EDIT: THIS IS A RE-UPLOAD OF THE FIRST EDITED CHAPTER!: "What's she doing, starting another story?" Yeah….I know, I'm stupid… But this idea has been permanently burned in my skull and I just gotta' get it out! I do not own Axis Powers Hetalia nor its characters though I do own this story.WARNING: If you are squeamish of blood, killing, and violence-YE BE WARNED! (Or y'know….decided to read it because you're secretly a blood lover and you wanna' read some really good disgusting shit.) I'd like to thank my beautiful translators- MalinChan, yotzie, Ruusu, koolionbutterflyhahaha, Another Mad Swiss, Lillens, DianeLeBlanc99, and Sarai Onyx Vainamoinen. Much love to you guys!
So climb into a time machine (Tardis preferred), grab a Swedish Textbook-and get ready, cuz we're about to go back to March 1700-to learn about a little painted horse that gave hope to a few lonely souls amidst the bloody hardships of a long and devastating war….
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Ratta-tatttttt…..swzzzzzergggggggratta-tatttaaaaatttaaaa….boom….ratta-tatatatatatataa….
There the sounds were again, the booms and thrills of the muskets, the smoky sky that blocked out the whiteness of the stars with their black tendrils and their ashen breath. The pine trees swayed and creaked like broken bones pushed back and forth in some weary dance. Tino almost wished they would just topple and fall. Fall on the house and shatter the roof, break the thin tiles and the sweet cedar smelling wood. Collapse on top and instantly killing him and his little baby boy. A quick death, covered in debris and dust and ultimately left along. Tino bit his lip as he clutched his precious son to him, the little child no more than seven years of age and yet he had seen so much folly and strife in that short amount of time. Ohh yes, he just wished the trees would topple down and end this all.
Thinking of such things, such dreary dreary things, the Finn's eyes grew sad as he looked at the crown of the childs head as Peter, his adopted son since long ago, buried his nose against his Pappa's shoulders. Tino could feel the childs limbs quaking beneath him and could feel the warm drops of tears on his collar bone as they pattered from squeezed eyes. Tino sighed solemnly, holding Peter closer to him as they waited out the gunfire that seemed like it was right at their door step and not a few miles away.
Sweeeeeeeeeeeeerrrrrrrg…ratatataaaatatatattttttaaaaa….boom!
Another mountain blown away, another forest cut, another man cut down with a blood curdling scream. Another night in hell.
The Finn of twenty winters cringed once more, hearing the clicks from the muskets drone on and on, closer and closer. Rattatatat! It was like a bloody call from a great heavy monster, with wicked jaws and clicking teeth-the monster of war.
Click click click.
They used to not hear it so often, yet now it was like a lullaby of death and screams had come to roll them back into sleep each night. Or what little sleep they could afford to give themselves…
It had only been a few weeks since the Danes had decided to make one of the first military advancements in the war-take back what had been stolen from them by the Swedish Empire long ago-take back Holstien-Gottorp.*
It was bad luck, all bad luck, Tino would say to himself each morning as he pulled on his leather shoes and slung his rifle over his shoulders and made his way to the meager fields that fed him and his son.
Just a nasty draw of cards, a nasty roll of the die, a struggle between the Devil and God-the Devil was winning.
Another burst of noise flew over their heads-cannons. They were using cannons now.
It was a sharper louder noise than before and it didn't take long for Peter to make a clipped scream of fright as they skyrocketed over them, causing the house to shake a bit-it's small posts of wood and leather doing little to hold the shanty together. For a second Tino thought the whole thing would fall apart and collapse on top of them.
T'would be a better way to die than by a Danish musket…. Tino thought bitterly.
The Swede's had promised the citizens of the Swedish Satellite state of Holstien-Gottorp absolute protection from the Danes. And Tino damned well believed it, being a residence of the state since he was born. He was a Finn living in a Swedish world, so he knew the promise wasn't exactly engraved in gold or anything. But it was a promise and promises, no matter how much they lie, seem to be better than the cold hard truth.
Yet ever since Frederik IV of Denmark-Norway set his vengeful eyes back on the sight of the beloved Danish land that had been taken from him by the Swedes, the war had escalated into a bloody battle for Sweden to keep her prideful standing as the most powerful country in the Baltic's-a title that was slowly slipping from the countries grasp. Even Charles V of Denmark who later took the throne had his sights set on territory lost to the gleaming swords of the Swedes. Scania and Holstien-Gottorp were the prizes, and Tino knew the Danes would fight to their last breath to take back those lands that were rightfully theirs.
Tino bit his lip sourly, it was all politics, all struggles to keep dominance over the other. The Finn knew this little war hadn't just been thought of in the blink of an eye by greedy men-on no-this Anti-Swedish war had been boiling up for years.
