This fic is based on Hans Christian Andersen's The Little Match Girl, though I've changed the plot quite a bit. It takes place on Christmas Eve instead of New Year's Eve, for instance.

Since I couldn't come up with appropriate 'human' names for Norway and Denmark, I've decided to keep their nation names (though they will be known as their Norwegian and Danish equivalents, Norge and Denmark. The dialogue is mainly in Danish, though parts of it (i.e. those involving Norge and his family) are in Norwegian. Translations are found at the bottom of the page, though I can't be certain whether or not they're correct since the only second language I know is French...

His memories of his mother have all but faded with time, reduced to impressions and feelings.

A long time ago, when he had just learned how to stand on his two feet and walk, Mamma used to seat him on her lap and, holding him close, hum the loveliest melodies. He remembered the sense of warmth, contentment, and drowsy happiness. How she looked, the smiles she gave him, her laughter…he had forgotten all those important details. The only other thing he remembered, and he wasn't sure if this was a good thing, was how she had died.

He remembered the quiet coughs, which grew louder and more frequent as the days rolled by. She had been taking increasingly longer naps and, after a certain amount of time, she had never gotten out of bed at all. He had been forbidden from going into her bedroom; he had defied this restriction only once, sneaking into the room after his aunt Sigrid had gone out to do some shopping.

There had been red everywhere, from large spills of fluid on the quilt to dried-out stains on the sheets and floor. He had left as quietly as he could, holding back tears as he'd ran. The following days had been filled with his wandering about the house, as pale and silent as a ghost, dreading his mamma's death.

The day his aunt had finally told him the terrible news, he had begun to forget. He couldn't even remember what happened at her funeral, now, though for that he was relieved.

The gaps in his memories had ended after Tante Siri (she'd insisted he call her that instead of Sigrid) took him into her house. He was glad of her company, her constancy in his life.

If he were closed his eyes at this instance, he could see her figure standing in front of him with a warm look on her face. She was a kindly woman, with her brown hair tied up in a bun, who made the best lingonberry jam in the entire world. She encouraged him to spend more time outside, saying that a boy his age shouldn't stay indoors so much. He had acquiesced, though reluctantly at first, playing as close to their house as possible.

It was during one of those times, while he sat on the grassy lawn and looked blankly up at the sky, that he had met Danmark. The other was a boy with yellow-blond hair, which spiked up like the wild grass, and light blue eyes. He approached Norway with a broad grin on his face. "Hallo."

Norge stared at him in silence. It had been quite a while since he'd last met someone around his age, which had been before coming to live with Tante Siri. They had been his neighbours: little Island, who had followed him around without a word the moment he came in sight; Tino, who was nice to everyone but spent most of his time with Berwald, a tall boy with an intimidating air about him. They hadn't exactly been close, though Norge had felt slightly guilty for this, since Island had cried on the day of his move.

He hadn't make any friends in this new neighbourhood, and he didn't mind either; he was used to keeping to himself. Tante Siri was all the company he'd needed.

The newcomer's voice brought him out of his thoughts.

"My name's Danmark," the other boy was saying. "I'm eight years old. What about you?"

"I'm Norge… and I'm seven."

Danmark grinned even more. "That means I'm older than you! You can be my lillebroder! I've always wanted one, since all I've got is Jørn and he's older than me, so he doesn't count."

"Nei," answered Norge in a deadpan. "Besides, I don't even know you."

"What do you mean? Of course we know each other. I've told you my name, and you've told me yours." Danmark sat down beside him. "So, what are you doing?"

Before he knew it, Danmark had also become a constant in his life.

Every morning, after he had eaten breakfast, he would hear a couple of loud knocks on the front door heralding the other's arrival. The boy would be standing on the porch, cheerfully asking Tante Siri (he'd always ask her, as the brunette had grown rather fond of him ever since they'd first met; he would made as much use of this fact as he could) if she may please let Norge come outside and play with him.

"Run along, nevø," she would say to her charge, ignoring the glare he'd send towards a still grinning Danmark. "Don't keep your friend waiting."

"Yes, Tante Siri," he would mutter, walking towards the coat rack and putting on his overcoat. The Dane would grab onto his arm and drag him away, though not before saying tak to his aunt.

Together, they explored the entire neighbourhood and some distance beyond its outskirts. Denmark told him everything about himself, from what he liked to eat for dessert (candied fruit) to what he wanted to be when he grew up (viking). And so did Norway in return, though a bit grudgingly at first.

Somehow, without his knowing it, Danmark had became his friend. Norge wasn't sure how this had happened, actually, since he was rather cold towards the Dane. But the other hadn't been deterred by his demeanor at all, and gradually he accustomed to having Danmark as his friend.

He was so accustomed to the other's presence, that―

He sneezed, and whatever thought he had been dwelling on took flight. With a resigned shrug, he returned to the present.

It was dreadfully cold today. Around him, out in the city streets, people bundled themselves up more than they had in the last few days. But to him, none of this made a difference.

His coat, out of which he had already grown two years ago, was threadbare from being worn too often; its pockets had been torn and tattered as well. It wasn't that he couldn't afford a new one, no, but that whatever money he earned went immediately into Trygve's hands.

That man was his fader; what else could he do?

