Relationships: Sweden/OFC (circa 800), Sweden/Denmark (1000), Sweden/Finland (1500s + 1700s), Sweden/Norway (1800s), Papa!Sweden + Sealand (modern day)

Author's note: 1. Not going to list the human names I use in this because they're shown to change over time, and so I think it's unnecessary in this. I did enjoy picking their pre-Christian names and how it reflects them and how they've changed. That was good fun. But they become the same ones I also use, so don't worry about that.

2. There's a lot of history in each of these chapters, which jump forward in great chunks of time. Basically I only focus on the relationships in the time period listed above. And now I know so much about Swedish history, I love it!

3. I'll be changing the pairing of this story with each chapter that goes up. In the end I might just leave it as Sweden/Norway.

4. It was hard finding solid info on Sweden circa 800 to use, but I tried my best with the relationships and whatnot. Young Berwald is probably now up there with Papa!Berwald in terms of favorites, unsure of what will happen but trusting in his gods.

Enjoy!

Five Loves for Berwald Oxenstierna

1. Urd of Hovgården

The first time he sees her they are at the sacred grove at Uppsala, where every tree is hallowed. Björn must have come here a hundreds times already for his ætt's blóts, the sacrifice his clan would make to keep their good fortunes coming and their immortal clan member alive. His clansmen, those who found him centuries ago, are the only ones who know that Björn is different (though others suspect), but they do not yet understand why. Elderly priests have been consulted but no answer is ever given that addresses all the questions. Their gods have not yet revealed why he is different.

The Steirnungs are justly proud of Björn, as large as the bear he was named for. His body is seemingly that of any other sixteen year old svíar, Swede, and yet Björn has already lived nearly two hundred years. The women raised him, passing tales of his childhood down by word of mouth, and would tell him how he had been a lively child in summer, silent in winter. As he aged the men taught him the ways of war, lavishing him with armor fit for the prize they considered him. Where the other ætts found him intimidating, his clan never looked down on him; Björn had never wanted anyone beyond the Steirnungs he called family.

But then he sees her across the grove as he follows behind his family's patriarch. She is the most beautiful Swede he has ever seen, pale skin and long blonde hair, her eyes cast down in humility, her dress modest. He cannot keep his eyes off her, though his adopted brother steps up to follow his father. No joy comes from the sacrifice, which normally fills Björn with pride and fervor; his mind is consumed with thoughts of her.

"Who is that?" he whispers to his step-brother as they part the grove, preparing to return to Birka.

The blond smirks at that, his blue eyes so different from Björn's, gleaming in the sunlight. "You have good taste Brother. That is Urd, the king's niece."

Urd. Her name plays over and over in his head as he lays in bed. It consumes him as he practices fighting, knocking down his cousins with more force than he had intended because his mind is still on that beautiful Swede, the one who must be kind and loving and all those things the king's women should be.

Urd. His mind is on her as he accompanies his step-brother through the market, and without meaning to his large body brushes against a much smaller one. He turns, quick, to make sure no harm was taken from the act; he still remembers when his family was less prominent, does not want to be the one to bring bad fortune on his clan.

Urd. Her eyes are the most magnificent blue, deep like the sky at night, wide as they look up at him. Her dress is different, still modest but less lavish than that day in the grove. He can feel his breathing hitch as her face looks up into his, a small smile of happiness crossing her face.

"Urd?" He hadn't meant to whisper it aloud. In the distance someone calls to her, another to him.

Urd smiles up at him, wide, before whispering in the most beautiful voice he has ever heard, "Tonight," and with that she is gone. Her word was mischievous, a dangerous glint in her eye, and it excites Björn.

He does not understand what her word means as he sits before his longhouse. It is small but it is solely his, a reminder to the others in Birka that he is special in so many ways. Most do not understand why, have never noticed how he never ages, because he makes sure to blend in with the crowd, as difficult as that is for a man his size. Björn does not want to be special. He wants to be like his brothers, his cousins, wants to be able to openly flirt with women and marry and become the next patriarch with his own sons, living out his life until it is his time to pass on. He wants to know what there is after this life.