It was a coalition, a back handed slap to the Golden Age that Sweden had been living and thriving in. It was a stake driven through the entire country. And it all started with three nations who decided they had had enough of the lions yellow and blue banner-they had had enough of Swedish Pride and Swedish wealth and Swedish domination. They had had enough and decided to do something about it-in the cruelest way possible. By betraying Sweden from within and slowly churning it into chaos.
Tino clutched Peter to his lap more firmly, remembering how the towns bells had wrung like a mad screaming chorus of alarm. How the printing shops had all busied themselves with inks and parchment to produce words on paper that all but declared that Swedish law, Swedish rule was under attack and that Charles XII of Sweden, a King of fourteen years old, would do everything in his power to crush the opposition down.
But, Tino thought with a heavy sense of annoyance-what was a fourteen year old Swedish King could to do in this crossfire? The nations had attacked Sweden precisely because of the weak king!
Russia, Denmark and Saxony-Poland were declared enemies of the Swedish state.
These three countries had a stated belief that Sweden's time had come to an end-that a King who was but a child could not hold the golden reigns of what the country once was-it was time to extinguish the torches of the Swedes. Tino grimaced. And that first torch, was right where Tino and Peter were standing.
Tino had never down anyone any harm in this world. He was a simple farmer on a two acre plot of land. He grew cabbages and sold them at market, saving a bit of money to feed himself and the little babe named Peter who came to him on his doorstep those long years ago. He paid his taxes, minded his manners in the pretense of the Swedish nobles, went to church on every Sunday, and he even did his good deed of keeping his damned mouth shut when all he wanted to do was kick every sorry powdered wig of Swedish ranking off the young Swedish Kings little head and give him a what for!
Tino grumbled and shook with anger, hating himself for ever being born here in this stupid province.
The little cottage was all the two had, the little field that barely did any good to produce food and profit had long since gone sour with useless soil. Yet this was home. And his home was quickly being invaded. The Danes had set their eyes on the fortress of Tönning.* which was dangerously close to Tino's little cottage. It was a siege of sorts, the Danish-Norwegian troops of 20,000 men strong using all their damned might to light a fire under the Swedish crown-and so far that fire was roaring and burning very nicely. Tino had heard that the Danes wanted to remove the Swedish troops from the Duchy of Holstien-Gottorp, but were so far having a hard time getting through the Swedish Calvary-but all that seemed to be a lie now, when every day Tino and Peter would hear the guns clap with might and the withered shouts of men and the cries of bleating horses left dying on a red field.
Only time will tell, thought Tino as another rapturous shake caused dust to fly from the rafters of the small hovel-the wooden floors creaking with a mocking sound that made Peter sniffle and cry even more.
"Shhh, Shh, Baby, it's okay-it's okay. They'll stop soon. They'll stop soon…" Tino murmured into the childs hair. They have to stop soon. They just have to. But even that Tino knew, was a lie. It would never stop. Never.
Peter didn't seem to take any comfort in his Pappa's words, as he merely scowled like children do and huff-trying to seem like a big boy who wasn't afraid of any 'ol cannons or guns. He was Peter Väinämöinen. Nothing scared him! Not thunder, not bears, nor even those funny looking Danish soldiers with their silly coats and ugly horses. No, nothing could scare him, the little child declared within his head, his tears drying bit by bit.
Nothing in the world.
Ayooooooooooonnnnnnnnnnnn!
Peter's eyes grew wide as his shoulders sunk backward into the arms of his father once more. The child clenched his teeth together till they groaned with agony, his hands wired into Tino's vest.
Nothing except that. That. What was that?
Tino seemed to hear it and at once became quiet alarmed, his hands drawing Peter behind him and into the small little crevice that the small little dresser made once pressed against the walls and their corners.
"Pappa….?" Peter whispered like Tino instructed him to. Never talk too loudly, never sigh too loudly, never breathe too loudly. For they might burst in and kill you.
"Yes Baby, I heard it too." Tino assured the child, his own voice bordering on a wispy crackle. Tino's eyes grew white at their edges, like a rolling horses, whose about to bolt into the mist.
It wasn't the heavy clicking of muskets, the blasts of canons nor the shouts of feverishly dying men….It was…A crooning…A bellowing of sorts that seemed to be from an animal.
Tino sat himself up slightly from where he and Peter sat huddled near the upturned mattress of their hay stuffed bed. Tino's back grated against the dressers scraggly doors, the brass knobs creating an unpleasant bruising on his spine, but still, slowly, and with much pain he crawled to the right of him, fumbling around in the pleasant yet crafty darkness of the night till he came upon the stocky legs of a small table.
Tino, his hands quaking, reached round his small nightstand numbly till he found a little candle holder, the waxy bulb of it stuffed with an almost dead candle, the wick having been twisted off slightly-left gnarled and ugly looking.
