Author's Note: Huzzah! I'm so impressed that there are only two annotations, and my historical note is nicely short this time around. I must do this more often. Also, the first fic in this series to be rated 'T' rather than 'M.'

Historical Note: In 1629 Denmark signed the Treaty of Lübeck, removing the country from supporting the Protestant North German states in the Thirty Years' War.

In 1643 Sweden, in collusion with the Dutch, attacked Denmark without any warning. For two years Denmark viciously fought against the rising superpower, this time on the side of the Holy Roman Empire. The only support that Denmark would receive in that time would come from Norway, the semi-autonomous partner in their union. It should be noted that the 1600s was a century of near constant warfare for the Scandinavian countries.

Many Norwegians were against the idea of helping Denmark, rightly assuming that because they shared a land border with Sweden, as well as the Baltic Sea, they would be in direct line for military reprisals. Of course, the Danish did not think that this was a good enough reason for Norway to ignore their plight. In the final year of the Torstenson War, as this became known, 1645, Denmark attacked Sweden's major western port city, Gothenberg. The Swedes nearly wiped the fleet out; only the Norwegian fleet eventually sailing to help the beleaguered Danish saved them. Due to superior seamanship, the Norwegians defeated the Swedes, and saved Denmark's navy from complete obliteration. Norway basically kept Denmark afloat for the rest of the war, although war ravaged Denmark play its part as best as it could.

However, despite all efforts from both countries, Denmark's losses were too severe, and in August of 1645, Denmark-Norway had to agree to a French mediated peace, which, given the fact that France was anti-Imperial, did not go well for the two kingdoms. Norway lost significant amounts of territory to Sweden.

This fic picks up from "Sunlight Burning" and covers the Battle of Gothenberg, particularly Norway's spectacular contribution to the Tortensson War, as this two year campaign became known.

Cold Sea

Two days later, a boy stood at the kitchen entrance of the Saint Catherine of Alexandria monastery in Lübeck. This was not a new phenomenon. Novices, trouble makers one and all, even those who cared about Franciscan writ and rule, were always trying to get extra food scraps. But this boy was old enough not to be a boy, but rather a gangly man, or even, thought a kitchen maid, when she [1] opened the door, and looked into eyes the color of the ageless sky, a very, very old man in a body that only acknowledged the age that he felt. Thus, today, he must be feeling indeterminate about his age, as there was something shifting about the lad, who stood tall, and strong, with everything about him said that he should be down in some harbor town, manning a ship, or out in the forests selecting wood.

"I need directions to the nearest cellar's entrance."

He received them. Some people are hard to deny, even when they don't introduce themselves and look like witches. Afterward, the serving girl spent a long time wondering if she had sent a wizard off to commune with a devil in their basement. However, nothing was down in the root cellar any more satanic than a rogue turnip.

Norway stepped among the sacks of food and vegetables. Standing quite still next to a pile of misshapen turnips, he tugged on the world. He was lucky that he was the best he knew at this. Nations—countries—lands, whatever they should be called, warped the natural world. When the earth gave up a little of her essence to walk around and talk like the other things, and have quirks like other things, and make history like other things, and fall in love like other things, it had to exert a certain pull on whatever was 'normal.' At least, that was Norway's theory about it. The pull, as he conceived it, had to shuttle his thoughts and feelings and experiences back to his land, just as his land and his people returned the favor. But if a land-country-nation-named-thing-that-walked-upright-and-had-the-understanding-of-its-people, pulled a little on the world, they could arrange things to suit their general interests. Not enough to go up against another one of their own kind with that power alone, but enough for a symbol of who they were, say, an axe, to help them.

Having had many long winter nights to figure out the why, Norway had then productively tested all the limits that he could. As long as he was on his own soil, the world around him could call upon trolls and faeries, and every story of old. On the sea, the power waned. The land was too far away, and only a few nations of the known world felt as comfortable on the open water as the Nordics. On Denmark's soil, and as long as they were in union, this would probably hold, his ability to produce whatever he wanted was about as strong as on the open water.

Outside of Denmark, however, was tricky. You could not expect the world just to warp around where your feet wanted to go, for example. The earth, from his experiments, cared if you were at home or not. Outside of Denmark he could summon Thor, and that was about it. Or find a road to Denmark's prison, because Norway had no intention of waiting any longer.

A land without a thinking nation becomes very hostile and strange to both the people, and other nations. Of course, that was after years and years of neglect. If a nation went missing—well, maybe the resulting strangeness was the earth's way of grieving. Norway could not and would not investigate or experiment with that theory.