They were related by blood, though Norge doubted that this amounted to much in the other's eyes. He was the sønn, a proper child who was expected to strive to make his father proud. Yet despite their relation to each other he was here, wandering in the city in this godforsaken weather, selling matches. Speaking of which…

A woman with flowing blond hair and a fur coat had just left a shop some distance away from him. He rushed up to her, holding up a small bundle of wood. "Ma'am? Would you be interested in buying some matches?"

She turned towards him, a cold expression on her face. "Of course not; I have enough at home. Besides," (and here she looked at him as though he were an insignificant, albeit irritating, pest) "even if I had need of matches, I wouldn't buy them from a whelp like you." With those words, she resumed walking.

He stayed rooted to the spot, staring as she strode away for a moment before shaking his head sharply. It was getting rather late, and if he didn't hurry soon he would have no-one to sell matches to. A chilly wind swept past him; he shivered as he looked about him, trying to determine who he should approach next.

Not for the first time, he cursed his fader for coming into his life.

The man had pale blond hair, deep blue eyes, and a somewhat pointed nose. He returned the impassive stare, towering above the other with his large felt coat and snow boots.

Tante Siri had once said, some time after Norge moved in with her, that he had her mother's face and his father's eyes. The boy stamped down the urge to finger the cross-shaped hairclip in his (also pale blond) hair, and remained silent. The hairclip had been his mamma's, and she had wanted him to have it; it was all he had left of her, apart from the blurred memories.

"Norge? Who's at the door, nevø?" He stepped aside as his aunt fully opened the door. "What business do you have here, sir?"

"Do you not recognise me, dear svigerinne?"

The woman frowned. About a minute or so had passed before she finally spoke again, in a harsh voice that made her charge flinch, "Trygve? What are you doing here? It's been years since I've last saw you…Where were you when my poor sister laid on her deathbed, her life slipping away?"

"What? Solveig is dead?"

"It's been years, and he only finds out what'd happened now?" Tante Siri turned to Norge. "Come, nevø. Let's go sit by the fireplace. As for you, sir ― please leave. Now that you've heard of what'd become of Sølvi, you have no more business here." With that, she promptly shut the door.

Trygve called on them again the next day, then two days after that. He wanted to see his son, he had told them repeatedly. But his aunt remained steadfast, refusing to leave Norge alone with the man for even a second. She sighed when her nephew asked why she disliked his father so.

Your mother had deserved better, dear nevø. She had been so in love with your father that she'd ran away from home, without saying a word to her family… and look where that had gotten her! He had exploited her love, having her cater to his every whim! When she found out that he'd been philandering about behind her back, it was already too late. She returned to our birthplace, heavy with child ― with you ― and she had nowhere to go to but the little house our moder and fader had set aside for her, the day she had eloped with that man.

Norge had been quite suspicious of the man; Tante Siri's words had further fueled his distrust. He began to avoid his father, making for the house as soon as he had glimpsed the adult outdoors. No, he didn't want to talk. He didn't want to spend another minute in Trygve's presence. Leave him and his aunt alone!

How was he to know that his father was determined enough to steal him away from home, from his very own bed, in the middle of the night? By the time he had woken up, he was miles away from the town.

He had never forgiven his father for taking him away from Tante Siri. The latter, in turn, had never bothered even to apologise.

They lived in uncomfortable silence in the city, him stubbornly refusing to speak unless the other spoke first. Trygve had still been employed at the time, and the boy had never failed to be relieved at seeing the adult leave for work. It had given him plenty of time to himself, to dwell on better times. He didn't attempt to run away, fearing that he would get lost; he had never really left his hometown before.

When the man had been fired, he'd quickly took to spending his days at some pub or other. It would be near midnight when he returned, in a drunken stupor. Norge had quickly learned to stay out of the adult's way at times like these; his fader was neither adverse to knocking what little furniture they had about the room, nor beating up his son. He had never apologised for those bruises he'd inflicted, either.

With that man spending so much time drinking, it's little wonder that soon he had used up every coin he'd saved earlier. First, Norge (it's always him; his father was too addicted to liquour to drag himself out of the pub) sold their belongings ― clothes, furniture, tableware…Everything, until all that was left was a bed, some clothing, their shoes, a pile of matches, and a rug too worn-out to catch prospective customers' interests.

Norge was then sent out of the door each day, after being given bundles of matches to sell. If he managed to return with at least one coin in his pocket, he would be allowed inside. If he returned without selling any of the matches, he would be beaten up and kept outside. He had spent many a night curled up in front of the brightly-coloured house, the gravel digging into his side and the near-constant winds chilling him mercilessly. His coat became reduced from moderately insulated to barely warm enough, the fabric being worn away each time he had slept outside.

It wasn't as though matches were in high demand, and the boy knew this very well. But all the same, it was what he has to sell, to get by day after day. Sometimes, if he was lucky enough, people would buy at least a half-dozen from him. Though he was sure that most of his customers had been pitying him, a customer was still a customer. He wasn't well-off enough to be picky, to worry about his dignity.

No, he couldn't afford to reminisce anymore; he had matches to sell! It wasn't the time to lament his sorry state, not when he may have to sleep outside while the snow is falling.

Besides, he hadn't had anything to eat since yesterday. And his meal had consisted of a piece of bread he'd found lying in the snow. Someone had taken a bite out of it.

He glanced about him. People walked up and down the streets with purpose, many of them carrying packages or bundles ― food and presents, he'd bet. He walked up to a young-looking man with brown curls and a broad smile on his face.