Tino frowned at the little candle before he, searching his vest pocked for a match, produced a small little box with stale little pieces of wood-he only prayed that they would still light-Lord knows they must be months old from when they could…Buy matches and their bread too…No they didn't even have the luxury for food. Such help was the Swedish Crown to them he thought for a moment of bitterness.
Yet soon he clutched one of the little stubbles with his thumb and wracked it over the bottom of his shoe, creating a foul stench of smoke as the little stick went up in flame. Then, with hands cupped over the precious little light, he brought it to the wick to let it catch. It did, quivering and filmy, it glanced the room with a shadowy grace of light, making Tino smile despite himself. Maybe the world wouldn't be so cruel to them after all.
"Pappa, Pappa, what're you doin'?" The little impish voice of Peter sounded into the room. The child was rubbing his red rimmed eyes and clutching to an old woolen blanket that had a few threads out of place. Tino smiled kindly to the child, not wishing to alarm him and he placed the candle holder on the night stand.
"I'm going to see what the noise was outside, my little lion cub. Perhaps the pesky old raccoons have gotten into a bit of the chicken feed." Tino mumbled, hoping that his son would be content with Tino's words and let the Finn tend to the noise.
Peter, sniffling his nose and wiping it with the back of his hands, only nodded solemnly and snuggled back into the blankets.
"But be careful Papa! Come back soon or I'll never forgive you!" Peter warned with a bit of terrified spite. He didn't want his Pappa to leave but… If he must then he must. Tino was only a child. He would wait here like a good brave boy until Pappa came back safe and well. You'll see Peter, you're just being silly. Pappa'll come back, you'll see. Peter all but told himself as he clutched at his hands under the blanket.
Tino smiled sweetly down at the little child and brought him up into his arms for a soft kiss across his temple, making the shivering child calm down some. Then, with a few more sweetened words, Tino tucked Peter into the lumpy hay filled mattress that had been dragged onto the floor and set the seven year old into the wooden bed frame, tucking quilts around his body to keep him warm and give him the desperate illusion of safely that the child seemed to feverishly require.
"I'll be back Peter-keep safe inside the house-If I see you outside or near the window I'll tan you!" Tino warned softly, the boy underneath the blankets nodding his head, his eyes wide eyed, not wanting to be punished for misbehaving.
After Tino felt that the boy would not disobey and get himself into mischief, the Finn, holding the little candles flame in his hands, made his way through the thin bedroom door to shuffle in the mute darkness towards the living and kitchen room.
Placing the candle on the small dinner table near the corner of the petite room, Tino fumbled his hands over the latch of the front door, the heavy wooden frame causing him some trouble before he, at last, got the bolt to open freely-allowing him to open the door and leave the small safety of the house into the obsidian darkness that would soon swallow him.
Outside smelled like dust and death. The sulfuric and metallic taste of gunpowder bit into the Finn's senses and made him cringe. The sky was smoky, the cool spring breezes causing the wind to carry the smoke powder over and a ways through the forest that skirted along the area. It was like a swirl of incense that dragged its way over the Finn's body, making him feel rather calm when he should be twanged and wound up with anxiousness and fear.
The lone fence that used to house Tino's four milking goats swung open eerily in the nights blackness like a warning of what had already been lost. The Goats had long been gone for weeks-having been taken by a group of soldiers for the war effort to feed the soldiers. Tins of tobacco, bottles of milk in the ice box, pickled cucumbers and licorice root, salted pork-it had all be taken by the soldiers. Everything went to the war effort. Everything. Including Tino's very sanity.
And so the Finn lost most of his cabbage crop after it was picked clean to feed the hungry Swedish soldiers who ate it with licking fingers and dirty faces all smiling as they bit into the lettuce and piled it high into watery stews and packed it thick into the backs of their wagons. His four goats had been slaughtered right in front of him, their white bellies fattened with milk and a kid or two, carried on spits dripping blood. Such as waste of life it was.
Tino closed his eyes, focusing on the hissing of the night insects.
Uwhuuuuuu….Unnnuggggghhh….
Tino's eyes opened wide in a flash, his ears hearing the crooning noises again. Those animalistic bleats that sounded much to Tino's surprise like a big great horse.
Tino, his breath catching in his throat, followed the source of the noise, the candles waxy wick causing smoke to sting his eyes. The smoke from a candle is better than the smoke from smoldering bodies. Tino decided with a sick sense of comfort that surprised even himself.
The Finn's legs carried him fumbling over the dregs of upturned earth that, until half his crop had been taken, would have been used to plant the heads of more cabbage with thick juicy leaves that collected dew in the night and sun in the morning. Tino scowled bitterly, hating this stupid war more than anything in his life.
He was just about to climb over a rotten log on his property, the shell of the tree part way chopped in half to use for firewood when the weather got nippy, when he heard the noise again, only this time it was more breathless, more shrill. More in pain.