Nor could he do anything about his subsequent theory that if there was a vacancy, the earth would try to warp whoever was closet into fulfilling the role that she needed filled. Which left Norway in a bit of a conundrum, as he would probably end up in Danmark's place, despite the fact that his Sami were not Tani, and while he had lived very agreeably with the Tani for so many centuries that they had forgotten what it had once meant to be Tani, just as Norway had forgotten in a general way what it had meant to be the personification of the original Sami, since there were no first generation before contact Sami left to remind him. Humans changed, and therefore he changed. The land gave him stability. That was the important part. It gave him a sense of self. Having Danmark's land change his sense of self, and Danmark's people influencing his experiences was not the prudent move.

So, among the roots and vegetables, in a land that was free and not Danmark's, Norway thought hard, pulled, and the road spilled ahead of him.

It was a hike to where Denmark was imprisoned. It should not have been, but something did not want Norway to find Denmark. Norway could guess who was behind that one. Denmark had not wanted Norway to be there when Spain confronted him over the treaty terms. Denmark had fairly strong ties to this land, and the earth would respond to him more than, say, France. Denmark was probably, without knowing that he could do it—because he had never asked for Norway's option on the topic, nor was it likely that he would, because Denmark was not the kind of person-nation-land-country-thing who cared about the why as long as things were going the way he wanted them to, and usually once things started to go wrong, Denmark was too busy fighting anyone who looked like a good brawl to worry about the why then—making sure that he was not found.

Norway, taking that fact in, once he had deduced why the road was having such a hard time, and doubling back on itself a lot, squared his shoulders, and clenched his jaw. He thought about an older appearance. Once it would have been unthinkable to change. Now it was just hard. His status in the union meant that his body, whatever he told it, wanted to look youthful. However, if it turned out that he was going to be dragging the Dane home by his ankles—Spain could very well have punched him unpleasantly unconscious. Sweden often did—Norway needed a body that could drag someone the size of a small tree with the weight of a whole forest around the continent.

Change accomplished, cold blue eyes glared at the path. It shivered under his will, and Norway pulled, hard. Three steps, and he suddenly found himself on stone stairs leading down to a different cellar, but potentially in the same complex of cellars under the Lübeck monastery. Echoing up the stairs was an old presumably-Danish drinking song, although the echoes off the stone rendered the voice an unsubstantial growl of liquid honey, defying anyone to prove that he was sober.

Norway descended, finding Denmark lying on a flat board with a spoked wheel, and ties on both ends, conducting the sound of his own voice with one hand, which clinked, and rattled with chain. The fellow nation had managed to lose his shirt, although he was wearing rough prisoner's trousers, and seemed to have quite a collection of new scars, but nothing serious. More than he would have gotten in a Swedish raid, but how did that compare to what was normal in this war?

"Danmark, what are you doing?" Norway asked, crossing his arms, and checking for bottles of various flavors. There was none, and the entire cellar proved to be without suspicion, minus the sour smell of vomit which wafted from a crusty patch on the floor.

Belting out a line about "volcht my nae gij drinck gesellen," Denmark did not pay heed to Norway at first. Indeed, forcing his tongue over the foreign words, and settling on "drinck gesellen" as his favorite part, he repeated it a few times, before turning his head enough to see who was there. Seeing that it was Norway, the blonde broke into an even bigger grin than his singing mouth had allowed, and he waved, before ending on a last "ge-hey-hey-hey-zellllllll-en!"

Not precisely in the mood to play a drinking song game, Norway repeated his question, this time with specifics. "Danmark, why are you singing Dutch drinking songs on a device humans use to torture one another?"

"Hey, you saw the puke pit on the floor!" Denmark defended his action in the typical manner, attacking the problem from the most recent incident. "I just got my hair all neatened up, too."

Said hair was a straggling mess of blond and rusting matted brown, going in all directions. It was abundantly clear that Denmark also had not shaved once during his three day absence. An awkwardly spotty beard was coming in on his cheeks and chin. Norway refrained from rolling his eyes. "Your hair, lovely as I am sure it is—,"

"It's gorgeous!"

"As I'm sure it is, has nothing to do with either the Dutch songs, or getting you back to your house."

Denmark chuckled, refusing to rise. "God, you're turning all Swede on me. Mother henning me about and trying to control me. This older brother thing? It's not a good look on you, Norge. Especially because I am the eldest, and therefore clearly you should be the one going home, and explaining about drinking songs."

Norway, exasperated, tried to close the gap between them. Ankle dragging time, as far as he could tell. He stepped in a pool of barely congealed blood. Looking down at his boots, he sighed. You got used to such things, but it was such a pain to clean up that much human waste.

"Yeah, sorry about that. Prussia was here a while back, and he is kinda dribbling out whatever his army-duchy has to spare everywhere he goes. On the bright side, I think it's all war injuries, so no catching diseases, right? Lack of disease is great. Norge?" a pause filled with strange amounts of consideration from Denmark. "Did you get, um, taller?" The questioner tried to scoot back on the wooden plank to get the full effect of the slightly more adult Norway standing before him.