"Excuse me, sir?"

The brunet turned around, a rather dreamy look on his face. "Yes?" he inquired. He spoke Danish with an accent, though what kind Norge couldn't exactly pin down.

"Would you like to buy some matches, sir?" The towhead held up a bundle, which consisted of a dozen matchsticks.

The man hummed. "Well~ I suppose I could…How much do they cost?"

Norge was about to answer when he was rudely pushed to the side. It was another man, one who looked exactly like the prospective customer except for the angry flush on his face. "Feliciano!" the newcomer cried out, before speaking rapidly in a language overflown with vowels.

"But, fratello! It's just a bunch of matches! It's getting really cold, and this boy looks as though he hadn't eaten in days!" Feliciano looked at Norge in concern for a minute before his face lightened up. "I know! Why don't we take him home and cook him some pasta?"

Now Fratello looked even angrier, responding to his twin in a harsher voice than before. The boy could hazard a guess at what the man was trying to say, even though he had no idea what tongue they were conversing in: No, of course we can't! He's just an urchin! If we invited every bedraggled child we saw on the streets into our home for pasta ― whatever that was ― we'd be broke!

Feliciano literally wilted. "I know that…But can't you make an exception, just this once? Remember when we used to―" The other man yelled out something, drowning out his words. The brunet sighed, resorting to looking at his brother with wide, pleading eyes.

Fratello rolled his eyes, and dug his hands into the pockets of his coat in search of something. "Here," he said to Norge, holding out what looked like a piece of candy wrapped in foil. "Take this and go home, it's getting late."

The boy accepted it with a nod. "Tak," he murmured, watching the man stiffly return the gesture before striding away. Feliciano gave him a grin before running to catch up with the other twin.

Norge looked down at the sweet, his hands beginning to shake. Then hunger took over; unwrapping the foil as quickly as he could, he popped the candy into his mouth. He closed his eyes, savouring the treat. It had been far too long since he'd last had any chocolate.

He had met few people he would willingly call his friend. There was Tante Siri, of course, but he wasn't sure if she counted as she was related to him. There was Danmark, whom he hadn't seen for ages…

All that had been left of Danmark was nothing but memories, now. Like what mamma had become to him, though the two were entirely different. Everything involving the blond was painfully clear, as though the memories had been created just yesterday.

… No, he musn't get trapped in the past again. He'd made a promise, after all.

Norge silently chewed up the chocolate, staring far off into the distance. Feliciano and Fratello had already left, no doubt hurrying home to celebrate. They had been rather kind to him and, though they hadn't bought any matches from him, they had at least given him something to eat.

He licked the smudges of chocolates off his fingers, a wistful expression on his face. He knew he shouldn't have eaten it all at once, but he couldn't have helped it; food was food, whether it filled his stomach or not. He curled his hands into fists, keeping his fingers away from the biting cold wind. Keeping his head bowed, he stepped off the pavement to try his luck on the other side of the street.

In the next instant, he heard the thundering noise of hooves. "Out of the way!"

He turned around and, stumbling a little, scrambled back onto the sidewalk. Everything had happened so fast that; before he knew it, he had landed face-first in the snow. The sudden cold that washed over his face made him push himself off the ground. Getting to his feet, he hissed softly.

Somehow, in the midst of the chaos, he had lost both his shoes.

He looked around him. They must be somewhere close by― there! In the middle of the road! He was just about to go and fetch his right shoe when two carriages passed by him. By the time they left, the shoe was nowhere to be seen. He sighed.

A triumphant shout close behind startled him. A youngish boy, dressed in patchwork clothes that had been mended far too often, stood some distance away; he was staring at something he held in both hands.

The first Norge noticed was the grin on his face. Cheerful, confident… he recognised this look. It was a Danmark grin.

But the boy in front of him looked nothing like Danmark.

Norge quickly shook his head, scrambling up from the ground and wincing at the cold that englfed his feet. He turned back to the child, and found the other in the middle of leaving.

The urchin was scampering away, holding his left shoe high up in the air. Norge ran after him, lagging far behind. He could see his shoe getting farther away from him, hear the boy's joyful cries. It's just what I was looking for, something to make a ship out of! With this battleship, I'm gonna sail the seven seas and fight evil pirates with cannonballs and guns and swords!

Norge barely stood a chance, now that both his feet were bare and sunken deep into the biting snow. All he could do was watch as the boy disappeared into the distance. He noted, bitterly, that the other had been wearing shoes.

It was Christmas Eve. He should be home by now; the sky was pitch black and the streets were all but empty.

Home…he thought about the ramshackle place he shared with that man. Even if someone had been kind enough to buy even one matchstick from him, the coin he would receive wouldn't change anything.

It was true that his fader wouldn't fall into a black mood, and that he would be let through the door. But after spending the night indoors, either dozing on a tattered rug near the already cooled fireplace or in one of the corners of the room (they had only one bed, and it wasn't for him), he would be back outside the very next day.

He trudged through the snow, keeping his shoulders stiff and burying his head in his chest to retain body heat. Sudden muffled sounds of laughter, to his right, caught his notice. He raised an eyebrow and quietly made his way to one of the many windows of a light brown house.