Someone moves in the distance, a cloak fluttering in the cooling air as a body moves from shadow to shadow, coming closer. It hesitates only before his longhouse, hands peaking from under the dark material to shift the hood covering the face. He cannot see who it is but Björn has committed that skin color to memory, moving to allow her entry.

His heart is pounding. He has never done this, never gone beyond coy smiles and pretty words with the friends of his sisters. But in the longhouse Urd is already removing her cloak, walking slowly throughout the space which is lined with the weapons of all the men he has ever defeated. The main Steirnung house has more prizes but these, these are all Björn's.

He's about to ask something that hasn't finished forming in his head when she smiles at him from across the fire pit. His heart skips a beat at that, her eyes soft as she speaks. "They call you Björn." It is a statement.

He nods. "Yes." His voice is breathless.

"I have heard of you," she whispers sweetly, a gentleness to her voice that is all feminine. "Have you heard of me?"

He nods again. "You are the king's niece. Urd." The king lives at Hovgården; Björn has been there many times as his ruler tries to discover what makes this warrior different.

Her lips are teasing him, she must know that, as she lazily circles the fire to stand beside him. "They tell me many things. Should I believe them Björn?"

"I- I-" She smells of grass and flowers, the light casting tantalizing shadows across her face. "I do not know." He has never been one for words, and though it is easy to speak with his family, to speak to others is a daunting task worst than meeting men on the battlefield.

"Björn?" He swallows, nodding his head, and she continues. "Should I be afraid of you?"

That takes him by surprise. "Why would you-"

"Because," and one hand grazes his. Odin!, her skin is so soft on his calloused hand. "They say you are a god among men, whisper it in the night. The servants speak of you when they return from Birka. I had to see you for myself."

"Does- does the king know you-"

"No," she laughs lightly, stepping forward. "I am allowed to do as I like. I am his niece but no longer his blood. He ignores me most days; I am allowed to do as I please. Were I to die tomorrow my death would go unnoticed."

"I- I would notice."

They are the bluest thing he has ever seen, the orange fire reflected in her eyes, as she casts them over his body before resting them on his face. "I know." Before he can even finish repeating the words in his head she has put back on her cloak and left, disappearing once more into the dark.

She comes to him at night, stealing into his house. She sits opposite him, moving closer and closer as they speak, and it becomes easier to find the words he wishes to give her with each moon. Björn does not try to speak to her in the market, in public; only at night when she seeks him out, leaving as their bodies come close but never touch.

As the days become shorter Björn finds himself drinking with his brother, who is now very much in love and very much drunk. They drink to his brother's love, to their family, to the blessings Björn brings the family. He thinks how nice it must be to be in love, his mind wondering to Urd and his growing attachment to her. When he returns to his own house the object of his affections is already there, waiting on his bed.

A blanket is wrapped about her body, one bare leg hanging from the edge of his bed. Her head comes up as he enters, his body stilling in surprise. There is something desperate in her eyes, something that Björn understands without needing to say a thing. He loves her, he loves her so much, loves her like he has never loved another in the two hundred years he has passed on the isle of Björkö. The words they have shared at night have become romantic, longing. Urd has told him of her life on Hovgården, of the mother she lost so long ago, of her father banished before that. Björn buys her things, pretty things, always little. Some of the things remain in his house with the exquisite dresses she had brought to show him, that she changes into while they talk, changing back to her more-modest clothing before parting. But the rest of his trinkets go back with her to Hovgården; she told him they give her strength when they are apart.

Björn approaches cautiously, allowing his cloak to fall behind him. As he comes closer she stands from the bed and before she even opens the blanket, it too falling to the ground, he knows she is naked. So as he approaches he sheds more clothing, her hands coming out to help pull his chemise over his head. Now they are both naked, cold air lashing cruelly at their skin; they do not let the winter stop them. They have waited too long for this.

With that same glint in her eyes Urd had the first day he met her she lays back down on his bed, her body singing out to him. She is beautiful, eighteen years of living with a king having given her a graceful, slender body. Her thighs are creamy, the sun having never found them. Her breasts are small but perky, her stomach and hips curvy. Never in his dreams had Björn thought she would be so perfect, long blonde hair splaying out over his bed and her shoulders.

