[APH/DenNor] Fireplace/Only Teardrops

Only Teardrops

14 January, 1814

Kiel, Duchy of Holstein

An invisible pressure hung loosely under the ceiling, threatened to fall and crush them to bits.

A gloomy atmosphere cast its ghostly shade on six faces.

On one side of the table stood a whiteheaded man in his fifties, bright brown eyes and good-looking features would have easily made an impression at the first sight, if they had been in a party but not this way-too-serious place. Next to him was the personification of the United Kingdom. It was just as hard to read the blonde man's mind as to tell what the other representative got up his sleeves. England's face still showed its usual stern, and slightly annoyed expression. And that his bushy eyebrows occasionally knitted together could be interpreted as neither impatience, nor an unvoiced eagerness to see which sorts of drama were about to come.

Besides the two Brits was another pair. With ten fingers interlaced, slightly twisting not because of anxiety but as a reaction to the tension all around, the Swedish statesman tried to keep his perfectly calm face. Occasions like this were no longer unfamiliar to the curly-haired man, yet this certain time was somehow... different. Well, however hard this was going to be, at least they would still gain more than lose. And with that thought, Gustaf af Wetterstedt silently let out a sigh, wondering if the quiet man on the right side of him was feeling the same.

Sweden was, to say without any emphasis, completely emotionless. That was not considered something abnormal though; maybe the last time those icy blue orbs showed some emotions other than blankness was when Russia took his beloved Finn away. The bespectacled nation sat in a deadly silence, his deep, intimidating eyes gazed at only one direction: the opposite side of the table.

And there were they - maybe the only two people in the room who appeared to be in a real trauma.

The first one was a Danish diplomat, who maintained a surprising - and admittedly admirable composure in such a situation. But people did not fail to notice drops of sweat betraying the man's effort to keep calm, as they grew bigger and rolled down his temples. Edmund Bourke felt his eyelids twitched, as he could no longer subdue the urging temptation to glance at his nation. But immediately the diplomat turned away, a feeling of regret weighed on his chest.

Denmark absolutely couldn't be helped.

His eyes wide-opened, cold, lifeless, staring at the flat wooden surface as though they could set it on fire if concentrating long enough. The Dane's face darkened with two bags under his eyes, his jaw turned as hard as steel, trying to cover his gritted teeth. His hands balled into two fists, so hard that the knuckles turned white.

Bourke did not dare to put one hand on his shoulder. Even if that was only a reassuring gesture.

The sky is red tonight

We're on the edge tonight

The two parties decided they'd waited long enough. Edward Thornton slowly voiced, as England just folded his arms watching.

"Firstly, in the name of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, we're here to convey His Majesty, George III of the United Kingdom's promise to return all occupied Danish possessions to your king. In exchange, Denmark is obliged to cede Hegoliland to the United Kingdom, where His Majesty is granted full and unlimited sovereignty."

Bourke secretly glanced at his country's representative. Denmark didn't seem to be listening.

"Also, as part of the anti-Napoleonic alliance, the United Kingdom demands that Denmark join our anti-French camp, maintaining an army of 10,000 men that is to be commanded by... the Swedish crowd prince. Also, Denmark must not in any case side with Napoleon Bonarparte, or any related forces in that term."