"Of course I did," Norway snapped. "If I have to lug your muscle bound idiocy back to Zealand, I do need every inch I can find."

Denmark seemed to consider this for a minute. Emotions flitted across the mobile face, before he winked, and grinned. "Cool! I'm not sure I approve of you changing your appearance without asking, but it's practical and useful. Go for it! I—,"

Have been replaced with a body snatching changeling, Norway mentally read across the blather. Normally even the barest hint that Denmark could become the third largest of the Scandinavian countries sent him into a tearing rage. Normally. Hmm.

He grabbed at Denmark's ankles, dragging the heavy body forward. Immediately, the wild head tossed back, lips parted just enough to reveal teeth clenched against something like a scream. Norway dropped the ankles.

One sea bright eye cracked open on Denmark's face. Norway waited. Both eyes opened again. Denmark's expression was sheepish. It was the face that said he might have destroyed seven villages, instead of the two that he had intended. It said that he had done something stupid, and damaging. But such an expression coupled with that silent tribute to agony?

Norway waited. Denmark was his union partner, and the grounded country knew that the best way to get him to talk was to force silence on the red-loving nation like a smothering pillow.

Minutes ticked by. Norway could feel the agitation building, either in his skin, or Matthias', and he suspected that it was his own. Danmark was not acting like Danmark. The land of forests and cold water simply did know any country that was more true to what he was, and however annoying or belligerent that person was, Danmark was still Danmark. For a man who ran around as though his feet were going to fly into the air at any minute, he was consistent to a fault. This was not expected. If Denmark was in pain, he would shout, and threaten people with dismemberment.

This was wrong.

More waiting. Norway refused to be the one who broke the silence. That was Danmark's job, and the last thing that could go wrong here would be having that change. Finally, the shirtless chained nation propped himself on his elbows, his back leaving the rack. Looking around at the dim stone room, he shook his head slightly. "You know, I've grown quite fond of it here? I'm sorry to see it go. Especially the rack. It was so nice and quiet on the rack."

Norway gave him an uncomprehending stare. "You hate the quiet, Danmark. There are numerous times when you have begun to scream about inane subjects rather than let me do my work in peace."

"Eh. It was comforting down here," Denmark shrugged. "Not sure if I want to leave just yet," a short pause, enough to fill in thoughts and lines, occurred. "Also, that Hapsburg twat did a bit of a number on me," shrugged off with a calm demeanor, and no threat of retribution. And that was not right. "I've got a boulder to lug out of here, now, thanks to him."

Norway frowned. Everything here smacked of wrong, but unless Danmark volunteered something useful in his regular conversation, Norway wouldn't know. Well, he could ask Spain, but if Denmark was confined then so, technically, was he. Sometimes the union had no benefits.

Anyway, if Spain could cause Denmark to become so wrongly subdued, then he would rather not deal with Spain until he knew exactly what he was getting into. And he would do it on his own land, where, if he needed to, he could call down lightning bolts, as well as mountain trolls.

"What is that to me? All I care about is getting you back home. How you fare on the way is your own problem," Norway finally replied, summoning his winter's coldness. Act normally, and maybe his loud, irritating, predictable neighbor would explain, or act normally as well.

Denmark's eyes narrowed, and he reached out, the chain trailing heavily for a second, before snapping through the air, and going around Norway's waist. "Hey, just remember: I'm chained. You're chained. So if I trip over a rock lugging this boulder, I'll take you with me!"

Weak, but more familiar than before, so Norway brushed it off with a disdainful snort. "I wasn't intending to waltz around the Holy Roman Empire. The chains are unnecessary in my case."

He reached to pull off the cold iron, only to be assailed by the blinding, crushing knowledge that he was alone with enemies on all sides. They all had been abandoning him for centuries. And it did not matter. It did not matter. Only he had a big heart, and it was open to anyone—Norway yanked the iron links from his body, and dashed them to the floor.

Well. Since Norway did not care if anyone was friends with him, and did not expect anyone to help him out in a spot, that had obviously not been him having those thoughts. "We have got to leave, now, Danmark. We can take the rack, if you're that attached. But you get to carry it."

"Okay," Denmark agreed, before a cloud passed over his face. "He-ey. I'm injured and stuff, over here."

"And you can't manage a measly piece of wood and iron on your own? Leave it, then."

Denmark scowled, crossing his arms. Norway stared at the hand Denmark had been blocking with his body through the whole conversation. It was swollen, the color of rusty iron in a stream, and the fingers sticking from the bulbous flesh seemed incapable of movement. What had done that? No battle had left such a gross deformity on Denmark when he had left to attend the treaty signing. So, Spain had done it. But, nations did not just pointlessly beat each other just to see the other's pain. Why? What had happened here?

