This piece take place in 1658 around, uh, whatever, June or July or something.

Warnings: violence, torture, death.

Norway nervously beat the reins against the bay draught horse, ignoring his charger's dissatisfied throwing of the head at being tied behind the snail-paced cart. Norway shared its sentiments, he'd much rather be riding it and normally he would, normally he would be out scouting while lesser men of arms drove wagons with supplies and extra horse, but no. This could potentially turn out to be much too delicate an operation to bring humans. Even humans who knew what they were.

Sweden had penned the message himself.

The Scandinavian was still not entirely sure what exactly that meant, only that if he, himself, had been the one to pen that message, it would have been dripping in smug self-satisfaction. And he would not have sent it unless he wanted someone to see what had happened. And that did not bode well at all.

Bordering on nervous tittering, Norway brought the whip down over the slowing draft horse, gritting his teeth and desperately hoping for the best. Denmark had not died, that much was obvious. True, no one had ever tried seeing how much it took to actually kill a nation outright, especially not one as strong and stubborn as Denmark, but while Sweden could not kill him, he could and would hurt him. And could he really, truly be blamed after the Stockholm Bloodbath? Norway swallowed and thought hoping for the best was stupid and sentimental and naïve.

Fiddling with one of the purses hanging from his belt, ignoring his sable and the two loaded pistols, he withdrew the letter Sweden had been kind enough to send them. The letter, which had cost his messenger his head. Well, Norway had taken one look and, well, Denmark had always been the only one in his court fast enough to restrain his… whatever Norway was to him. Ally didn't really fit, since Denmark ruled, but that was the word Denmark preferred to use. The letter was short, penned in Sweden's exceedingly precise hand.

Dear Norway,

I found Denmark hiding out in Hurva, a village a little off the main road 20 kilometres from Lund towards Kristianstad. He wants you to come get him. Remind him that Scania is mine now and I am not giving it back in case the lesson doesn't stick.

Sweden

The message had arrived yesterday. Norway had not let anyone else see it, not even when King Frederik III had demanded to know what had prompted Norway to kill the hapless messenger. Norway had stared the king down and told him Sweden would have expected it. Sweden was, after all, familiar with his temper.

The blond fiddled with his sable, desperately hoping that some bandit or other would be stupid enough to attack him. Aside from the sable and the pistols, a bayonet rested under his seat. They would have to severely outnumber him to win and he so, so, so needed to kill someone. He already had the battle planned out. But then, villains rarely took the main roads as too much military frequented those. Especially since Sweden got control of Scania.

Norway gritted his teeth, giving up on any chance of a proper bloodbath as he saw an entirely newly made sign pointing the way to Hurva. A rather redundant sign, Norway thought, as the wind changed direction and a thick, cloying taste of smoke and death invaded his nostrils. His charger pricked its ears, dancing to and fro as far as its reins allowed while the stocky horse in front, for the first time showed signs of registering its surroundings and shied a little.

He turned in onto the smaller road, stomach churning, suspecting what he would eventually find.

The village had been burned to the ground, smoke still coming from most of the smouldering remains. Dead people, villagers Norway suspected, was revealed everywhere from under clouds of crows and ravens whenever Norway rumbled past. The bay was obviously nervous, though it still obeyed the signals from the reins. His charger was dancing, battle-ready, recognising the signs and knowing he was supposed to be on the front lines.

Norway halted at the village pond, the centre. The bay whinnied and a flock of black crows took to the sky, landing on the large tree marking where four dirt-packed roads met, while Norway descended from the wagon seat, landing on weakened legs. He felt nauseous suddenly, as he saw Denmark's figure.

May the Lord have mercy.

No, he could be nauseous later, right now he had to help Denmark, he would... he lost the fight, losing his meagre lunch on the hard-packed dirt where villagers would have danced and laughed at holidays and walking every day to and from work in the fields.

He forced himself upright, unconsciously wiping his mouth with his sleeve, packing his feelings up in a ball and burying them deep, deep within himself. He walked on stiff legs, faintly aware that they might still crumble under him towards where Denmark was... kneeling. It was a stake, probably buried at least a metre into the ground, thicker at the base and tapering to a point about one and a half metre above ground. Denmark had been impaled upon it, hands tied behind his back, the spear exiting through his mouth, forcing him straight and his head back. The crows, still perched in the tree where other young men hung from the branches, had luckily not been at him for as long as the corpses, but they must have gotten bold when the person, while alive, hadn't been able to move. They had taken his eyes, always the first thing that sort of creature went for, and strips of flesh from his cheeks, throats, and near his groin where the skin was thin and easy to peck through.

