It is December and it is getting colder every passing day. Some time has passed since I came to live with Sweden but I rarely see him. He’s locked up in that prison he calls “his office”. He spends his days staring out the window, hoping one day he will see Finland in the distance coming back to him. I have told him so many times that he is wasting his time but he refuses to listen to anything I say. He is a stubborn fool and he knows damn well he is fooling himself. He is an idiot who’s wasting his life away.
The king and I are at our wits. Nothing I say or do seems to grab his attention unless it involves me telling him to move on. There are days I want to punch him in the face in hopes it will bring sense to whatever is left in his head. But I fear this is something I cannot fix. I feel that there is something more to this, something I do not fully understand. I have gone into his office while he has slept by his desk and found letters addressed to Finland, many of them crumpled and unfinished. I salvaged some but I have never read them. I am not sure if I ever will as much as my curiosity is begging for it. It is not my place to invade his privacy but it may hold the answer to what I’m looking for. I feel so conflicted.
Fin,
I am not a man of many words but I hope to change that with this letter. You haven’t left my mind since the day we said goodbye. I cannot stop replaying the moment you packed your bags and left in a private carriage for Russia’s home. To hear you say goodbye and watch your carriage drive away in the distance was quite possibly the worst pain ever to be inflected upon me. I can be stabbed a thousand times by my enemies and it will never compare to the emotional pain of not having you by my side. I feel as if I am a broken man that is beyond repair.
You have always been on my mind even while you were staying with me. You are my dearest friend and there is nothing in this world that will change that. If I had not been so selfish and weak maybe you would still be here. This is all my fault and I do not expect you to forgive me. I do not deserve it.
There are many things I wanted to say but I do not have the courage to say nor to write them. But I want you to know that I will always wait for you. You always have a place here, even if you choose not to return. You mean too much to me to let go. I—
Sweden abruptly stops writing and his hand begins to shake. He has reached the point where he wants to write those three words but he just can’t. He doesn’t have it in him to do so, no matter how badly he wants to. He has lost count of how many unsent letters he has written where he had tried to those words down but couldn’t. If he is lucky to, he ends up tossing it away in embarrassment. He begins to re-read the letter over and begins to notice drops hitting the paper and smudging the ink. He brought his hand to his cheek and wiped away some of his tears. He had done it. He had reached the breaking point.
He began to cry.
Removing his glasses, he didn’t hold back. Unknown to Sweden, Norway was near-by the door, holding a candelabrum in one hand and letters in the other, listening to him cry his heart out. He finally understood everything. He had given into his curiosity and read the letters. He lowered his head in grief. He knew this was something he couldn’t fix. Sweden was suffering in silence with a broken heart. Broken hearts require time and patience, something he would have to learn to accept and adjust to. But he was okay with that. He had all the time in the world to give.