The view he saw through the glassy surface was that of a parlour's. To the right, in the fireplace, bright flames flickered ceaselessly as they slowly burned a large wooden log on the grate. In the back of the room stood the largest christmas tree he'd ever seen, filled with glowing white candles and strings of red berries. At its top perched an angel with golden tresses, a flowing white gown, and spread-out wings.

There were five children, each dressed in new and custom-made clothing. One of them, a boy with neatly combed chestnut hair, was seated at the piano with his eyes closed in concentration. Another, this one a brunet girl in a dress trimmed with lace, was standing close by and listening attentively to the music. The other three were seated around the tree, on a wonderfully ornate carpet with a pastoral frame. They were chatting amongst themselves and making ornaments for the tree with red and white paper. Two of them looked like siblings, a solemn-looking boy helping a blonde girl in pigtails with her handicraft.

To the left of the room, in a circle made of armchairs, were adults chatting animatedly with each other. They, too, were finely dressed. The men had their hair combed back, while the women wore theirs in in curls or braids.

As Norge watched, one of the boys from the carpet stood up. He had oddly thick eyebrows and a self-important look in his green eyes. The blond said a few words, looking about the room, and everyone got up and made for the christmas tree. They linked hands and encircled the tree: the piano-player with the brunette and the blond, the other girl with the boy who had been helping her, the adults with each other and the children. Around the tree they danced, singing christmas carols with smiles on their faces.

It was during this dance when the green-eyed boy happened to turn towards the window. As he quietly moved away, Norge saw the other raise an eyebrow before turning back to the tree.

It's useless. He had been walking up and down the streets ever since this morning. And how much matches had he sold? None.

To make things worse, he had lost more than half of the matches. They had turned damp in the snow after he'd dropped them. The only matches he had managed to save were the ones he had been holding onto when he stumbled onto the pavement, after narrowly avoiding a passing carriage. He sighed.

Night had already fallen sometime ago, and now it was so late in the evening that everyone opted to stay huddled in the midst of their warm homes. Even the street children and paupers had withdrawn from the cold. And the sky was eerily, albeit thankfully, silent; there were neither witches nor evil spirits in sight.

He wrapped his arms tightly around himself, slowly making his way down the snow-filled pavement. He might as well look for somewhere to stay the night, now that returning to his dwelling was impossible.

The night air was harsh and grueling, making him feel as though he was covered in ice. His face felt so cold that it was numbing, muddling his thoughts.

It's been a long time since he had lost his shoes, and he was beginning to forget the warmth they'd offered. His feet had gone from being littered with pale red spots to losing colour altogether. In fact, they had a bluish tint about them.

He finally decided to take a rest. Leaning against a brick wall that was gradually being covered in a fine layer of frost, he slumped onto the ground. Sighing, he arranged his legs in a diagonal sort of cross, so that all of his toes were snugly tucked into the crook of his knees. It didn't help, as the cold had already begun to settle deep into his soles, as though he had ice running in the veins of his feet.

He might as well try to warm himself up, he thought whilst staring at the small bundle held in his right hand. Using a few matches wouldn't hurt, would it? He would just have to try harder to sell them when the morning comes. Nodding to himself, he rubbed a single matchstick against the wall.

It took around three tries, but he finally succeeded in creating a small, red flame. He held the match up, staring into the flame. It had been ages since he had last seen an actual fire, even one as tiny as this. The fireplace in his 'home' had been left unused soon after he began to spend his days selling matches. What he would give to be seated in front of a nice, warm fire…

He blinked.

A few paces from him stood a large stove dark with use, a fire crackling within its stomach. Heat radiated steadily from the appliance, melting away the cold. He kept silence for a long time, content to welcome the return of warmth. He held up his hands, smiling as numbness disappeared from his fingers.

He was in the middle of dozing off when the stove vanished, flickering into naught. The match had burnt itself out. He shivered as the cold returned.

He was freezing and hungry and tired. His mind must be playing tricks on him. Norway frowned at himself as he huddled against the wall. He shook his head.

This was ridiculous. Attempting to analyse himself right now wasn't the best of times, not when the cold was tampering with his ability to think. He could always continue this after a good night's sleep.

Coming to that conclusion, he glanced about him. He had tried sleeping whilst leaning against a wall, twice, when that man had shut him out of their abode. The results were a backache during the first time, and a deadened left leg during the second from toppling onto his side. Perhaps he should curl up a bit, to conserve whatever heat he had left?

He tried to follow up on this thought, lying down and gathering his legs to his chest with both arms. He could feel the snow biting at the side of his face. His right ear started to burn. He covered his ear and cheek with a hand, and closed his eyes. The chill began to gather at his fingertips.

He replaced the hand with his right arm. It was warmer, true, but his limb was getting sore from the weight of his head digging into his forearm. He resumed a sitting position, glaring at nothing in particular. He couldn't sleep at all…

He rubbed his hands together, squinting up at the sky. He assumed that it was somewhere around midnight, since the sky was at its darkest. He found himself missing the heat that the stove-that-wasn't had provided.

He counted the matches he had managed to salvage. There were…eighteen of them in all. A dozen and a half matchsticks to keep him warm, from now until daybreak.

But it was useless to agonise over facts that wouldn't change, no matter how much he loathed his present situation. Lighting another match wouldn't hurt, he decided.

With that, he scratched at the wall with a matchstick. It only took one try for him to make the suphur tip light up. He gazed into the flame, then at his surroundings. He stifled a gasp.

