All shapes of noise and silence

Near Pori, around Year 60 Camp fire had a feast of birch bark, pine wood, and chip bricks. It crunched, cracked, and licked those delicacies. Smoke and warmth, together with snippets of bilingual conversation, rose to the upstairs landing of the most intact building around. Downstairs, people in different uniforms clustered around the fire and were trying to make their languages connect. Unseen to the others, two seemingly human figures upstairs did not need translation to talk but were quiet. Sweden wasn’t cold, but still, he brought his hands into the warm air rising from below, as if to catch some ideas in the smoke. His mind raced in search of words. Usually, he did not have to. In the Old World, Finland would do all the talking for the two of them (if “Mr. Swe” did not manage to scare him stiff unintentionally). Now Finland squatted silent and still, propping himself on an old, pre-WWII rifle. He seemed calm, but impressions shattered when, without any visible or audible cause, he whirled aside to look somewhere far through the wall and jerked a hand down to the rifle stock. Sweden reached for his own assault rifle. He did not hear anything suspicious, and the sentinels of both parties didn’t raise the alarm. Sweden relaxed when Finn shifted back to idle and thought at odds that the glimpses of fire in Finland’s eyes were strange. Too bright, and almost electric blue. Would they not be yellow or orange? But then, Tino did not look him right in the face, and the side view from above is not the best view. Berwald shook the untimely musings off. So, what should he say? Not that he didn’t know. On the contrary, there was so much to tell after half a century apart. The question was, where to start? “ ‘m sorry.” Yes, that would be right. “Why?” That was the first word Finland uttered since they had run into each other in the vanguards of Swedish and Finnish expedition parties at the winter shore of Botany Bay, outside of an infested, empty town that Sweden once knew as Björneborg. He had rushed to Tino, but instead of any greetings or joy, the latter pressed a gloved hand to Sweden’s mouth, grabbed him by the wrist, and dragged him to this sort of former community centre, which was a night camp of the Finnish party, and did not even look back at him. Sweden had stared at his fur cloak and rifle on the back and followed obediently without a word. Euridice, he thought, it had an air of that ancient myth, and Euridice should not ask anything. But still, Tino would not meet his eyes and looked down at their people. Some elderly Finnish guy remembered some school-course Swedish and served as an interpreter. “I…” Sweden paused to wipe vapour off his glasses, “didn’t come. T’help you. Had called you my… my wife, and didn’t come.” “It’s all right,” came the reply. “You could not, I understand. The same hell was everywhere.” Despite his placating sense, his tone was so very hollow. Finn did not even protest against the ‘wife’ piece, as he had always done in better times. Sweden was glad to hear him anyway, but the next words followed after another eternity of silence: “So, how are you?” “ ‘m fine. Cleaning land back. Tear down in autumn, scorch, leave for winter. Check in spring, fence. Farming, or—” “Do you have so many resources left?” Sweden nodded. “Got copper ‘n coal mines back. ‘n Norway’s iron mines. He’s alive, too. ‘n Denmark, b’t barely. Iceland’s best off. ‘m building r’lways.” “Railways? Oh yes, I remember.” Tino’s mouth twitched in the semblance of a smile for a second. Then he switched to alert and looked in a different direction. Sweden strained to hear anything beside the howling wind or people talking below, but gave up. “What is it?” Finn did not turn to him and still stared wide-eyed at another wall. The same bluish light flashed in his eyes so fast that Sweden wouldn’t bet he didn’t imagine it. “Don’t you hear them?” “Whom?” “Humans. All those who were infected.” “Trolls an’t humans,” Sweden replied in confusion. “Trolls don’t speak.” Finland frowned. “But they speak. I hear them all the time. They cry for help, they threaten to devour you. Even now. I just resist thinking they were me once. How do you manage to cut them off?” Sweden shivered despite his warm navy overcoat and warm air from the fire on the ground floor. Hearing voices… What if—hadn’t the terror of the first post-apocalypse years been too much for Tino? —hadn’t it shattered his mind? Why didn’t Berwald come earlier—no, of course, he could not. Without ports and railways reconstructed to ensure supplies, an oversea expedition would have been impossible. A bunch of adventurers sailing to the Alands and Abo area around year 20 hadn’t noticed anyone. Tino hadn’t had the resources to reach the coasts either. But still, irrational regret clung. “If there’s troll, shan’t we warn humans?” For a while, he decided to play along. “No, it does not go closer. If it does, mages will spot it.” So, it’s mages, not just voices in the head. Familiar symptoms. Sweden had seen others—Norway and Iceland—go into superstitions like magic and gods because that was the only way they could feel some control over the situation, their minds building up an imaginary protection. But then, Norway had always been weird, talking to invisible friends even before the end of the world. And shy, insecure Iceland was exactly the type to hide under a quilt. Finland, though, in Berwald’s opinion, was tougher and more level-headed, despite his sometimes childlike attitude. He