Author's note:

Because I am no longer happy with my writing style from six months ago, and because I plan to write more one-shots for this AU as soon as time allows me, I'm revising From the Ashes while trying not to damage the original plot. Most of it is being entirely rewritten, I'm adding some new parts and all paragraphs that I can salvage will undergo heavy rephrasing.

I hope that those of you who liked this story in its initial form will not be disappointed by its new shape as it's closer to what I want to convey and I was not able to back when I was only just starting on the path of writing fiction.

I also want to thank everyone who kept reading and reviewing and adding this story to their favorites even after it was finished, it made me happy to know that it did not lay forgotten.

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.

Warnings for dark themes, some gore and sexual abuse in a later chapter (though not of a very descriptive nature).

Part One

August 14, 1814

A heavy mind was not the best travel companion, Lukas knew, and yet he felt no relief when the voice of the Swedish ambassador broke through the barrier of his thoughts.

"Lord Bondevik, we're approaching the gates of Moss." The man had spoken in Norwegian as a sign of good will but his thick accent grated insufferably on Lukas' already tense nerves and he snapped back in flawless Swedish.

"We're on what can still be called my own soil so I can very well find my way around without foreign help, my Lord Ambassador."

The Swedish nobleman's features hardened under the affront but he chose not to answer back and urged his horse forward to put a safe distance between himself and the Norwegian personification.

Lukas smiled bitterly when he found himself once again alone in the midst of the Swedish escort who surrounded him in a blatantly large circle, disconcerted as they were by the Norwegian nation's cold eyes and scornful demeanor. He felt neither the duty nor the inclination to act even remotely considerate, not as long as the grief for each and every victim of war still lingered like a burning brand etched deep inside his soul, all the more now when for the first time in hundreds of years he was left to bear the burden alone. He had followed his soldiers on the battlefield and fought by their side, blinded by dust and gunpowder and sweat and as his countrymen fell lifeless around him, bleeding prey to the ruthless Swedish guns, his body had throbbed in agony, each death carving a path of phantom pain across his own flesh. Still, all of his bullets stroke true, and every single one brought a grim kind of solace to his tormented mind, for he knew that in that fleeting moment when steel pierced the confines of a mortal heart his Swedish foe would sink deeper in the same torrent of hurt and rage that had engulfed Lukas whole. There was nothing like the war to reveal them as the monsters they really were, cruel immortals decked in human guise whose emotions brought ruin and ebbed and surged with the heartbeats of their people. The time was near, Lukas could feel it, when the part of his soul that was still his own would awaken and rebel against so much destruction and suffering and he would once again remember and mourn and curse his fate, but that day had yet to come and until then he had no other choice but to keep on living under the fiery sign of vengeance and resentment.

The war had been a hopeless one, Lukas had known it from the beginning, his army too small and ill-prepared to face a hardened warrior like Sweden, and yet a sacrifice he did not hesitate to make on the tortuous road towards changing his country's fate. When Denmark had confessed between a vile string of curses against Sweden and England and France and everyone else involved in his demise that he was forced to give him up under Swedish rule, Lukas had known that the time was right to prove to the world that he was no longer a commodity to exchange hands as his stronger neighbors saw fit. He had left Copenhagen that very night, without looking back, without allowing himself to think about what he was leaving behind - Matthias, raging in his own chambers, smashing to pieces anything that came under his hands as he was wont to do at such times, and Emil, sleeping innocently, oblivious of the storm brewing around him. He had not found the strength to bid farewell to either. It does not matter, ten, fifty, one hundred years from now nothing will matter anymore. This had been his mantra ever since.

The August sun burned Lukas' eyes mercilessly as he left the shelter of the forest to make the descent towards the town gates. The road ahead was strangely empty for a busy town teeming with merchants and travelers who welcomed the numerous inns as a nightly shelter during their journeys between Copenhagen and Christiania. Lukas had followed the same path not long before at the Dane's side, in happier times, and they had allowed their horses to roam free in the tall grass by the edge of the forest as they paused to take in the view, smiling at Emil when the Icelandic boy squealed in delight and pointed at the large masts standing tall next to the rooftops of the harbor buildings. Matthias had ruffled Emil's hair, his eyes glinting mischievously as he began to unravel yet another tall tale of wild Viking raids. It's in the past, it does not matter, not anymore. Lukas forced all thoughts of sapphire eyes and silver locks from his mind and spurred his horse to a gallop, drowning the Swedes behind him in a cloud of dust.

On any other day the streets of Moss would have been crowded with people hurrying to and fro, merchants carrying their wares in pony-pulled carts that rattled loudly against the cobblestones and children playing in the dust, getting under everyone's feet. But now the inhabitants of Moss, either local or transitory, were keeping to the safety of the taverns or of their own homes, wary against the foreign soldiers who had arrived by dozens to protect their countries' envoys and to quell any sign of Norwegian rebellion. Lukas himself was ushered inside the gates with not as much as a second glance from the guards who, at the sight of his well-tailored but war-worn clothes and of the Swedish soldiers surrounding him, deemed him nothing more than yet another captured Norwegian nobleman brought in for prisoner exchange or for punishment. As they rode further into the heart of the town amongst groups of soldiers flaunting their shiny uniforms Lukas acknowledged one by one the nations assembled to witness the accords. Not that he needed such mundane evidence, for the uncanny sixth sense that all nations incarnate shared had revealed their presence as soon as he had approached the gates. Sweden, proud and strong, coming to claim his war prize; France, the unintended cause of his current predicament; England, gloating over his old enemies' downfall; and Denmark, the one he both dreaded and longed to meet.