It wasn't a stove this time, but something even better: food. On a rectangualr table, covered in a plain white tablecloth, stood burning candles surrounded by enamel plates of roast duck and potatoes. The sumptuous aroma wafted tantalisingly towards him, making his mouth water. He made for a plate, his eyes fixed on the golden-brown meat.

The cutlery vanished just as he reached for them, as did everything else on the table. He clutched at his stomach, and felt his hunger trying to claw its way out. The match in his hand, he noted, was completely charred.

It was harder for him to fall asleep, now. His bare hands and feet missed the warmth the stove had provided. His stomach missed the delicious smell of food that had been on the table.

He rubbed at his forehead, which was beginning to ache. Sighing, he rested his back against the wall and stared up at the sky once again. How much time had passed since he'd lighted those two matches? Of that he had no idea, as all he could see was a darkness littered with tiny stars.

It was while he was gazing upwards that he saw a sudden streak of white. A star had fallen from the heavens.

Norge bowed his head. Tante Siri had once told him that for each star that fell from the sky, a soul left earth for Heaven. She had gestured at the view beyond his bedroom window as she spoke.

Somewhere, in this vast field of stars, his aunt was watching over him. Of this he was certain, and he took confort in knowing that she must be alive and well.

Then he thought of Danmark, and gave a tearful laugh. He knew well that he could never see his friend again, because―

He wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. If he kept thinking of those times, his face would surely freeze. Besides, it wasn't like him to sadden so easily.

He found himself examining the matches in his grip. Before he knew it, he had struck one against the wall in an attempt to distract himself from his thoughts. He peered into the golden flame, smiling slightly as warmth returned to his fingertips.

It seemed as though the flame was multiplying right before his eyes. He squinted.

There was a christmas tree standing in front of him. The lights he had been seeing were flickering on white candlesticks perched on the thick branches.

He approached the tree, walking around it and bending close towards it to see the hanging paper ornaments. There were hearts and stars made of interwoven red and white paper, then hung onto the tree with twine. He raised his head.

The top of the tree was occupied by a star made from gold paper. As he stared up at the decoration, he felt warmth envelop his right hand. Someone had taken hold of it…

Island stared back, his eyes shining. To the boy's right were Tino and Berwald, the former with a smile on his face and the latter looking stern as usual.

Norge looked to his left, and saw the children from the parlour of that light brown house. The nearest to him, the blond with green eyes and thick eyebrows, held out a hand towards him. He stared.

Rolling his eyes, the blond took hold of Norge's left hand all the same. Then the blonde girl in pigtails began to sing. "Glade jul, dejlige jul…"

Everyone else joined in, singing as they danced around the tree. Their voices filled the silent air, the candlelit tree serving as a beacon in midst of the dark. An aura of calm tranquility fell upon the street.

By the time the song ended, Norge found himself alone once more.

He stared at the two burnt-out matchsticks in his hand, and wondered.

The first match had shown him a stove that had seemed incredibly real ― he could practically feel the warmth it'd given off ― but had flickered into naught as soon as the match had burnt out.

The second match had shown him a table filled with food. But everything had vanished the moment he'd tried to take something off the table.

The third match had shown him a wonderfully decorated Christmas tree, along with his old neighbours and the five finely-dressed children he had seen through a window. This time, he was sure that he had actually held hands with Island and that boy with the thick eyebrows. But everything had disappeared.

He still had at least a dozen matchsticks in his hand. Feeling curious as to what he'd see if he lit another match, he made for the brick wall once more.

Striking the match against the wall, he turned around and stared at the small flame in his fingers. He froze.

In front of him, some feet away, stood someone who completely resembled Danmark. This twin was looking perfectly well, the grin on his face exactly the same as Norge had remembered of the Dane. The person was dressed in the dark coat his friend had worn whenever they had played outside.

The Norwegian shuffled towards the blond, wondering if the other was an apparition. He stopped some steps short of the boy, watching him closely.

"Danmark?" Norge whispered. He received no answer. The towhead slowly reached out to the other boy, but jerked his arm back seconds later. What if this, too, was nothing but an illusion? He stared at the match in his grip and noted, with sudden alarm, that nearly half its length had been charred.

He looked back up at the figure in front of him, and imagined him gone.

A desperation overwhelmed the towhead the very next instant, leaving him achingly hollow. So what if this is an illusion? He would feel a hundred times worse when the Danmark look-alike disappears, left once more with nothing but memories to keep him company. With this thought in mind, he determinedly lit another match. The other's form became noticeably clearer.

That hair, those warm eyes, that grin… Norge had never felt so alone as he was feeling at the moment. He collapsed onto the snow, wiping furiously at his eyes as they filled up with tears, his mind already miles away.

They had been playing near Norge's house when it'd first happened. Danmark had been outlining, for the umpteenth time, their grandiose plans for the future. Norge had been humouring and shooting down the other at the same time. The Dane hadn't minded, filling up the holes in his ideas with tons of improvising.

All in all, it had been a good day.

Danmark had declared that he was going to become a viking when he grew up. Norge was going to be his partner, though not in battle ― he was going to be a mariner and the commander of their fleet instead. Every viking has to have a fleet of ships if they were going to go conquering other lands! And that was especially relevant to the two of them, as they were going to be the co-rulers of Northern Europe.