The hand was quickly hidden by well-made bicep. The crossed arms caused Denmark to wince slightly, but he was moving, at last. "You're not doing anything."

Norway chose not to answer that, since the accusation was idiotic, and pointless. Danmark would either carry the rack, or leave it, and the dungeon behind. Norway had no time to carry a rack, open a short cut to Zealand, and be prepared, in case the damaged nation collapsed next to him, making their union a real problem, rather than a pressing annoyance.

Denmark moved from the rack. His bare feet hit the ground first. Standing, he surveyed the dungeon, turning his head this way and that. He grinned all of a sudden. "Excellent! I'm still taller than you. Still, once we get back, you need to shave. Or something. The sparce beard hair—not your thing."

Norway rolled dead icy eyes. "You say this as though I am the one who spent the last three days with drying blood and vomit. I plan on tossing you in a lake once we get back. With soap, even if you do distrust it."

"Great! And I'll shave you, and then we'll all be ourselves again. So, let's go! I can't wait around forever, you know."

Grasping the chains, the iron lines became wrapped around his palms. The stone which rested at the very end hurtled at Denmark's head. In catching it, he was knocked back onto the rack for once last time. However, he rose, the small boulder held easily under one arm.

"The way is up the stairs, and then just following the road," Norway told him, resting a gloved hand against cold Lübeck stone wall. What had happened here? He asked, but the land and the earth were not really his, and even if they were, the earth had trouble understanding their varied and human desires. Norway only felt the faint impression of a great earthquake, running cracks through sun warmed stones, and one of those cracks running past that and under the sea.

By the time the shorter nation had finished with his interrogation, Danmark had left, for once doing what he had been told. The rack remained. Norway, slightly exhausted, glared at the instrument. Had Spain used that on the obdurate Denmark? His limbs still seemed to be intact, so perhaps not. Still. The instrument returned his glare with the same blank look he had often worn when other nations accused him (mostly with Danmark as a co-conspiritor, if not leader) of making war, and enabling his people to rape, and pillage, and steal as much as they wanted.

This had been a tool. A prop for furious nations. It was not the rack's fault that it had been designed to rip apart flesh and bone with machine-efficiency. That was what it was. That was what racks did. Blame the man who invented it. Blame the one who fashioned this particular one. Blame the people who used it. But don't blame the tool.

Norway chose to, anyway, seeing a still smoldering brazier of coal near the wall by the vomit puddle. When he climbed the stairs, twisting the dungeon out of human existence behind him, he saw Denmark waiting for him at the top, rock on the ground, and the old, heavy, battle axe resting gamely on his knees.

"What kept ya, Norge?" he asked impatiently.

A bit of a fire.

"Nothing," the nation replied.

Denmark swung himself to his feet. Norway, expecting nothing less, followed, as the tall man began to limp along the passage. Danmark needed no support. At least, he did need the support physically, but if Norway did anything to give it, what precious scraps of fierce stubborn pride had survived that cellar would not survive that. Norway was familiar with his partner's needs, and as long as the coldest of the Norden wanted to remain strong against the world, which included Sverige, who he saw looking over his borders, the unreadable closed gaze suggesting that things would be better with Sverige's iron control like a collar around his neck, Danmark had to be kept in relative good health. Norway had the choice between partners, not between autonomy and total independence. That was the way of things, and so he had chosen Danmark, who now limped ahead, determined to take the lead.

The view behind provided ample opportunity to study Spain's handiwork. A nation's scars would always heal wonderfully, only appearing again when the country felt under stress, or some form of siege. As long as Denmark and Norway had warred together, the smaller of the two had always been aware that Denmark could have walked through a rain shower, and it would be as though he had never been touched. It was how someone like Danmark could survive—had to survive, probably. So, before they slipped away with the rest of the forgotten memories, Norway memorized the shiny throbbing red of a keltoid burn. Lines of white wrapped the broad shoulders. One slipped furiously down the left side. A small line under the shoulder blade opposite the burn reminded Norway of the insertion of belt knives into corpses that he robbed.

And the dried blood from under the hair had collected at the base of Denmark's neck. Ah. The final blow, perhaps? One that had lead to a miraculous knowledge of Dutch, and not moving from a rack for three whole days. "You never explained the songs."

"Ah, y'see, singing is an act of rebellion. 'Specially to a nation like Spain, right, 'coz he and Austria are musically oriented. So, I sing the songs of their enemies, and that pisses them off, and then I win. Just a little, but I. Win. I'd already gone through all my English songs. That took a while. I didn't realize that I remembered so many. I was thinking about going through the French ones next. Then do you think I should go with Polish or German songs for Prussia? I know a lot of German ones, so, I'll do those. And then Sweden."

Norway felt the fury contained within the small sentence. And then Sweden who is no longer part of me, and I spend my time wanting him back, with every fiber. This was why he should stay away from Danmark. Everything devolved into a conversation about the past, even if a good third of that conversation was all in Norway's head.

