The legs to Sweden's table were uneven, so that whenever someone sat at it (usually Denmark, showing up unannounced to help himself to a beer) it would tilt dangerously, threatening to spill whatever had been placed on it. "Eh, Sve," Denmark would say as he rescued his beer, "Your table sucks!" To which Sweden would reply with a mumble something along the lines of "'ll fix 't later."

So it was that on one particular day, Sweden found himself standing before the table with his box of tools. It was an old table, covered with scratches and burn marks and coffee stains. It really wasn't worth fixing, Sweden thought to himself as he set the tool box down. Better to toss it out and make himself a new one. He went up to the table and lifted it halfheartedly, then set it back down again.

He couldn't throw it out. He never could bring himself to. He pulled up a chair and sat down at the table, leaning his elbows on it and his head on his palms, ignoring the way his weight made the table tilt. Idly he reached out with one hand, tracing along the marks and scratches. There were several discolors splotches from when he'd set down a mug of coffee and forgot to get a coaster—a common occurrence for him these days. In the corner were the scratches from the time Iceland had decided he wanted to carve his name somewhere. Countless marks and scratches from the time Denmark had gotten drunk enough to dance on the table, and a similarly intoxicated Finland had joined in.

Finland.

All the marks from all the Nordics, but Finland was who he had built the table for. When the one before this one had broken from activities a table wasn't meant for.

Finland, who would never come back to him again.

Sweden returned his hand to his chin and stared off, out the window, as if he could look all the way across the 398 kilometers that separated him from the other nation, if only he gazed off far enough. As if he could see Finland smiling before him again.

But all he saw was Finland's hurt, angry, betrayed stare, the stare that pierced him more than any sword could hurt. I needed help, but you never came. Sweden shrank back, as he did all those decades ago, guilt and shame eating away at him as strongly as ever.

He knew he deserved the words Finland spoke to him. Words spoken calmly, without any of the lively cheer he'd come to expect from the smaller nation.

"I thought I would love you forever, Sve. But…forever is a long time to be wrong."

Yes, he deserved them.

But that didn't make them hurt any less.