"Denmark, Denmark, can you hear me?" Are you still alive? But he dared not ask that last question because Denmark had to be alive. Sweden had used a rather slim pole, avoiding the damage of too many organs, though even so, had Denmark been a regular human, the impaling would have killed him within, what? Minutes? An hour, maybe? Depending on which organs the pole went through. Definitely liver and stomach, entrails, yes, but what about his heart and his lungs? The blond took a deep breath, relief washing through him when the shallowest of breaths whistled through Denmark's nostrils.

Never feeling more grateful for the strength his military lent him, Norway, as carefully as possible, lifted Denmark up and off the gruesome tool. He knew he would cause more damage inside Denmark, it could not be avoided, but Denmark couldn't protest, not even with whimpers and Norway needed to bring him back to his own soil as fast as possible so he could heal. No, he could not simply bring him back, could he? If Denmark's court saw him like this... they did not have the resources for a full-out war against Sweden so soon after the last loss, the loss that had forced Denmark to secede Scania, Halland, Blekinge, Bornholm and his own Bohuslän and Trondhjems len. He retrieved a knife from his boot once Denmark was lying on the ground, blood generously soaking the dirt around him from his mouth and between his legs both, and cut the coarse rope around his brother's hands. They had been rubbed raw, but that was no less than Norway had expected given Denmark's personality. What concerned him far more was the hole that now would go all the way through the taller blond and his missing eyes. It wasn't something you could easily aid healing and Norway was scared of touching it. Not that he doubted that Denmark would get better. He would. He had nearly disappeared a few times in history already, this was nothing. But how long would it take? And would there be any permanent damage? Permanent damage would be crippling, no matter how small. Denmark was surrounded by warmongering nations; Prussia to the south, England to the west and of course Sweden to the north and east. At least he was on good terms with Russia, Holland, and Poland-Saxony, but... Denmark had been among the most warmongering nations himself and if anyone perceived any weakness... No. No, Denmark would be fine, this was just a flesh-wound as far as nations were concerned and that was that. He carefully lifted the unresponsive Dane onto the cart, crawling up onto the seat and turning it around. The bay began a brisk walk all of itself, only too eager to get away from a place where death hung so thick in the air. The Norwegian spared a brief glance back at the men hanging in the tree, uncaring. The crows had managed to open the stomach of two of them, the insides spilling out rotten and repugnant, but Norway was used to that sort of sight; it moved him as little as the dead villagers artlessly left around the place.

The charger tore at his reins a little, unwilling to follow after the smell of blood, even if it probably recognized the smell of Denmark. Well, it should. Denmark had reared it, chosen it from his own best stock of Frederiksborg horses, trained it to be the best of the best before offering it to Norway, happy, smiling, proud.

Truthfully, the horse could have drawn the carriage easily, but if so, Norway could not have fixed bridle and saddle on it, so it would be ready should they be attacked. Additionally, it had quite a temper and now, even more than before, Norway wanted an even-minded horse to pull the cart.

He spared a thought that he should have drawn some fresh water from the village well, but discarded it just as quick. The likelihood that Sweden had not poisoned it was less than nothing. If nothing else, the super power would have dropped a corpse into it. He would have to draw water from the next village over and if they wouldn't let him, he would just have to threaten them.

OoOoOo

Denmark had been unconscious for the past two days. It worried Norway a little, but maybe it was for the best. He had successfully smuggled the unconscious man to his own soil through Helsingborg to Helsingør by a small stolen fisher boat in the dark of the night. He had sought shelter in an inn in a small village outside the actual town, asking for a room while his friend recovered. It was a good thing Denmark had stopped bleeding by then, though the blood-stained linens convinced the good innkeeper that the Dane indeed had been injured. Norway had tied a rag around Denmark's face, figuring the hollows where his eyes ought to be would be too much for humans to bear. Half a day past he had begun feeding Denmark a thin broth, hoping that his body was healed enough to bear it. Considering that he had not coughed it up after half an hour, he figured he had been right and carefully fed him another half bowl every hour. He dared not give him anything that needed chewing yet, though, not until he woke up.

