Notes: I can't remember where the inspiration for this came from, but it was a long time ago. I think I just felt like writing gore…
The shield-wall has fallen. It's every man for himself in the fury of battle as Sweden ploughed his way through enemy Norwegians. There was one particular Norwegian he was looking for and he had a score to settle with him. Until he found him, he tore down his enemies, one by one, most hardly standing a chance against the broad and strong Swede.
His shield up and his sword ready, Sweden was prepared for the burly Norwegian that came straight towards him. At first he only saw a heavy axe come down over his head, but he blocked it with his shield and side-stepped away, slashed at the man's thigh, cut deep to the bone, now spewing blood, and walked away. He was dying and as good as dead, which meant he was of no concern to Sweden any more.
He barely stumbled two paces away when he felt a sharp pain in his lower back and a spear-head shot out of his chest. Sweden tried to move, but he was paralyzed with shock and pain. He swung his head to glance back and saw the Norwegian soldier skewer the spear-shaft into the ground. Sweden's mouth filled with blood as he was losing consciousness. The last thing he saw before choking on his blood was the Norwegian crawling away, struggling to stand and wearing a brutish grin across his filthy, bloody face. The barbaric man collapsed on his back with his life finally seeped out of his wounds, dying with the satisfaction of having killed just one more enemy.
Sweden watched as he was left standing, held up by the planted spear and unable to fall. He'd been looking for Norway on the battlefield and failed to find him. He couldn't even remember why they were fighting anymore and he just wanted to make peace with him and end the slaughter. In his last moments, he realized how childish they were being. He thought of Norway and how he would have apologized if he had the chance, no matter what pissed them both off in the first place—it should never have ended this way.
At least I can say I died standing, thought Sweden with a snicker, realizing this must have been the end for him.
The shield-wall has fallen. It's every man for himself in the fury of battle as Norwegians and Swedes clash in a medley of metal against leather, seeped in blood. Norway stood back to clean-up: anytime a Swede tried to escape the battle field, he would chop him down like kindling. He saw the number of Norwegians dwindling before him, so he threw himself in the heat of battle. He made it a game to see how many Swedish heads he could chop off before one could even graze him.
He brought his axe down on one man's head, splitting his skull, letting the blood splatter his face and the smell of copper assaulted his senses, fuelling his bloodlust. Another tried to sneak up behind him, but he could smell the shit stains coming, turned, stopped the axe with his shield and gashed the man's stomach, letting his guts spill over his boots in a red waterfall. He stepped back from the falling corpse.
The density of bodies decreased and Norway finally felt like he could breathe, even if the air was tainted with the smell of feces, urine, and overturned mud. A man ran straight towards him, shouting for Valhalla and his axe raised, but Norway simply side-stepped the dimwitted man and chopped into his spine, killing him instantly.
The fight was exhausting and the exertion was taking its toll on his body. He stumbled to one knee to ease his sore muscles, looking around, constantly on guard against oncoming attacks. None came yet. Only a few men were still fighting in small clusters, and he stood alone observing the melee.
He always hated the smell of war. It clouded your mind and overwhelmed your senses, making it hard to fight with anything but instinct. Corpses littered the ground with blood seeping into the grass, nurturing the earth below. In the distance, he sees a broad, tall man standing. He wasn't moving—just standing there. It made Norway nervous seeing him there, looking at him and not approaching.
He decided that if the stubborn man wasn't going to come to him while he was down, then he was going to get up and go to him instead. Norway took his time gathering his strength and limped his way towards the Swede standing there so obnoxiously.
The closer he got, the more he questioned what he was seeing. When he was finally close enough, he recognized Sweden. A smile quirked with satisfaction as Norway realized he finally found his enemy. He continued to limp over and it was only once he was a few feet away that he realized the blood drenching Sweden's torso was not Norwegian blood as he expected.
He realized with horror that Sweden wasn't standing at all. A spear-head protruded from his chest, just below his collarbone and was planted into the ground, holding him up in some grotesque caricature of a scarecrow in a field of red daisies. He didn't look conscious, with blood streaming from his parted lips. He might even be dead, thought Norway regretfully.
Norway walked around his old friend's corpse and found the spear entered through his lower back. He couldn't care less how his opponent wound up like this, but he begins to panic. He couldn't possibly be dead, thought Norway. Not like this. He couldn't have Sweden's death on his hands. He couldn't even remember why they were fighting. It felt petty and wrong, and he just wanted things to be resolved again between them so they could go back to being friends, just like when they were children.
Norway was standing so close he could touch him. The Swede's eyes were open and lifeless, his skin bruised and his lips blue, under the scarlet stream. He didn't look like the little boy Norway once knew. He couldn't leave him like this.
The Norwegian limped around Sweden's body, dropping his shield. He wouldn't need it anymore. He loosened his grip on his axe, just like when he split firewood. He swiftly brought his axe down on the spear-shaft holding up his old friend, splitting the thick wood and letting his body slump backwards, landing on his back.
Now that he was laying on his back, Norway crouched behind the man's head. He clutched the sticky spear-head in both hands and tried to yank it out, using his legs as an anchor. He had hoped it would come out quickly to make it less painful for Sweden, but he overestimated his own strength.