Oh, and they were going to recruit Tante Siri to help them. She makes the best lingonberry jam in the whole wide world, and people from all over Scandinavia would be falling over themselves to join Danmark and Norge, just to have Tante Siri's jam for breakfast every day!

It was while the blond was quietly gloating over his wonderful plan and the towhead was staring at him as though he were an idiot, in midst of the silence, that it'd happened.

It all began with a cough from Danmark, who then frowned at himself. "That's odd," he muttered. "I'm sure I've worn enough clothes to keep from getting a cold."

Norge glanced at him. "Perhaps we should go inside."

"What? No! It's just a cough; I'm perfectly fine! Look," (and here he pointed earnestly at himself,) "do I look like someone who's getting sick?"

No answer.

"See? I'm alright! Now," he muttered, scratching at the back of his head, "what were we talking about again?"

Norge turned his head away. "I think we should go inside," he repeated.

"What are you talking about, Norge?"

He got to his feet instead of replying, looking towards the front door of the home he shared with his aunt. "We can go to the kitchen and get something to eat…I'm starting to feel hungry."

"I'm not going anywhere, not until you tell me why you want us to go inside so much! What's wrong, Norge?" He heard approaching footsteps, followed by the slight weight of a hand on his shoulder.

He didn't want to think about what'd happened to his mamma right now, not when it could happen to Danmark as well. Closing his eyes and breething deeply, he turned around. "It's nothing."

Time had never passed as slowly as they seemed in Norge's eyes, the moment after Danmark left his house. He spent the night wide awake, remembering how his mother had died. He wondered if his friend was going to meet the same end as her.

The next morning, he looked in the mirror and wondered what he should say when Danmark noticed how red his eyes looked.

It seemed as though Norge's fears were being verified, as proven by Jørgen informing them one day that the doctor had declared his lillebroder ill. "It's just a cold, though," he assured the boy, but the latter immediately insisted on visiting his friend.

The two of them found Danmark walking about outside on their way to his and Jørgen's home. The young man swore under his breath and strode towards his brother, scolding him for disregarding the doctor's words.

Norge stood there on the pavement, staring at the two brothers. He saw Danmark cross arms and talk back to Jørgen. He saw Danmark coughing heavily, his hand stained with blood. He saw Danmark lying on his deathbed, still so full of pain.

He began to tremble.

"Norge? Are you alright?"

The towhead's eyes came back into focus on Danmark, standing in front of him and looking concerned. "What are you doing here?" he muttered.

"I was on my way to your house, actually―"

"― when you should be staying inside, resting?" he suddenly grabbed the other's shoulders. "What were you thinking? What if your health gets worse?"

His questions were met with a confused stare. "It's just a cold… All I have to do is dress warmer and drink lots of soup."

He's acting as though it were impossible for him to get even more ill! thought Norge. He's not even worrying about his health! The boy recalled what had become of his mother, and despaired. "You're such an idiot," he finally blurted out, pushing the Dane away. "I can't believe you're my friend!" Ignoring Danmark's hurt look, he turned around and left.

He returned home and locked himself up in his room, ignoring Tante Siri's every attempt to get him to confide in her. He knelt beside his bed and placed his head in his arms. "Danmark's an idiot," he mumbled, more to himself than anything else.

Why couldn't the Dane be more careful? If he took good care of himself, he'd get better…

Wait. Mamma had taken good care of herself, but her health had still worsened. His aunt had told him that the doctor couldn't maker her well again, that there was no cure for a malady that made its victims cough up blood and wither away. What would become of his friend, if he caught the same illness as her?

Tante Siri stepped back in surprise when he suddenly opened the door. "Are you feeling better now, dear nevø?"

"Not really," he replied, truthfully, before rushing down the stairs. "I'm going to Danmark's, Tante Siri." He closed the front door behind him.

Norway went from walking quickly to jogging lightly, then finally to sprinting as he made his way to Danmark's house. With every minute that passed by him, he fretted over the Dane's welfare and berated himself for insulting his friend. What had he said those things for? They weren't what he had been trying to say at all― What if those words ended up being the last thing he'd ever said to Danmark?

With the last thought in mind, he pushed himself to run a little faster.

When he finally arrived on the front porch, he knocked frantically at the door. It was Jørgen who opened the door and looked down on him. "He's in his room," the man divulged as he stepped through the threshold. "I know you meant well, but try to refrain from yelling at him too much. He's been sulking ever since you'd left." He nodded.

The boy slowly opened the door, peering into Danmark's bedroom. "Go away, Jørn!" came a cry muffled by the thick and faded quilt his friend was hiding beneath. "Stop bothering me! Didn't the doctor say that I needed as much rest as I could get?"

His mouth curled up briefly, in the ghost of a smile. "I'm not Jørgen." He walked towards a smooth, wooden desk and withdrew a chair that had been tucked in the space beneath it. This he took and set down beside the bed, which was in the middle of the room.

"Norge?" Danmark threw the quilt off his person, accidentaly sending a heavy book lying on his bedside table to the floor. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to make you worry like that, really! It's just that I didn't want to spend all of my time cooped up in this room, which would be horribly boring and I'd end up going mad!" He stopped and looked beseechingly at the Norwegian, who sighed.