Their cellar road sloped upward. Danmark looked ahead, seeing the heavy stone work at the very end. "Home again, Norge," sharp eyes slid in his direction for a moment. "Y'got a particular reason—I mean, did Spanien tell you—Why bring me home? I would have gotten back to it. Eventually."

Norway shook his head. "Does it matter?"

Denmark walked silently along, that much telling the quiet country that yes, it did matter. It mattered a great deal.

"I don't want to inherit your position if you decided to remain under Spain's care too long," Norway replied, deciding that Danmark had the attention span to understand that much, at least. "Only an utter fool would want to be responsible for your land and people—,"

Predictably, Denmark rejoined with an enthusiastic: "Exactly!"

Norway nodded, not bothering to hide the smirk. "So, I chose to find and return you. Plus, I want to know how much of a treaty I was excluded from, by you, is going to interfere with my life." There, said with the least amount of anger that he could manage. Build the coldness up slowly. Then unleash it when he needed it. A storm of independence waiting on the horizon, only visible to those who were looking for it. But after the war.

Denmark chuckled. "Oh, nothing too serious. We can't take our tax on certain shipping, I think."

"Ahh." Piracy, then.

"Oh, and I've agreed that I'm helping Spain cut Sweden off at the knees, should Spain ever want me to do so."

Danmark stared straight ahead, the pronounced limp jarring everything else about the earth. For protection from the windy howls that were beginning to seep through their road, Norway crossed his arms, trapping the material of his dark blue cloak around his body.

"It's just me who has to go," the taller of the two added. "I think, anyway. That part of the treaty was informal. Yeah. Me versus Sverige, just like old times."

Norway, who would have been quiet, except for the fresh air and bound land called insistently from behind a door they were fast approaching, made a disgusted sound. "So, you're an Imperial dog, now?"

Danmark reached the door. His fingers felt along the old iron bindings, and wondered why they had not been updated to steel. He really would have to do that. There were a lot of things he had to do. Staying as far away from Spain as he could was important. Maybe his motto should become 'Bite the hand that feeds you.' That would be appropriate. "Yeah, I am."

He opened the door, and they were greeted by spring time in Copenhagen. Denmark smiled, greeting the country eagerly, as though he was not any different than when he had left. Norway, stepping through, found the overwhelming desire of the land taking control through his feet. Please, please be who you have always been. Give that much. It might not be any better than everything was before. But please, be the way you are until the worst has passed.

Norway considered Denmark for a long while. They were partners in union. It was his choice as to what to do. He began to walk after the Dane, who was trying to stride eagerly toward the city. Already the white line embracing the wide shoulders had disappeared. The slit under the left shoulder blade was vanishing. But the burn remained on the back, a red reminder of the price of simple imprisonment.

Noting the little scrap of red tilting on Danmark's head, Norway thought of the worst. They were never going to be the powers they had once been. He could feel himself losing inches, though he kept the muscle hidden under his blue doublet. He would need that if he chose to keep Danmark together through the war swirling around them.

"I found some clean clothes in the house your boss prepared for you, by the way. He seemed to think that all you would be doing was hunting. You need to get washed." Norway watched the chains dragging on that boulder with hate sparkling behind the cold.

In distaste, Roderich held Denmark's chain as the boats wheeled in some sort of formation. Somewhere out there the Swedish fleet had pinned the pathetic remnants of the once proud Danish navy in Gothenberg's harbor. Here he was on a bucking and heaving ship, wishing that he had these sea legs everyone spoke of. Sea battles were not his thing, and if Spain was not so busy with the Netherlands—not that it had stopped that rough upstart from appearing here, too, at the side of the Swedish brute—he would have insisted that Antonio deal with their so-called ally. "Well, Dog, as usual, it is time to do your job. Try not to utterly fail this time, if that is at all possible."

Denmark, fitting his gloves more securely on his hands, somehow managed to step on Austria's foot. "Sure thing, boss. Any chance of graduating to 'Wolf' at any point, is there?"

"If you lose this one, perhaps you'll be lucky enough to be called 'Mongrel' before Sweden carves out your heart," Austria sniffed, noting yet again the ragged state of both the battle scarred armor, the clothing under it, and the flatness of expression from the once bright sea blue eyes. Denmark was already beaten. "And to think, people used to fear you."

The flat of the axe blade appeared in front of Roderich's face. By weak star light, within the flatness of Denmark's eyes lurked a vicious twinkle. For a second his keeper paled, taking an involuntary step back. With a full grin, Denmark slapped the musician on his silk clad back. "Some still do!"

Cannons roared across the water. Suddenly, the golden nation switched his attention, and focused eagerly, his battered nose questing for the scent of battle. Roderich gladly dropped his loop of the chains.