Following the lead of his escort, Lukas reined in his horse in front of an unassuming building surrounded by numerous armed soldiers standing at attention. One lone civilian was waiting patiently on the steps and Lukas recognized him as one of his own clerks, a tall, red-haired man who went by the name of Anders. The man rose hurriedly and made his way to Lukas' side, taking hold of the reins while the Norwegian came down from the saddle.

"It's such a relief to see you safe, my Lord," the taller man spoke, guiding Lukas towards the entrance. "You are the last one to arrive and we were worried something might have befallen you on the way."

Lukas nodded politely in reply. "How many of our people are here? How have you been getting on?"

Anders sighed. "If you were expecting an army, you'll be disappointed, my Lord. They allowed no more than a handful of ministers and their guards, as if they feared we'd start a revolt. We've been in town for three days already waiting for everyone to get here, and believe me it's not been easy to watch all those Swedes and Englishmen strut around as if they owned the place. Though," the man grinned and bent to whisper in Lukas' ear, "they got quite ruffled yesterday when that obnoxious Dane finally made it, as soon as he set foot in Moss he found the largest tavern and almost drank his weight in beer, it took Lord Oxenstierna and three of his footmen to drag him out..."

Lukas laughed quietly to himself as he pushed the door open. He never believed he would say it, but thank God for Matthias and his antics.

"I trust that my Lord Bondevik knows that this is neither the right time nor place for petty gossip," the Swedish ambassador's voice echoed behind him. Lukas cringed inwardly, but said nothing. Let the man have his revenge if he so wished. "Perhaps my Lord would like to change his clothes into something more suitable for the occasion?"

Lukas shrugged. "If the time is as short as my Lord Ambassador suggests, perhaps we can dispose with such conveniences, for after all, everyone here must already know that I've been summoned straight from the battlefield. I would be obliged if my Lord Ambassador could show me the way."

Let the others boast their decorations and feathered hats if they wished to dismiss the war so readily, for Lukas would be there to remind them. Holding his head high he stepped into the meeting room cluttered with mortals and nations alike.

The small group of Norwegians stood in plain sight, but before Lukas could take his place among his people a disheveled Matthias took hold of his shoulders and caged him against the wall, oblivious of the mortals surrounding them.

"You're late, Norge," he slurred, and Lukas winced under his touch, for the Dane's breath stank of cheap beer and the dark rings under his bloodshot eyes bore witness of last night's debauchery.

The Norwegian nation wanted nothing more than to hit the other until his ribs turned black and blue and then yell at him until his ears bled, but his pride would never allow him to break down in front of a roomful of mortals. "Let me go, you idiot," he hissed instead. "You'll suffocate me with your foul breath before I can attend at least one meeting where my and my people's future is being decided."

It had not been easy for Lukas to learn that the Dane had taken it upon himself to surrender Norway to the Swedes without bothering to ask for even one word of advice, let alone permission from the Norwegian personification, and for once Matthias picked up the undertone in the other nation's voice and released his grasp on the shorter man, lifting his arms in defeat.

"Danmark. Sit down now," the Swedish nation's deep voice barked angrily next to them, making both men glance up in surprise. Too engrossed in each other's presence, neither of them had seen nor felt the Swede approaching. Berwald looked as commanding as ever, his green-blue eyes staring Matthias down from behind wire-rimmed glasses, and the Dane clenched his fists and spat next to the Swede's impeccably clean boots before turning his back and heading to his seat in the midst of the Danish delegation.

Berwald placed his hand on the Norwegian's shoulder. "Come," he said quietly and lead him towards a window conveniently placed not far from the large central table claimed entirely by the maps and documents around which the mortals had already begun to congregate. Neither of them had to speak during the incoming proceedings for everything was already said and done and only the papers were still waiting to be signed, and they remained apart as they watched the mortals follow through their ceremonies, their presence solely needed as silent symbols of the nations involved.

Neither Berwald nor Lukas was a man of many words, and the Norwegian leaned quietly against the window sill, observing his surroundings. The French envoy took his place at the head of the table and began to read the treaty with a steady tone. Lukas did not bother to listen, he already knew the terms and there was only one that truly mattered for him. His attempt at war, as feeble as it may have been, had shifted the balance of power just enough to turn Norway into an almost equal part of the union rather than spoils of war as the unfair treaty forced upon Matthias in Kiel had demanded. Granted, the land would still be governed by the Swedish king and Lukas would find himself at the beck and call of the Swedish personification, but for the first time in centuries Norway was a conquered land no longer.