Presently, he was just sitting in the room, staring out at a grey-white sky that may or may not mean rain soon, waiting for just that to happen.

"Nnh," Denmark moaned after another hour where the sky still had not revealed whether there would be rain or not. Norway, halfway asleep from boredom, having gotten stuck on a thought of taking the charger out of the stable to hunt down bandits, there was never any shortage of bandits, turned his head. Denmark was definitely waking up, grimacing in pain, hands weakly lifting only to fall back down.

"Denmark," he breathed, taking a deep breath, concealing it as a sigh.

"Norway? What... I can't see."

"You don't have any eyes, idiot."

"Oh. ...Right, Sweden and..." Well, it seemed like he was well enough, all things considering, even if his voice was frighteningly weak. "Fuck, I think I'm gonna start shooting crows as soon as they come back. Damnit, that hurt."

Norway smiled, but stayed silent.

"How long?"

"Four days since I got the message from Sweden."

"He sent you a message? That smug bastard," he snorted, then coughed. "Iceland?"

"At home."

"Mmh, still protecting him? You know you can't keep sheltering him."

"Mmh," Norway replied non-committally, reluctant to admit that the sight of Denmark stripped, impaled and left to the crows for a couple of days had caused even him to actually lose his lunch.

"So... so what happened to the village? I.. I wasn't much aware of my surroundings after Sweden had me impaled."

"Burned. Killed."

"Fuck. Fuck that bastard." There were tears in his voice now, Norway noted, pressing his lips together. Denmark sometimes liked to call him weak for protecting Iceland, the Faroes, what was left of Greenland, but sometimes, he could be just as soft over his own people. And then he could turn completely around and call for death. His mood swings were more unpredictable than the sea. "They... they didn't know what we were. We... we just thought we'd stay there one night. I thought Sweden was farther away, thought we had shaken him off... shit!" A sob tore out his throat and with an almost start, Norway realized that had Denmark had eyes, there would have been tears.

"And you call me soft."

"He'll pay, Norway!" His voice gained strength, though it broke on the last syllable and he started coughing again. "He'll pay," he whispered, though no less vehemently.

"Do you want something to eat? You can even get some meat and bread, now you're awake."

Denmark nodded, silently stewing now. Norway got up and went downstairs to get some more broth and letting them know that "Svend", which he had named Denmark for now, had woken up.

When he returned to the room where Denmark was lying, the Dane was fighting his covers, mouth open in a silent scream. Surprised, Norway put the food on the floor before rushing to the bed, trying to calm the erratic blond down.

Finally, after a few minutes, while Denmark was still trembling, Norway had him calmed enough that he was no longer flailing. "He'll pay. Norway, he'll pay! They're just peasants, how can.. He'll pay!"

"What?"

"Bornholm.. Rønne, it's... He'll pay!"

The End

Notes:

Inre Spetsning (or pålning) is but one of the ways Sweden discouraged Snapphaner (Danish rebels after Scania was seceded to Sweden in 1658) and was well-known all over Europe (sources disagree on whether it happened before or after the person had been killed, though they agreed that it was used to scare others into obedience) though likely not as well-used as in Sweden's new area at this point in time. Another was ydre spetsning, where the person in question had rope or a pole or the like speared up just underneath the skin, then left to thirst, hunger and scavengers until they died. Additionally, in Scania, the most gruesome stories abound of Swedish military burning entire villages to the ground after having hanged all the men and raped the women and.. yeah, well, on the charge of sheltering rebels.

Helsingør is better known as Elsingore in English.

At this point in time, the Original Settlers on Greenland (aka not the Eskimos) would still have been in existence, though about to die out.

I have heard the most gruesome stories of Bornholm XD After Sweden got a hold of it in 1658, at one point or another, they committed a massacre in Rønne to match and exceed the horror of the Stockholm Bloodbath after which the inhabitants rebelled and killed every single Swede residing on the island and then offering the island back to the Danish king. The only part of this I can say with certainty is true is that the commander on the island was kind of brutal and was shot openly at the main street (Storegade) on December 6th 1658 and Bornholm was given back to Denmark with the promise that they would never be seceded to anyone else ever again.