Squatting down for a moment, Denmark ran his gloved fingers over the age smoothed wood of the ship. The icy water lapped contentedly under him, speaking of journeys not yet made, the great voyages of the past, and all the ships traveling the Baltic right now. Denmark showed his teeth in a fierce, terrible smile. "He's done it!"

Without explaining, The nation leaped onto the water, flying toward his ships far out on the cannon bright sea. From this vantage point, however, even he could see that the Swedish ships had smashed through the ragged line, before bearing down on the western half. But silently, further out, Denmark could sense the dark shapes of more boats bearing down on the whole fleet. They weren't obviously painted red or crossed with white [2], but they didn't need to be. Denmark knew whose they were, and he welcomed them, leaping for his nearest vessel.

Amid creaking of ships and the cries of men fighting in the night, wild Danish laughter boomed over the sea. Lit by fire, he jumped from ship to ship, axe smashing through what he could, constantly seeking his prey.

Red country blood followed him in sparkling veils. It flowed down his chains as lives slipped away through his mediation into the night. Wounded and bleeding from places that would scar and disappear, he only had one target in mind. It had burned into his head as Antonio's words reached inside of him.

Landing with a crunch on the latest Swedish vessel, bright cold steel shot through his side. Denmark jerked forward, still laughing, his eyes lamps of rage. The sword tore from muscle and organs in a smooth sweep. He whirled, bringing his axe in an overhead sweep that ricocheted from the blood besmirched longsword brought defensively above the foe's head.

Sverige.

Above him, on the stern castle, a ghostly figure wielded two swords in a furious whirlwind of death for the Norwegians trying to flood their battle ground. Denmark laughed merrily, reversing the grip on his axe, and shoving the blunt end into Sweden's stomach.

He stumbled back, before rolling to the side. They circled. This time Denmark wore armor. He had not been in a fit state of dress the morning two years ago when Sweden nearly beheaded him over a camp fire.

They met once more, twin flares of temper passing between them. The Sweden surged forward. Stumbling back under the giant's assault, Denmark reached the railing. He avoided a slash that would have divested him of his arms by twisting sharply. Clear certainty shone brightly from Sverige's eyes. Denmark would get to know the bottom of his sea once more.

And behind him, Finland fell to the main deck, rolling with luck. In that instant, Sweden turned, and ran for his fallen ally. Denmark's gloved hand shot out, chain and boulder streaking out ahead of him, and Sweden ran right into the hard iron links.

Norway landed on top of Finland's white back, the precise weight of his two feet causing the other to scream. Struggling with the chain, Sweden grabbed at his scabbard, throwing the firm leather like a spear straight for Norway. Cold eyes barely flickered. A wall of water, leaping from the sea, trailing a nymph, passed between the four nations, knocking the scabbard out of the air.

Denmark whooped, dragging the chains and Sweden across the deck, even as his oldest neighbor struggled like a man possessed, straining to reach Finland. The white wrapped young man tried to roll over, a small belt knife appearing, only to jam through the leather covering the cold nation's boot. Norway, apparently not even noticing the knife, or the blackening liquid stain moving across his left foot, stepped from the body.

Even over the raging battle, the slight man managed to make the silken drawing of a short sword audible. It was a deliberate hiss of warning from a snake. Then no more threat, the ice filled man lunged forward.

Sweden's eyes widened in pain. "Norge."

Red blossomed through blue, where the weapon had pierced the breast plate, and lodged between Sweden's ribs. For a nerveless second, Sweden's hand relaxed around his long sword.

Norway grabbed for the shining steel. He brought the sword around, over his head, where a second hand steadied the impossibly heavy blade. Sweden glared down, furiously accepting fate. Finland tried to rise, grabbing futilely at Norway's cloak. The darkness of a cellar crystallized in Denmark's blank force tugging on chains. Far away, on shore, someone was watching, waiting for their kingdoms to attack like good dogs. Sverige had to die, because if he did not die tonight, Norway would lose his land, and Danmark his life. Now was their moment to show the kind of men they were. Norway did what he had always planned to do.

The long sword whistled through the air.

Sverige's stumbled forward, as his sword cut through the black chains between his head and Denmark's hands. Iron links clattered like ice filled rain drops on the deck. Norway smiled at the sword for a brief moment. His personal victory.

He kicked Sweden in the broad target that his steel protected chest made. Unbalanced, the huge nation teetered backwards. With delight, Denmark slid out the haft of his axe. The black boots collided with it, tangled for an instant, and then the haft viciously pulled away from the tall nation. Sweden flipped over the rails. Norway carelessly tossed the sword after him.

Both nations rounded on Finland, standing shakily, but defiantly in the face of the twin kingdoms.

