know anything about what Scandia did to him. After all, they were rarely around, although they had been around more lately.

"You'll have to get rid of it," Scandia said, apparently coming to the end of what he had to say.

It took Norway a few moments to realize what his father had said. "No," he said, as comprehension dawned.

"You realize that if you don't, the whole world will find out what a little freak you are," Scandia said. His grip on Norway's shoulder tightened even more, causing the boy to wince at the pain it caused.

Somehow, Norway still found the strength to defy his father. His rested his free hand over his stomach. "I won't kill my child." It was the first time he had ever openly defied his father, but he couldn't do what Scandia wanted him to.

The anger that had already been in Scandia's expression grew. "You dare to defy me?" He tightened his grip even more, destroying any chance the boy may have had to escape, while with his other hand, he at last delivered the threatened blow, striking his son's face.

Tears formed in the corners of Norway's eyes from the pain of the blow, but he would not let them fall. He kept all signs of the fear he felt from showing in his expression.

The lack of response just seemed to infuriate Scandia further, and the first blow was followed by another, and another.

"I was terrified that he would take the decision out of my hands by doing something that would hurt the child, but like always I was powerless to stop him. By the time he was done, I was on the ground, curled up and determined to protect my child as best I could. And, thankfully, it worked. In the end, Far was more concerned with making sure that no one ever learned what I was capable of—at least that was what he claimed. So, he sent me away to a place that at that time had not yet been settled. I stayed there for several months, until my child was born." He did not want to go into much more details than that. Later, if Iceland wanted to know the rest of the story, then he would tell it, but it was not something that he wanted to share with the whole family.

"It was while I was gone that Far left," Norway said. "I can remember coming back to find out that he was gone. And the main thing I can remember feeling was relief that Island would be safe from him. I had been worried about what would happen, otherwise, because Far was so set against my keeping the child." As he spoke those words, his mind went back to the moment when he had first learned that his father was gone for his life—or so he had believed.

When Norway returned home from the exile his father had sent him into, he brought with him a two week old infant. The child had been born only a week before his exile had ended, and then there had been a week long journey home. During those weeks, he had done his best to care for the child, but without the help of his friends, he never would have managed. He already owed his life and his son's life to them for their help with the birth. But now, he would need to find someone who would raise his child for him. He was afraid that otherwise his father would kill the defenseless child. As difficult as it would be to have to give the child up, Norway knew he could not allow his son to have the same kind of childhood that he had had.

As he stepped off of the boat that had brought him home, the child was held tightly in his arms. He had no proper clothes for the child yet, so the child was only wrapped in an extra cloak. That would be the next thing he would have to attend to—finding proper clothes for his son. But then, before he could start planning that, he reminded himself that he would have to give the child away to ensure his safety.

Once he was safely on the shore, he looked around, and saw that his older brother was waiting for him. With the baby held securely in his arms, he crossed the distance to where Denmark was standing and watching him. He stopped a short distance away though. There was something about the searching look his older brother was giving him that he didn't like—there was too much worry in that look.

"Are you feeling better, Nor?" Denmark asked. "Father told us you were sick and that he had sent you away so you could recover."

"I'm fine," Norway answered. At least he knew what Scandia had told everyone. "Where is Father?" he asked.

"He just left, the same way all the other ancients have been doing. He said that you would be back sometime this week." His eyes fell on the bundle that Norway was holding. "What's that, Nor?"

Norway almost missed the question in his relief. Scandia had left! He and his child would be safe then. An almost overpowering relief swept over him, and his arms tightened around the child.

That was enough to wake the child up, and he started to cry. Norway adjusted his grip on the child, and spoke softly to him, trying to soothe him. He wasn't very good at it yet, having only had the child for a couple of week and being little more than a child himself.

"When did you have a baby?" Denmark asked, finally realizing what it was that Norway held.

Norway felt a wave of terror sweep over him when Denmark seemed to guess his secret. They may be more distant from each other than they had once been, but Norway still could not bear it if his older brother thought he was a freak. He could not bear to hear the same things he had heard from his father from the one he had once believed would rescue him. "I found him," he said, quietly. "He's like us—his land is that island that's about a week's journey from here. I'm going to keep him and raise him." Silently he vowed that not only would he raise his child, he would make sure that his son had a better childhood than he had. And that should be possible. After all, Scandia could no longer pose any threat to him—to either one of them.

And in that moment, relief swept over him with the realization that it was really over. Scandia was gone, and he was finally safe. He no longer had to dread the nights when his father would come to him and hurt him. And he would not have to give up his son—although he would have to make sure that no one ever learned the truth about the child's origins.

His story told, or at least as much of it as he could bear to face, Norway looked up at his family. Once again, he felt that feeling of relief sweep over him as it had in that final memory. It really was over now. Scandia couldn't hurt him anymore—even the dreams were no longer a threat. And his family knew as much of the story as he could bear to talk about, and they had not turned away. They were still there with him.

He looked around at them, still a little afraid that he might see contempt for his weakness hidden in their expressions. But that wasn't what he saw. Instead, he saw concern, caring—maybe even love.

In that moment, even with some of the memories fresh in his mind, Norway felt more at peace that he could ever remember feeling. He no longer had to worry about what his family would think of him if they learned his secret, and he no longer had to bear all of that alone. At this time a year ago, he had been alone, hiding from his family, afraid of what they would think of him now that they had learned part of his secret. But now, he sat here with all of them around him, and they knew more than he had ever believed he would tell anyone—and they still cared for him.

This time, the tears that came to his eyes were tears of relief, and brought with them a release of much of the pain that he had kept locked inside for so long.

Author's notes:

Well, that's it. There will be one more chapter (or epilogue) after this to wrap a few things up and drop hints at things that might not be fully resolved, but the main story arc here is over. I guess you could say we're coming to the end of the road.

There is one thing that I want to explain, and that is why I didn't go into details about what happened up at on the roof. The short answer is that they don't want to talk about it, and what little was said explains that reason for that. But here's the long answer. It goes back to the argument that Denmark and Sweden had in chapter seven—as well as on offscreen argument mentioned at the end of "Family Secrets." There was also an argument in chapter eleven. Those arguments are part of the reason that Norway thought that they only saw him as a possession, because they kept fighting over him. The truth is that they did want to protect him, and both of them felt guilty about what Scandia had done to Norway—so rather than blaming themselves, they chose to blame each other since they don't get along very well anyway. So for them, what happened on the roof that day turned out to be something of a wake-up call. They both know that if they had started arguing or if they hadn't been able to work together, then they probably would have lost Norway. And neither of them wants to think about that. And they have been making an effort not to have any more of those arguments, even if that means basically just not speaking to each other.

I never thought when I started this story, that it would go on for so long, and now that there's nothing left to write but the epilogue, I feel like I've lost something. This story has been my major project for two years, minus a couple of breaks for National Novel Writing Month.

There is more I want to say about how this story began, and how important it has been to me, but that can wait until I post the epilogue. And the epilogue should be up by sometime next week—Thursday morning at the latest, so that I can start Nano with the knowledge that this story is really complete.

Thank you to the people who reviewed the last chapter, and to everyone who has followed this story. And to those who have said anything about how they hoped this would turn out, I hope this ending is positive enough for you. There's still the epilogue, but this kind of was the resolution here. This is the note that the story will end on (although I am playing with the idea of doing an alternate ending where things don't have a positive ending, but I haven't decided for sure about that yet. That is something else that I will talk more about in the closing notes to this story.)