p class="western" style="margin-bottom: .14in; line-height: 115%;"Not a single cloud could be seen on the wide skies. They were clear and as blue and innocent as a newborns eyes. With a clear sky, of course, there came the cold, a hint of how the universe might feel around them. It wasn't cold, that's not nearly close. It was freezing, as if hell had frozen over. Everything above zero degrees emerged with a foggy shadow, be it breath, a river, or a mug of hot drink. The meadows, covered in greenery in summertime, wore snow, a bright white color against the even brighter skies./p
p class="western" style="margin-bottom: .14in; line-height: 115%;"It would have been a beautiful scenery that could have been found in every country that knows frost. Yet the wide fields were not untouched, the snow not as innocent. It had turned to pink, red, brown, muddy from soldier's boots and fought battles. Broken swords, broken men, broken horses were dispersed all over, their helmets and colorful uniforms glistening beneath the Nordic sunlight. There, again, smoke was emerging. Some from still warm firearms, some from open wounds, from mouths breathing there last breaths./p
p class="western" style="margin-bottom: .14in; line-height: 115%;"It was terribly quiet; the cold made it even quieter, unbearable to living ears. Most of the ears were dead, though. The battle had lasted for several days; and now, as it was over and the survivors had fled, only destruction was left to stain the pureness of nature. Which army had won, which king had died was not of matter anymore, for foes and friends rested side by side in the oddly colored snow./p
p class="western" style="margin-bottom: .14in; line-height: 115%;"The former battlefield met with a forest at some point; there, too, battles had been fought, lives had been lost; still, someone was alive there. A man, tall, dressed in red and white, just as the ground before him, was slowly making his way through the trees, towards the field, with a battle axe on his shoulder. He was walking proudly, victorious, although clearly weakened./p
p class="western" style="margin-bottom: .14in; line-height: 115%;"His pale skin reflected the sun; it felt warm and nice, if anything at all could be called nice right now. He strode through the scattered flesh on the ground, kicking aside adversarial weapons, not minding the dead and dying. He lived, and that was what mattered. He himself was the nation, still. And he had won. He was just searching for the other nation, whom he hoped to find on the ground, by his men and soldiers. With a leather gloved hand he swiped the blond hair out of his face, blood smearing across his forehead. He was wounded, but not too badly, considering how many people he had lost./p
p class="western" style="margin-bottom: .14in; line-height: 115%;"The man he was looking for was lying on his back, half conscious. He looked terrible, but was most likely still alive, since his breath could be seen dancing through the sunlight in the cold. Flesh wounds covered his upper body, and the blood on his face was frozen over. The blue uniform was stained too, and the once mighty sword rested next to him, shattered, in the snow./p
p class="western" style="margin-bottom: .14in; line-height: 115%;"Denmark put his axe aside, but not too far from him, still ready for assault, and crouched down next to his enemy's head. The other showed no reaction, the only thing moving was his slowly rising and falling chest, bringing along steaming breath./p
p class="western" style="margin-bottom: .14in; line-height: 115%;""Hey, Berwald, you awake?"br /No response. Well, who wouldn't have expected that? The man brought his hand to the other's forehead, touching it lightly. Cold. Now that he recognized that, he was pale, too pale, and the lips had taken a dangerously dark color /The crouching man sighed. "C'mon , wake up. Stop shitting me."br /The only thing to be heard was the last breath of a dying battle horse a few meters away. Denmark got to his feet again, glaring. The Swede should know that staying unconscious for too long could be lethal in such cold. He nudged his leg with his /"Get up already, you fucker."br /Finally. His opponent's eyes creaked open, staring dully heavenwards. He blinked, once, twice, his eyes still unfocused. They were just as light as the skies, clear and unseeing. There was frozen blood on his lashes –that must hurt, the Dane thought- and the needed glasses were missing, too. br /Sweden turned his head towards the man above him, still not quite focused, sleepily, but not /br /"Get up I said, or do you wanna die here? Like your people?" Matthias' tone of voice wasn't concerned but mocking. "You lost, you know. And I won. Just like I told you. Now get up and surrender already."br /br /From where he lay on the ground, it seemed as if Denmark had gotten taller. It was terrifying, yet he still saw everything in a haze. He remembered passing out from blood loss –nations don't pass out that's not normal no- and he certainly hadn't lost to that /"No. Haven't" he said quietly but defiant, which might have been a mistake. But he wasn't awake enough to realize /"You haven't?" Denmark questioned, a bewildered grin spreading on his face. "Then what about all that? Where are your men? Your king? Where's you?" To prove his point, he gestured around. Towards bloodshed all around. Again, he used the back of his axe to nudge the Swede, in the side this time. From the sharp intake of breath, he must have hit a broken /"Don't make me angry. I won."br /br /The other blonde shook his head and stared up with now wake and fierce eyes. He lifted himself up to a sitting position, not trying to stand yet, and searched for his blade. He didn't get too far, though; Denmark's boot hit him right in the back and he toppled over, face down into the snow again. He didn't make a sound. A forceful hand grabbed him by the short, blood soaked hair, and Denmark hissed "Look. Around. You are defeated. By me. Now surrender." Meanwhile, he turned Sweden to face the destruction they were in. br /Blue eyes snapped open wide. The dead men mostly just looked miserable, but through the dark stains, their colors could be seen. The majority was dressed in a screaming, dreadful blue and yellow. Their colors. His colors. His /"Impossible" he whispered hoarsely, not believing –denying- what he saw./p
p class="western" style="margin-bottom: .14in; line-height: 115%;"His head was then smashed into the frozen ground again, dark stars peaking at the corners of his sight. Matthias was now pinning him down, glaring down into his yes, a hand on his throat. He was certainly leaving blood marks there, as if there wasn't enough blood on him –his own his people's blood- /"Berwald. I could kill you here and now" the pressure on his neck was steadily getting stronger and he chocked. "But I'm not gonna. Wanna know why? I don't want to." He pressed on, /"Let g-.." Sweden tried to respond, not able to speak without oxygen. br /br /"I don't wanna, because I'm not a murderer." He smiled softly, wickedly –oh yes he was, thousands of men of people- "You're too precious, and you're mine now."br /br /Denmark crushed his lips down on the Swede's mouth, strangling all defiance from him, watching as these sky eyes rolled back and closed again, with a glimpse of insanity in his own vivid ones./p
p class="western" style="margin-bottom: .14in; line-height: 115%;"The Dane couldn't be bothered with such trivialities; whether Berwald was looking at him or not, he didn't exactly care. What he cared about were those nearly frozen lips, seeming so off in color compared to the paleness of the face they were in. Since there was no resistance, it was easy for him to deepen the kiss and he eased his grip on the other's neck. It felt cold and the taste of copper was present and annoying. It felt sick. br /Stopping, he mustered Sweden's face once more, and then sighed. br /"You really should see yourself right now. Red suits you."br /br /br /br /p