Denmark's people are fighting.

Sjælland has officially run out of room in the shelters and no one else seems to be digging fast enough to keep up with the increasingly overwhelming need for reinforced steel dwellings. Metal cannot be produced in the quantities they need with the time they have, and even if it could be, space has dwindled too much to be used for much more than they have already done. Farmers on Fyn have relinquished every last bit of land that was left to have, major cities have boarded up residential neighborhoods as best they can, and while teams in København line the ocean's edge with sandbags, Denmark digs.

He is with a group of seven men and six women, waist-deep in the basement of a house in Dragør. The backhoe is being used in another basement three blocks down, undoubtedly making faster progress than they, but being idle in frantic times is not something Denmark is capable of, especially when the neighborhood children are watching him. The sun beats down above them, searing them where they stand, but even with sweat in his eyes and blisters on his palms, he cannot just sit and wait for the heavy machines to become available again, if at all. Neither can his teammates. Even the children pick at the sides of the hole with small sand shovels.

He can feel gunfire in his legs as the shelters in Århus begin to seal their doors. His boot falters on the spade, just for a moment, before he begins to dig faster. Violence is spreading as safe space shrinks. If the trend continues, his most densely populated cities could quickly become a battleground, much in the same way London has begun to go. He aims his dirt for the wheelbarrow and misses—crushes the soil the children have shaped into a castle by accident.

Somehow, even with the shooting pain in his knees, that seems like a worse omen than anything.

By the end of April, Denmark's own home has been bricked up and opened to the public. He has managed to scrape a reasonable shelter out of the large, old structure, and at least fifty people are crammed in a sweating mass deep in the basement. Energy conservation is at a record high, as is the situation with water, so the people he houses are thirsty and reek of a week's worth of digging and building, edgy and paranoid already despite the heavy locks on the main doors to keep looters out. He can feel their nervous energy in every corner of his once comfortable house, now locked and boarded from foundations to the roof. It makes him anxious. Unsure.

He is one of the few with a cellphone that still works, and he steals what time he can to keep in contact with his peers. Norway is often out of reception, having headed for the mountains with many of his people and only within range when he returns to the lower-lying cities, and Netherlands has all but dropped off the face of the Earth. He occupies his brief moments of calm by slowly clicking through his contact list, choosing carefully who he wants to use his precious air-time for.

On May first, the choice is obvious.

"Hey, Swede, any Valborg plans this year?"

Sweden is less than amused with Denmark's attempts at humor and is not afraid to tell him so.

"No wood t'burn," he grunts and Denmark can hear the rustle of papers. "Too dang'rous t'be outside fer long."

"I believe that." Denmark leans back in the plastic chair in what is left of his kitchen. Every spare scrap of metal has been taken away to be recycled into more useful parts, leaving his cooking space a dusty, hollowed-out shell of the cheery nook it once was. "But not doin' anything at all? That, I don't believe. No parade? No raft races?"

"No." Sweden's voice is clipped and the papers cease their shuffles. "Nothin'."

A silence settles between the lines. Denmark picks at the rough plastic of his chair. "You heard from Finland at all?"

"Heard enough. S'headed for Kouvola."

"What for?"

"Water's risin'. Gotta help prepare the coast."

Denmark hums in understand. "He's in the same boat as me, then. I can't decide if I feel like I'm burnin' up or drowning."

"Still wearin' the sun mask?"

"Have to." He flicks a finger against the side of the dark, plastic shield attached to his face. "Higher-ups won't let me leave without. I keep tellin' 'em I'll be fine with the old glasses, but they're not having it."

"Best t'listen to 'em." Sweden's phone crackles. "Gettin' too hot t'be safe anymore."

"You guys any closer to figuring out why?"

"Thinkin' sun spots. Investigatin', but prob'ly another dead end."

"Yeah, that's where we're at too. Germany too."

Sweden sighs and the line goes fuzzy again. "An' how is Germany?"

'Oh, you know." Denmark grins. "Panicking, trying not to crumble under the pressure, begging me for my help. The usual."

Denmark can practically see Sweden rolling his eyes. "He's fine, then."

"Yeah, he's fine. Efficient as fuck, trying to get everybody situated in time. Which reminds me," he gets up from his seat and goes to lean against a window he can no longer see out of. "Everyone is predicting whatever this is is going to hit around the fifteenth of next month. You think that's going to be true?"

"Depends."

"On?"

"How hot it gets."

Denmark laughs and rests his forehead against the hot glass of the window. "Yeah, I suppose if anyone is gonna have to worry about sunburns, it's you, eh?"

"Shut it."

"Nope." His phone beeps. The battery is nearly out. "Shit, my phone is about to die, Sve, I gotta go."

"Right. M'line 's gonna be down for a bit. Rollin' blackouts 're knockin' out towers."

"Same. Try and keep cool, brickface, I'll call you next week if I can."

"Get bent, y'dirty so-"

Denmark's phone dies and he never does get a chance to use it again.

By mid-May, riots have broken out in most of Denmark's major cities. The shelters are full beyond capacity and the neighboring countries have no more wiggle room for temporary housing. The lines at all borders, land, sea, and air are packed with enraged citizens unable to leave, and soon, boats begin disappearing from the harbor and candlelight starts to flicker in lighthouses that have long since been abandoned.

Denmark's royal family goes to their shelter amid chaos and the sound of breaking glass. They try to persuade Denmark to come with them, but he just releases their hands and tells them to give whatever free space they have to the terrified people who don't know what is coming. He spends one last night with them before they go, discussing implausible evacuation plans and clean-up measures, and when they have all gone to bed and he has taken to the steaming streets, he regrets not spending those hours playing with the children and reassuring the adults that everything would turn out fine.

He should have spent more time helping little Isabella braid her hair instead of worrying his Queen with the possibility of body clean-up at the end of the spring season. He shouldn't have scared them. Everything will be fine. He knows it.

On the seventh of June, the sun sets the world on fire.