Prussia: Remember, war is a blunt and costly instrument. Your objective is like a button. and there are some obstacles to pressing it, sure, and you can break through those obstacles with a club, yeah, but you’ll smash the entire keyboard hitting the button.
America: Oh… okay.
America: But… didn’t you say war was always your first option?
Prussia:….weeeell. Yes. We’ll see how far it gets me, kid.
I trust every Hetalian who’s a Nordic fan knows the story of the Kalmar Union since it’s the base of their feels-fest, but in case you don’t here’s a summary:
Denmark, Sweden and Norway were once united together under the name Kalmar Union in 1397, until Sweden up and left in 1523, beginning a war for independence with newfound friend and ally Finland at his side.
Afterwards, Norway left to join Sweden in 1814 (The Treaty of Kiel), leaving Greenland, Iceland, and The Faroe Islands (and possibly others that I don’t know about) under Denmark’s rule.
In modern day, the only countries remaining under Danish rule are Greenland and The Faroe Islands, who are currently - peacefully - forging a path towards independence themselves.
England had not been pleased upon his return to his colonies. That had always been the key: his colonies. They had belonged to him, and were a part of him. There wasn’t supposed to be a distinction. He had known they felt distant, but this- this was not acceptable. A shaky young man had stood before him; and looked for all the land he was trying to claim like the sort of uneasy mutt it would produce. England towered over him, a vision in gold and scarlet, the might of a global empire behind his confidence. “You’re back” England acknowledged the mulatto boy’s observation with the slightest tilt of his head; his lip having curled with the movement. “And what do you presume yourself to be? A nation?” That question made the poor creature hesitate. England couldn’t blame him: pilgrims, misfits, and slaves that have been alone a few generations are hardly a platform for greatness. Why, the most solid thing about this child- this inkling of an idea- was those vivid blue eyes, and even they were only alight with hope. Hope, nothing but possibilities, an easily crushed rebellion of thought: that was what his existence clung to. He was an unsteady idea and nothing more. “… yes… I think I am.” His answer was as timid as his people’s belief in him. England stepped closer, a move of power, driven by his anger in this bunch of colonists, and their vapid avatar. “You are loyal to the British Empire.” It was not a question and, yet, the wretched thing hesitated again. Not a moment spared, England backhanded it; the new nation did not cry out as he fell down, and returned to where he belonged. “You are loyal.” England repeated. He did not bend down to the mulatto’s level. He knew his place. “Yes.” An immediate answer was given, and it was the strongest one. England had come the closest to smiling since he stepped down from the ship, and saw this wraith- the imagination of small disobedient children. He had not been concerned at the change in tone when the young man faced opposition. Because England had not seen unity in that yes: he had seen submission. A ragtag bunch of colonies playing at global politics was no threat! This thing, this broken, wretched, weak nation who stands on hope and separation would never last. And England had known, in every fiber of what made his own power possible, that he would smother this “nation”. Crush any ideas of parting from his Empire by destroying their false idol. “Remember that.” England was going to make the young man’s life a short one. Of this, he had had no doubt. * * * “Ig. Iggy. Igland! Hey!!” England’s head snaps up. “What?” “I was waiting for you. C’mon! What’re you thinkin’ ‘bout?” The nation leans effortlessly against the lounge table England is sitting at. He moves with the assured confidence of an international superpower. His darker complexion is a mark of immigrants, of differences; things that make him strong inside and out. His vivid blue eyes are alight with the faith of millions. “Nothing important…” America towers over England. “Then hurry up!” “Fine… fine.” America shifts off the table with a grin. He does not attempt to help England. He knows his place.