"No, I'm the one who should be sorry. I shouldn't have shouted at you like that. It's just―You should take better of yourself." Norge looked down at his hands. "Please. I don't know what I'd do if you…" he suddenly trailed off, rubbing furiously at his eyes.

What would happen if Danmark died? He didn't want to even consider the question. Danmark had become so integrated into his life that the mere thought of living without his friend was unfathomable.

He was startled when he felt a hand on his cheek. "Why are you crying, Norge? It's not as though I won't get better…didn't Jørn tell you what the doctor'd said?" He heard the other cough into his hand, as quietly as he could.

But what if it wasn't a mere cold? What if it was something worse, like consumption? Norway could almost see a deathly pale Danmark, coughing blood into his already red-stained hands. He put his head into his arms, letting the tears run their course.

"It's just a cold," the blond was telling him, wide-eyed and nervous. "I promise I'll get better! I'll stay in my room until then, I won't sneak outside to play…So stop crying, Norge! I'll be fine!" He felt himself being clumsily pulled into an embrace, felt an awkward hand patting his back.

The warmth did the opposite of consoling him, however. He rested his head against Danmark's shoulder and clung onto the other boy, sobbing even harder than before.

It was at that point that their friendship had changed.

Before, everything between them had appeared so natural; they had been so at ease, taking each other's presence for granted. Now the bond between them, whatever it'd become, was filled with worry ― worry from Norge that his friend was going to die; worry from Danmark because he had absolutely no idea what his friend was brooding over. And when the doctor announced that Danmark had consumption instead of a mere cold, the anxiety between the two grew even more.

"I bet they're afraid of me," muttered Danmark, in between bouts of coughing, "since I'm going to be really powerful when I grow up. That's why they're acting like cowards, sapping away my strength like this. Real warriors fight each other head on."

Norge bit his lip, and was about to berate his friend for sprouting nonsense when he saw the look on the other's face. The Dane's eyes were wide open, staring unseeingly at his bloody hands. His face was unusually pale, though whether from the malady or fear itself Norge didn't know.

It hurted, seeing him like this. No matter how the blond jeered at Death, daring it to fight him face to face, he was still wasting away. And neither of them could do a thing to change that. But still…

Norge sighed. He wrapped his arms around Danmark, feeling the slight tremors from the other boy as both tried to keep from breaking down. "Danmark… won't you give yourself a chance?"

"What chance?" Hollow laughter. Norge tightened his hold.

"The way you're acting right now, it's as though you've lost the battle already ― and you haven't even fought yet! Can't you try to stay here, for as long as you can?You…" He trailed away, his voice beginning to shake.

"Norge?"

He took a long breath. "You're my friend," he murmured. "My first friend, my best friend, my only friend. Do you know how important you are to me?" Pausing for a moment, he gazed at Danmark. "If I told you that I don't want you to leave me…won't you try to hang onto life? At least for a little longer, if only for my sake?" He pressed his head against that of the Dane's.

The blond chuckled softly. "Of course I will! What kind of a question is that? Even if you hadn't asked, I'd still keep on fighting anyway. But, Norge―" and here Danmark lifted his head, a surprisingly gentle look in his eyes― "promise me you'll take care of yourself. I don't want you to sit around and do nothing but mope when I'm gone."

"…I promise."

"Good." He pressed a kiss to the other's brow. Norge closed his eyes.

Danmark was lying on his bed, a frown marring his face as his erratic breathing filled the room. Tante Siri and Jørgen had left minutes ago, their faces somber.

Norge knelt on the floor beside the bed, his hands intertwined with that of his friend's. His worst fear was finally coming true, yet all he felt was a numbing ache in his chest. "Danmark," he murmured.

The blond's eyes fluttered open, and he turned to his side to look at the other boy. "This is it, Norge." He tensed as a bout of heavy coughing seized him. Fresh blood fell onto the quilt. "Remember what you promised."

"I know," Norge sighed. "Don't worry, I'll take care of myself."

He nodded, coughing. He then gestured for the other to lean closer to him. Norge did so, and felt a hand cup his cheek. A whisper, "Jeg elsker dig, Norge."

In the next instant, the hand had slipped away. Danmark was lying back on the bed, a peaceful smile playing on his lips.

And suddenly Norge was overwhelmed by the full return of his emotions.

"Jeg ved. Jeg vet." He buried his head in the messy yellow-blond hair, sobbing quietly. "Jeg elsker også dig."

Why hadn't he noticed it before, this feeling they'd shared? It was too late, now; Danmark was gone, never to return. He had an entire lifetime to live through before he could see his friend again. The person in front of him wasn't Danmark anymore, not really.

He trailed a shaking hand through the boy's hair, eyelids, and cheek. He kissed the other on the forehead, feeling the skin beginning to cool and stiffen. Danmark…

It was then that he made another promise to himself; he would never allow anyone else to take the Dane's place in his heart. No-one else would matter to him the way Danmark had.

He was brought back to the present with a blink and a frown. The Danmark look-alike was flickering in and out of sight.

One of the matches had already burnt itself out; the other was soon to follow.

The sense of aching desparation, now so familiar to him, returned. Wanting nothing but for the image of his friend to stay, he lit every remaining matchsticks in his hand.

With the large flare that was created, the figure in front of him seemed clearer than ever. He stepped towards the blond, again reaching out his hand. This time, the other took hold of it, intertwining their fingers. The warmth Norge felt seemed very real.