It was definitely a horse.
Tino ran swiftly into the direction of the suffering animal, for surely it must be suffering if it made such pained bleating noises?
He stumbled blindly his hands trying desperately to keep the candle going, the rush of speed by his legs making it difficult as the light flickered and threatened to go out, but still Tino, throat icy from the cold, kept his pace.
Over stiff wooden fences he climbed and through gopher holes he treded until he saw a lone dark shadow limping and shuffling around in tight circles near a few clumps of broken down aspen saplings. The huge animal seemed to not pay attention to the awestruck Finn, as the beast was too busy chomping on a bit of iron and making the most heart wrenching noises Tino had ever heard.
The thing was coal black-or maybe that was due to the nights trickery of color-with a single stripe of white that started at the beasts forehead and drew silently all the way down to his muzzle which was humming with steam.
White foam and froth was coated along the animals sides to give it a sickening look of white-as if the ebony colored horse was part way to hell and heaven, white and black. Its saddle stirrups were tangled beyond belief-one slung all the way over the leather saddle, the other left lifeless near the animals girth, the cinch belt seeming to be wound too tight to even let the thing breathe properly.
Though the Finn could barely see into the darkness of the night, he could hear the thing humming and coughing, hacking on its own spit as its head was drawn to the floor-it looked broken more than it looked alive. It reminded Tino of himself in a way-surviving yet barely, and only wanting death but never receiving it. Tino sighed with the heavy weight of sadness that pushed down upon his heart.
He wanted to save the thing, wanted to tend to the poor beast that was undoubtedly a Calvary mans horse. Tino could spy the rough saddle blanket that was twisted on the horses sweat drenched body. It was red and yellow and smelled of mud and sweat, its stench making Tino scrunch his nose up involuntarily. Tino then, with curious movements, placed the candle on a small nearby rocky path-glancing back up at the horse that must have been fifteen hands tall, all muscle with thin legs yet powerful haunches and body.
Tino, with his hands splayed wide, cautiously began to walk towards the great hulking thing, the animals ears pricking up, but its head still down in the dust, it's eyes softened and almost dead looking. Tino furrowed his brows at the sight of the poor thing.
The horse made a small quivering noise as the Finn, close enough to touch the breast of the beast, made a small clicking noise with his tongue to coax the animal into lifting his undoubtedly tired head.
The horse simply stood still while Tino brushed his fingers over the horses frock, the animals head bent low to the ground, making Tino have to bend down along with the thing-a movement he was admittingly a bit anxious about, as the horse could buck from panic and trample him.
But somehow he trusted this horse, and he only hoped the horse trusted him as well.
The bridle was torn at the throat latch and the horse had shavings of scars pink with burns all along it's large sweet looking head. It's hair was wet and matted-either with dew or blood, Tino wasn't sure. How long have you been out here? Tino wondered to himself as he squatted to the right of the horse, placing his warm hands on the front leg of the animal, clicking his tongue to lift up one leg, rolling it to a fro to check for any unseen damage.
The animal was quiet as Tino prodded and checked for injuries, finding bloodied knees and slashes of wounds that looked to have been made by the metal pike of a weapon or the slashing of a thin saber. Tino hummed sorely as he felt his way to the horses saddle, the cinch pinching into the horses stomach, making the thing wheeze as Tino tried to loosen it.
"Hold still now, in a minute you'll be free…" Tino promised the black horse as he began to work on the strap, only slightly feeling the horse shake as the Finn busied himself.
Tino was about to pull the leather though the cinch loop to slide off the saddle when from far off a canon sounded and the horse, its eyes growing white as the silken moon above, made a rolling shriek and bucked forward, knocking Tino down and dragging something past him-a tree branch perhaps, still connected to the horses halter rope or stirrups. Yet the saddle that was before tightly upon the horse lurched off the sweat drenched body of the beast as the animal limped into the darkness a few feet away with crooked legs and a swinging head in small fits of madness.
"Skit!"* something groaned into that solid cold darkness a little ways away from where Tino had landed from the fall.
Tino felt his heart stop dead in its murderous beating as his brain registered the noise, the sound of a human voice-the sound of a man-the sound of a Swede.
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ATTENTION! THIS CHAPTER HAS BEEN EDITTED! IF ANYTHING IS WRONG WITH MY UNDERSTANDING OF HISTORY-Please correct me! Review please!
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Authors Notes:
-It had only been a few weeks since the Danes had decided to make one of the first military advancements in the war-take back what had been stolen from them by the Swedish Empire long ago-take back Holstien-Gottorp.*-Holstien-Gottorp is a Swedish Satellite state during 1700, it is now southern Denmark and parts of Germany.
-"Skit!"*-"Shit" in Swedish