Norway pressed down once more on Denmark's chest, clearing the last of the water from his lungs. Coughing and holding his most certainly bruised ribs, Denmark finally arched from his prone position on the rocks. Wet leather was stripped from numb fingers. He moaned slightly, as moving frozen digits on frozen ear tips confronted him with a horrible burning just under his skin. It turned out that Finland could really put up a fight when he wanted.

Further up the bare coast, a fire crackled merrily, the wood smoke drifting on the wind to tickle Norway's nose. Finland, Sweden, and the Netherlands were there, preparing something for dinner, and probably performing the same service for Sverige—once they had managed to remove Norway's sword from his side.

Cold air off the sea wrapped the two victorious nations, one of whom welcomed the wind without a real care, and the other of whom was too tired even to complain. In the pale blue darkness, Denmark lay down again, ignoring the sharp rocks, and water-washed smooth ones. They would be his rocks at the end of the war. Part of him, and part of his soil. Denmark had to hope for that. Keep confident, and it would all work out, despite the war they were both winning and losing day by day.

"Norge?" he asked after a minute. "Thanks for the fleet."

Norway's thoughts were on the sea. A roaring, cold road they had walked together many times. "He'll take my land in retribution," the young man commented, the driving, flirting, flashing in his head screaming of freedom and choice, and will, and independence all drowned in the hiss of breakers.

Denmark managed, by dint of great effort, to get his water-logged body to sit back up, and inch closer to Norway. Once having found the desired distance, he lay his head in a way that he hoped was comfortingly on his partner's knees. Norge could be such a mystery sometimes, and right then, Matthias was too grateful to get into the kind of argument his words always would get him into. Besides, they both knew that it was the truth. With help and reinforcement, perhaps they could scrape a draw from this disaster. Maybe a victory, if luck was on their side, but Norway did not believe in luck, and Denmark did not trust the fickle mistress that she was to him.

Norway sighed, feeling icy cold water soak into the legs of his pants. As if the blood filling his boot was not enough. "Get off, Danmark, and get out of your fighting gear, will you? You're going to freeze both of us, instead of the one of us who deserves it."

"Okay!"

Raising his head once more, Denmark managed to struggle out of the rust colored doublet, and wet linen undershirt. The tired arms ended up not working quite properly, and for a while, Matthias rolled on the rocks, head and shoulders stuck in wet cloth, as Norge watched him impassively.

Finally, panting slightly, the exhausted nation shuffled back to Norway, and took up his position against the damp over pants. Norway snorted disgustedly, but wrapped his cloak around the bare skin, which was not showing all that many scars in the half light of the the dark star-studded sky. Just to make certain, a freezing pair of fingers slipped down a shoulder blade. No ropey burn roughness met their quest.

Denmark bit back a yelp. "You been sticking your hands in the snow, Norge?"

"No," Norway removed the offending appendages from under the shelter of the blue dyed wool. Warm hands caught the escaping digits. He suffered from shock, as they were brought back to the uncomfortable warmth that Denmark was generating.

"If you aren't careful they'll fall off," Danmark grinned cheekily up at his rescuer.

Dispassionately, Norway let his gaze rest on the sea once more. "If you insist."

Clearly, he did insist, keeping Norway on the barren boulder that the country had chosen, holding one hand. Norway ignored the way the red and gold nation began to weigh more heavily on his knees. Once Denmark began to snore, his companion wrapped his naked shoulders more securely in the lanolin soaked cloak. They could not afford a fire, lest the other three discovered that they were so close. For tonight, then, Norway would keep watch, and make certain that Danmark did not contract hypothermia. That would just be like the useless idiot.

A crackle of tall grass further up the beach brought the blank eyes to focus. Austria. The aristocrat allowed his discomfort with the natural conditions of their camp to show plainly on his face, even in the poor light. Shoes not made for anything other than fancy dancing, and stroking piano pedals slipped and slithered over the pebbles and stones of the beach.

"I am to congratulate you on your victory," he began once he was close enough, pushing his glasses up an aristocratic nose with an aristocratic forefinger.

Norway just stared at him. Long after the comfort barrier had passed, Austria coughed delicately into a lambskin glove. "Would it be possible to light a fire? I find it difficult to see you, and it is rather cold out here."

"No," Norway told him.

Austria's eyebrows snapped together, his forehead wrinkling in impatience. "Norwegen, I find this exceedingly inhospitable."

"Do not call me Norwegen in your human tongue as though we are friends. If you wish for fire, head up the beach. Sverige, Finland and Nederland will give you room, if you ask politely."

Austria took in the insolence with a scowl, but he nodded. He was not completely incompetent when it came to understanding tactical positions, whatever Hungary, Switzerland and Brandenburg-Prussia maintained. "Fine. I see your point. It would also explain why the Dane is managing to stay sensibly quiet for once. But would a little light be out of the question?"