As real as the sensation he had seemed to receive from Island and that other boy, both of whom turned out to be nothing but illusions.

He reached out with his other hand and tentatively traced the other's face, then hair. The look-alike furrowed his brows. "Well? Aren't you happy to see me?"

He even sounded exactly the same as Danmark.

Norge took a shuddering breath, and avoided the question. "You're not the real Danmark."

The accusation was met with an annoyed sigh. "Really? Who do you think I am, then…the Yule-Man?"

Norge poked the other in between the eyes. "You'd just keep all the presents to yourself." He rubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand. He couldn't believe that he was here, quarrelling with an apparition who completely resembled his friend.

"Er…Norge?" The apparition was starting to sound nervous. "Are you alright?"

"Of course not," he snapped back, still wiping at his eyes. "It's freezing cold out here and I'm starving. You're such an idiot."

"Look―I'm sorry, alright? I didn't mean to make you cry, it's just that you were accusing me of not being real and I…Come on, Norge, stop crying! Tell you what, it's all my fault; blame me all you want, just―" and here Danmark was shoved to the ground.

Norge turned his back on the other, his face covered with a hand. He felt torn between wanting the illusion to stay and wanting to be left to himself. Why did the illusion have to be so… convincing?

He felt the other take hold of his wrist, pulling his hand away. The blond looked concerned, apprehensive, and just a little sad. He closed his eyes.

"Norge, it's me," he heard the other whisper. He felt the firm weight of hands settle on his shoulder, felt warm lips being pressed onto his forehead. He kept his eyes shut.

He heard the not-Danmark's sigh. He felt hands cup his cheek, felt himself being pulled closer to the other as lips pressed onto his eyelids. He felt something tug painfully at his heart.

Lips pressed themselve against that of his own, softly. Jeg elsker dig, Norge…

It was enough.

His eyes snapped open, and he stared at the person in front of him. "Tell me," he half-whispered, his voice shaking. "Tell me the truth: are you really Danmark?"

A nod.

He pressed his forehead against the other's with a sigh, feeling fingers run themselves through his hair. "I'm sorry, Norge. I should've come sooner."

"No, it's fine." He closed his eyes once more, opening them again when he felt the fingers stay.

"What happened to that hairclip of yours?"

"I had to sell it to buy bread." He felt his friend's arms tighten. "Danmark…what are you doing here?"

"I'm taking you with me, of course."

Norge cast his thoughts back to the falling star he had seen earlier. "To Heaven?"

Danmark made a face. "No, of course not! I know that everyone thinks that Heaven is really nice and peaceful, but it gets really boring after a while. I mean, all you do there is sing, hang around your family and ancestors, or talk to angels." Then he grinned. "No, we're going to Valhalla."

Norge stared. "You're joking. There's no such place."

The other frowned. "What are you talking about, Norge? Don't you remember the stories we've read from the Edda? Of course Valhalla exists." And off he went, talking nonstop of meeting the warriors of old, learning how to fight with actual weapons, and―

Norge kissed him, smirking a little as Danmark quieted abruptly and returned the kiss with fervour.

In the morning, when everyone left their homes for mass, they found a towheaded boy curled up by the brick wall, covered in a layer of snow. A bundle of burnt-out matches were found some distance away from him. They were saddened by the sight, believeing that the poor boy had used matches to keep himself warm and had died from the cold when they all burned out.

Norge, with that little smile on his face, was already miles away. He was reunited with his friend, Danmark, in a wonderful place where he would never be troubled by hunger or the cold ever again.

Mamma (Norwegian): mama

Tante Siri: Tante is Norwegian for aunt, while Siri is a nickname for Sigrid

Please don't take the part about the lingonberry jam seriously; the only times I've eaten it is at IKEA (not that I mean to endorse the brand in my fic...)

Hallo (Danish): Hello

Island (Norwegian): Iceland

lillebroder (Danish): little brother

Jørn: nickname for Jørgen, the Danish equivalent of George

nei (Norwegian): no

tak (Danish): thanks

nevø (Norwegian):nephew

Trygve: a Norwegian name taken from (Old Norse) Tryggvi, which in turn came from the adjective tryggr ("reliable")

fader (Norwegian): father

sønn (Norwegian): son

svigerinne (Norwegian): sister-in-law

Solveig: a Norwegian name with 'Sølvi' as nickname

moder (Norwegian): mother

fratello (Italian): brother; Norge mistook this title as Romano's real name

Traditionally, on Christmas Eve in Denmark, people would gather around the christmas tree and walk around it (though it's called dancing instead) while holding onto each other's hands.

There is a Norwegian tradition which takes place on Christmas Eve, in which all the brooms in a household would be hidden on Christmas Eve so that witches and evil spirits won't steal them for riding.

Glade jul, dejlige jul (Danish): Silent Night, Holy Night

Jeg elsker dig (Danish): I love you

Jeg ved (Danish): I know

Jeg vet (Norwegian): I know

Jeg elsker også dig (Norwegian): I love you too

Yule-Man: the Danish equivalent of Santa Claus

Valhalla: in Norse mythology, the place where warriors' souls would go to after dying on the battlefield; I don't mean to offend anyone religiously, it's just that I thought that Danmark would rather go to Valhalla instead...

Edda: refers to both the Prose Edda and the Poetic Edda, which are basically collections of stories from Norse mythology