Lukas' eyelids were growing heavy under the downpour of monotonous French words. He was tired, so tired, all the months of life on battlefields had taken their toll and the rough journey on horseback under the August sun had drained him even more. Denmark's presence in the same room was making him ill at ease and he could feel the other man's glare bore into him like a dagger. Lukas sighed and half-closed his eyes. He could not bring himself to really hate the Dane, in truth deep inside his heart he cared for Matthias more than he wanted to admit even to himself, so the Dane's willingness to give him up and break a bond that had endured for more than five hundred years had hurt Lukas all the more, leading to a deep grudge he was still not ready to let go.

The Norwegian must have given in to sleep, his worn body getting the best of him, for Berwald's voice startled him awake from his drowse.

"It's our turn now."

Lukas blinked several times to clear his sight, and indeed, on the table the documents were spread and quills were being dipped in ink. Matthias was already approaching with his jaw firmly set and the Norwegian watched him grasp a quill, sign the four papers with rapid strokes and throw it back on the table, without any regard for the wooden surface or the expensive cloth in which it was covered. Lukas stepped forward and picked up the quill abandoned by the Dane, though too late to keep it from leaving behind a considerable stain, and wrote his name next to Matthias'. He passed the quill on to Berwald and turned around, eager to retake his secluded place by the window, but his way was cut by England and France who, as witnessing nations, were required to set down their signature next to theirs. Francis' countenance looked strained and he refused to meet Lukas' eyes, but Arthur took in the Norwegian with a triumphant grin. The Viking age still irked him fiercely and he wasted no opportunity to gloat over the Nordic nations' every misfortune.

"Oh how are the mighty fallen," Arthur quoted smugly, for as the leader of the first Viking invasion on English land and of countless other ruthless attacks Norway had become his own personal nemesis.

Lukas stared back with impenetrable indigo eyes. It does not matter. Let the enemies mock and scorn, for the wheel of fortune turns round and round and soon my time will come again.

"And from the ashes of war they will rise again."

Lukas barely kept his eyes from growing wide with disbelief at the sound of the sharp retort, amazed that Berwald of all people had cared enough to put England back in his place. The Swede moved at his side and stared Arthur down with an unforgiving glare until the English nation lowered his eyes and stepped sideways to allow the two Nordics to pass.

"Your presence is no longer needed here," Berwald spoke quietly. "I arranged for an escort to take you to our inn, try to get some rest for tomorrow morning we are departing for Stockholm."

Sharp words pushed their way on Lukas' tongue, but as he pondered if letting the other nation live a while longer with the delusion that he would allow himself to be summoned and dismissed like an obedient puppet might be a price too high to pay for a few hours of stolen solitude, his outraged gaze fell on Matthias, alert and watching the Norwegian's every move, and all thoughts of reprimand fled forgotten. He nodded curtly and with the grim certainty that another confrontation with the irrational Dane would prove more than his already worn out mind could possibly contain he moved swiftly between the few mortals who stood between him and the way out. From the corner of his eye he spied Matthias shadowing his steps and, cursing the traitor thought that kept reminding him he was behaving no better than a child, he turned the door knob impatiently, slipped out and did not stop running until he found himself outside, out of breath.

The grey horse Lukas had ridden earlier was pulling at the tether twisted around a wooden post and as the Norwegian approached, four Swedish soldiers fell into step behind him. Lukas shot a glance blank and frowned at the sight of the hated uniforms, but when the guards did not seek to stay him he twined his fingers in the long, dark mane and with a soothing whisper he pulled at the tight knot that was keeping the horse captive. Under the impatient glare of his escort eager to be done with the day's drudgery, Lukas pushed his foot in the stirrup but before he could mount up the doors burst open and Matthias rushed at his side.

"Norge, wait..."

Keeping his gaze straight ahead, Lukas took his place in the saddle.

"Norge, stop!"

The Norwegian hit the horse's side, but Matthias seized his boot in an iron grip and Lukas had no choice but to grit his teeth and look down at the Dane. In the summer light he looked even more worn out, his forehead deeply creased and his eyes sunken.

"What do you want?" Lukas snapped.

"You left so fast that night Norge, you never gave me the chance to explain. You were not there, you did not see them fighting over our land like wolves, they would have ripped both you and me apart had I not given you up willingly, all of you. They would have taken Island..."

Lukas saw red at the name of his little brother and he glared at the Dane fiercely.

"You are a hot-headed fool Matthias, and you know it. If you had taken me with you that day maybe everything would have happened differently and Emil would have never been brought up."

Matthias released him and took a step back.

"I've made many mistakes in this war that I'm not proud of, but believe me Norge, I was left with no other choice in Kiel. Berwald is strong and can keep you safe, would you rather have your land split between England and Russia?" He took a deep breath and fell to his knees. "Please don't hate me Lukas..."

Lukas dug his nails into his palms hard enough to draw blood. Seeing the arrogant Danish nation beg like that, in front of mortals no less, was ripping his heart to pieces but his wounded pride stood stronger.

"Make sure Island is safe, Dane, for one day I will be free and I will make you pay dearly should any harm befall my brother whilst under your care."

Without one final look back at the kneeling nation, he spurred his horse onward. This is the only thing that still matters, and now it's lost to me...