Norway extracted one bare hand from under the cloak, allowing Denmark to keep the other claimed appendage. With some effort, pale blue light fell from cold fingertips. The blank eyes did not leave Austria's dark violet ones. The young man reminded Roderich horrifyingly of one of Antonio's beloved pietà, lit in virginal blue. This mourning lady, however, offered none of her sorrow to the world. Only a hard, cold peace. Not peace offered out of love, but peace created from nothing, and of nothing, because there was nothing left.

The wind howled around the rocks for a brief moment, displacing the Austrian's carefully combed hair. The unfeeling nation did not even shiver. He simply maintained his silent interrogation, trying to strip Austria to the bare essentials. Roderich imagined that his hair suddenly lost all pretense to volume, and the wind had knocked the glasses to the ground under the direction of those pitiless eyes.

He coughed nervously. "Obviously, you will have to attack them when they go to sleep tonight."

"No."

Roderich blinked. "But, you—this is the best place to cripple Sweden. You must attack,"

Norway almost glared. He almost screamed. But he would rather rip out his own fingernails than show how the demands affected him. "Look at Danmark, Austria."

Blue tinged in the light, the large nation huddled against Norway's knees. His head rested peacefully in his partner's lap, slumbering for the first time in days, safe in the knowledge that Norway was there.

"He is exhausted. He will be attacking no one for a while. You used him up."

The expression that crossed Austria's face was quite ugly. "You will serve the Empire!"

"No. We will not."

The conductor's baton was drawn like a sword, pointing straight at Norway's heart. Thunder boomed overhead. The white hot light of lightning built in Norway's hand, as he raised it far above his head. "Which is faster, Edelstein?" Norway whispered, his dead eyes boring into Austria's, causing fear to light the violet depths.

The baton trembled. "You must attack!"

Lightning, caged by will, twisted around Norway's fingers. "You are not dealing with Danmark. This is not some dark cellar with Spain and no one to help. You are speaking with Norge, on his soil, granted by union. No man tells me who I attack or not on my land. I choose not to."

"But it's in your own self-interest!"

"I have chosen my path, Østerrike," the familiarity slapped Roderich in the face. "We will defend ourselves against Sverige. But on our own terms. When Danmark can stand without trembling. Pray to your Sainted Virgin. If luck favors you, we will succeed. Otherwise, you'll have lost."

Above, the heavens clashed. Roderich looked at Norway. He had heard stories. They all had. The Nordics were a strange, old lot. Even stranger than England, if that was to be believed. The winters had made them, and for all that Sweden and Denmark were Germania's children, the rest were something else. Not quite in the same world, just as the nations did not quite exist in the human world. Oh, he had heard the rumors. Norway had called a storm.

Austria turned, and was very proud that he did not run from the young man and his tame lightning. Simply walked away. Very fast. As befitted an Empire.

Thunder rumbled, and then the storm broke. Lightning flared, striking up at the sky in pure defiance. Tumbling from the sky, water ran off the cloak protecting Denmark. Norway turned his face to catch the rain that tenderly fed the parched soil.

Annotations

[1] – I am very sorry, I could not find out if this still was a monastery in 1629. You never know, given the Reformation, and Protestantism's grip on the land surrounding Lübeck. Anyway, I also didn't do enough research to discover if the Franciscan order allowed for female servants. The Benedictines did in England, but I believe that the Dominicans did not.

[2] – Norway used the same flag as Denmark during their personal union.

Omake:

Netherlands jumped, as the thunder rolled, and rain began to slate into their camp. Even here, close to the marshes, the land felt solid, and rockily cold. Damn Sweden. It was so unfamiliar that it gave him the chills just to set foot on the land. Netherlands missed his canals. Miles away, Gothenberg had canals, but they were not his canals. If the ships had not been sunk, or fled, he would have preferred to sleep on them. Or sleep on something other than this.

Behind him, something giggled.

He rounded, glaring at Finland, who was building some sort of leafy shelter for the fire with a few branches, and the roll of tent canvas that had once belonged to some human fighting for one side or the other. Catching the seagrass green expression of severe disapproval from a nation Finland remembered last beating Su-san to a pulp, the smaller nation waved nervously. Even if he was afraid of storms, Alankomaat was not a nice person when he was angry.

Sweden, his limbs spread across the small camp, too tired to try to make his big body more acomodating to the others, looked into the black sky, impervious to the rain. "Di' th' lightnin' go up?" he asked, but received no answer.

Thank you very much for reading. Finland! Oh, I wish I could have done more with you in this story. Dun worry, Tino, your time, too, will come to pass. As for why I chose Roderich and not Spain: for one, Spain is in boatloads of trouble on multiple fronts, and collapsing internally, so he isn't going to be there. Also, Norway's conversation would have gone a lot differently with Spain, and I wasn't ready to write his character that way yet. I'm new to Norway, so I hope that I made his fan happy with my version.

~ MF