It was a slow process pulling the spear out and all the while, Sweden laid there, his fists balled in pain, moaning and groaning, incapable of speaking. Norway hated the sound of his pain and he couldn't help but choke up at the sound of the Swede dying in front of him and it was all his fault. He wished for that moment Sweden really would be dead, if only to spare him this pain.
Finally, the last of the shaft came out. Norway looked down and noticed that blood was bubbling at Sweden's mouth. Afraid that he would choke on his own blood, he gathered what little strength he had left and pushed the heavy man onto his side. Now completely exhausted, Norway collapsed on his back behind him. They must have been a strange sight, two soldiers on opposite sides of a battlefield, laying side-by-side like lovers, he thought.
When Sweden awoke, he was disoriented. The land reeked with death and the sky was grey and cold. He felt a hard and uneven surface as his back, and realized he must have fallen onto his back on the ground. Good. It meant he could finally rest peacefully. At least he no longer felt the sharp pain through his body, just a vague numbness.
In his daze, his body spasmed remembering the pain he went through. He opened his eyes just long enough to see a man crouched over him, mumbling to himself in Norwegian. It was a different Norwegian from the one that dealt this killing blow, but this one's face was stained red with a mask of Swedish blood, with cold blue eyes filled with distress. The Norwegian had both hands gripped around the spear shaft. Sweden knew these men were barbaric, but this was taking it to a whole other level. Couldn't this man see he had suffered enough? Why did he have to make him endure more pain?
Sweden gritted his teeth against the pain, not wanting to show weakness in his dying breath by making a sound, but in his dazed and dying state, it couldn't be helped. So he howled and screamed and groaned against the pain that shot through his body. With a final disgusting gurgle, the shaft came out through his chest, leaving a gaping, burning hole.
The Norwegian tossed the shaft, sticky with Sweden's blood, aside. As he choked on his blood once more, he felt salty tears fall on his cheeks and realized the man was crying. The man struggled to push Sweden onto his side so he wouldn't choke on his blood. This is when Sweden realizes that the man was trying to help him by not letting him drown; he knew who he was and wanted him to live. With this realization, the world goes black once more and he silently hoped he would not wake up again.
... ... ... ... ...
Sweden was woken up by the cold wind in the night. He couldn't gather the energy to open his eyes, let alone move. The numbness in his body was replaced with a painful tingling as blood started circulating in his veins once more. There was an acrid smell of charred flesh and decay in the air that made him want to vomit. Now that he could feel again, he was freezing, except for the warmth at his back. It was the only comfort he felt at that moment.
In his confusion, he'd almost forgotten about the man from the battlefield who'd cried over his still and agonizing form. Now that he was able to think clearly, he recognized the man laying at his back was Norway, making Sweden sigh with relief and wince at the pain his wound gave him. Breathing was too difficult. He concentrated on taking shallow breaths and harvesting Norway's warmth in order to fall back to sleep, silently hoping he would never wake again.
Rain started pelting them, startling Norway awake as it added to the chill in the night that had already settled in their bones. He didn't intend to fall asleep, but exhaustion from their battle overtook him. He was angry at himself for being too weak to keep going, wanting to carry Sweden some place warm and safe. None of their men were willing to move them, thinking they were just strange men doing strange things, and that they shouldn't be bothered, and now they were all alone on the blood-soaked battlefield.
Norway sat up, feeling he had the strength he needed now to carry his wounded friend. First, he felt along Sweden's throat for a pulse and his heart fluttered with relief hearing his heart beating, no matter how faint it was or how shallow his breathing.
When Sweden awoke again, he was laying in a cot in a small house he didn't recognize. It was homely and warm, barely lit except for the noonday sun streaming through the open door near his bed. Through the doorway, he could just make out patches of green grass peppered with vibrantly coloured wildflowers.
He tried to move, but he found it very painful. He tentatively looked down at himself and found he was clean and that his torso was wrapped in linen bandages. He briefly wondered how he got there and who was taking care of him until he remembered that Norway was the one that helped him.
Norway stepped through the door carrying wood and placing it in the stove in the centre of the room. Sweden watched from his bed, which he realized was actually Norway's bed, since it was the only one in the room, until Norway saw him with his arm raised and looked over with concern etched into his face.
"Don't move," he chastised, and ran to Sweden's bedside.
He sat beside the wounded Swede and he felt Norway's calloused hand cup his cheek lovingly in a way that was foreign to them both. He looked up at his friend turned enemy, not wanting to push him away, finding comfort in what little contact he was given. He wanted to speak, to apologize, to tell Norway that he wanted to put their differences behind them, but no words came out. He only managed to wheeze uncomfortably before Norway could silence him, running a tender finger over his lips.
"You don't have to say anything," said Norway frowning, his blue eyes clouding again. "I'm sorry too."
Sweden chose to ignore Norway's earlier order, and raised his hand again, no matter how painful, so he could stroke his cheek as the tears fell again. Despite the pain, he smiled. Then he stupidly tried to prop himself on his elbows.
"Sweden!" shouted Norway, not daring to push him back down in case he hurt him.
But all Sweden did was pull Norway down to his level, and embraced him against his bandaged chest. He whispered a soft "thank you," in his ear, and closed his eyes again.
He just felt so lucky and happy to have Norway in his life again.