promised himself to stay and help until his Finn regained trust in his own power and didn’t need those magic crutches anymore. But it’s useless to convince madm… mentally disordered people out of their fantasies. Norway, for one thing, did not take criticism of his gods and magic runes. He would not get angry; he would just listen with pity, as if he was sane and Sweden was crazy. So, a little encouragement would do. “Then, noth’n t’be ‘fraid of, right?” “Not quite. There is something they will not perceive.” Finn whispered, closing his eyes and tilting his head as if to listen to that something. “Did you ever have a feeling that… something was out there?” “Sure. Giants. ‘n beasts.” “Not just them, but… Something else, less material. I take care not to face it, but I hear it sometimes. Its voice is different from trolls or even giants. It is just as black but vast, like an echo in a large cave, and looming and… compelling, of sorts. Sometimes I can discern words. Become one with us, it says, and I remember at once who has used those words. He owned me once.” “Y’mean Ru-” In a split second, Finn sprang up to clamp his mouth. At last, some emotion coloured his voice and averted gaze. Fear. “No names. Don’t invoke it. Be careful, words hold more power than we have believed.” Sweden did not comment on the magic stuff but, when freed, tried to use reason to dispel that fear. “Can’t be. He’dn’t survive. If he did, he’d be weak.” “No. No, I am not afraid of the living ones. Gods, I used to get scared by you! It is so funny now, after the real terrors.” Finland sounded anything but amused. “But… Have you ever wondered if a nation like us can become a troll? When all or most of your people are trolls, wouldn’t you be one too?” “No.” Sweden caught Tino’s hand and squeezed it tight for a moment to transmit his assurance. “We’re different. Can’t catch Rash from humans. ‘n trolls an’t self-aware. Can’t be our… substrate, so t’say.” “Yes, but… That’s right for a common disease, but Rash is magic. Like… Do you have Kades? No? Instead of a troll, an infected mage turns into an evil ghostlike monster that corrupts even immune mages by looking them in the eyes. What if a nation turns into… something else? Or, even worse, could the Silent World develop a self?” Sweden did not like the idea. Chills crept up his spine. But it’s normal for a winter night, and everything else can have a rational cause too. He thought, and thought, and came up with a comforting reply. “Hardly. ‘f it did, I mean, Silent World, ‘t would be so m’ch stronger than us, it’d crush us long ago.” Finland sighed and crouched again on the floor to examine the scene below. “I am not sure he — it — hasn’t.” Sweden did not get it. He wiped his glasses once more, as if clear sight would give him clearer thought. “B’t… ‘m here. You’ here. Others are over there. Alive. Or what’d you mean?” A pause lasted and lasted. Downstairs, the explorers decided to call it a day. Finn’s whisper came almost level with the cracking of firewood and the rustles of sleeping bags and mats. “I… Sometimes I was tempted to walk out to that voice and let it have me, because… I wondered if I was alone in the whole Silent World, and what if you were already a part of it?” Sweden would not discern the next words if not for a sudden moment of complete stillness indoors. “And I wanted to see you.” A pang of anguish mixed with tenderness stung Berwald. So, Tino still missed him, still was his friend. But why wouldn’t he look at the long-time-no-see friend? Sweden leant to hold Tino carefully by the chin and turn to himself. Finn did not resist but squeezed his eyes shut. He tensed, trembled tangibly, and breathed hard through his teeth. And then—you were a part of it—corrupts by looking them in the eyes—a nation like us can become a troll— Did Finn imagine that it was a monster in disguise by his side? Yes, that had to be the system in his madness, and even if Berwald did not believe any of it, he was not going to put such stress on the poor guy. After all, other than glances, there are other ways to make contact. So Sweden knelt to embrace him, to hide him from the whole world, so that Tino didn’t have to look at anyone. Like in all old times, Finn’s head top fit perfectly under Sweden’s chin. Tino relaxed, or so it seemed, until he sobbed and struggled to move away. Berwald let him. “Aa, suksikoon vittuun!” Berwald smiled at realising how much he missed even those curses. But before he could apologise, Tino drew in breath, cupped his face in his hands, and, of course, looked straight at him. His eyes were violet, just as Sweden remembered, with tiny yellow glimpses of the fire below. And intense on the verge of panic. “If you are done, then I am done too.” “We’re not.” Berwald hurried to assure him, drew him closer again, and imagined feeling his heart through two sets of thick winter uniforms. He did not imagine Tino’s hot breath on his neck or dry, chafed lips—it was all for real. “I’ll have t’ go,” he whispered between kisses. “ ’ll return, promise. With more weap’ns ‘n ammo. Here’s good place for port. ‘ll tear down ol’ ruins, scorch land clean, build’t anew. Need ‘thing else? Meds, seeds, gen’rators?” “Of course, but… Just come back yourself,” his Tino whispered instead of replying, and smiled at last the way he always did, and that smile lit his eyes and filled his voice with sunny warmth. “I’m glad you are alive. I’m glad you’ve come. I’m so very glad to see you again. But if you call me your wife once more, I’ll bite you!”