He crawls between her legs which part expectantly, noticing how hard he is at the sight of her alone. But he does not want to rush this, leaning over her chest, their bodies not yet touching. One hand reaches out to stroke the side of her face, the other arm holding him steady. When she leans up he comes down to meet her: his first kiss. Her lips are as loving and gentle as she is, becoming more demanding as the kiss goes on, and he does his best to please her, his hand falling from her cheek to run down her neck, fingers grazing further down to find one breast. His member hardens as he feels the soft skin, both young lovers groaning as he plays with the breast experimentally.

They are slow in their actions, exploring each other for the first time. Hands ghost Urd's body, lips following once he becomes comfortable. With each moan that escapes the woman beneath him Björn becomes more brazen, lavishing her breast before crossing her ticklish stomach. He may never have been with a woman but the immortal Swede still knows of sex, has seen drunk lovers outside the hall after a victory, has heard from the older men tales of their sexual conquest. None of that, however, prepared himself for the tightening feeling in his chest, his heart beating faster and faster as her hands entwine in his hair. Without hesitation, he lets instinct guide him in that knowing what it always has, fingering and licking her center, memorizing every spot that draws a reaction. He's more than pleased with himself when her hips start bucking against his mouth, hands steadying her as she screams his name, body trembling beneath him. Not as bad as he'd thought he would be.

Her head is still thrown back, neck exposed, as her back comes down on the bed. Björn cannot help but go for the sweet skin, biting playfully at it, her arms wrapping about him. That's when they roll over, his royal lover leading them now.

"Urd," he gasps into the night as she sits up, straddling him, his erection so close to her center.

"Unna," she whispers.

"What-"

"Unna," and their lips crush together. Because Urd is a goddess, like this woman is to Björn, their goddess of fate and what has been, but Unna is love and so what can be. This woman above him is the two in one, a beautiful embodiment of what was and what will be. The world is theirs.

Warm lips trail over cold skin, her hands teasing at his expansive torso. How many nights did he dream of this? Of her kissing his hard muscle with sweet lips, of her hands trailing lower and lower until ah! she grabs him right where he's always dreamed she would. Björn moves in the assurance that there is some god watching over him, guiding him; Unna moves with that defiance that is all hers, sure in all things she does as her lips trail down the light line of hair on his lower abdomen.

Her breath is warm on his cock, one breast pressing into his thigh. Her eyes are still glinting up at him, a small blush on her face betraying her innocence. What they lack in knowledge they make up for in love, and Unna continues stroking up and down, kissing and licking at his member until he can't take it any more, throwing her on the bed because he can feel himself about to come.

Arms crush their bodies together as her legs wrap around him, Björn thrusting forward haphazardly until there, ah, he's in and she throws her head back in pain and ecstasy. Their lips meet over and over as he thrusts, too desperate now to hold back, and soon Unna is matching him. She's tight, too tight maybe, but she's also warm and inviting as he pushes in, pulling out to repeat the desperate act. The fire crackles behind them as they are consumed by their desire, animalistic instincts guiding them until Unna is crying out, shouting his name over and over. Björn holds out just until she comes, finishing with the resolve he's built up over two hundred years.

They're sweaty and flushed and out of breath and hot and cold all at the same time. For a while he lays on her chest, knowing he's too heavy, but Unna never stops him. "Unna."

"Björn."

"I love you Unna."

"I know Björn. I love you too."

It's the first night she stays with him in his until-now lonely longhouse.

Only a sudden calling of men away saves Björn from having to ask the king for his niece's hand in marriage, something he's dreaded for months now. But there's something else too, in the back of his mind, that doesn't sit well with him.

She still comes to him at night, sometimes leaving early in the morning, sometimes disappearing from her uncle for days, never leaving Björn's house. No one knows where she goes except Björn and his clan to whom he cannot lie. Their reaction was mixed: the women were ecstatic that he finally found someone to love and care for; the men, rightfully, worried of the king's reaction should he discover where his precious niece had gone to.

The last night before he must leave to help defend their town she rides him, the air electric between them. They've gotten better, Björn with his first lover, Unna with the first one she has kept. It makes him angry to look at her and know someone else touched her first, claimed her, but then she falls into his arms and he remembers that she is all his now. There are no others.

She's two years older than when they started this love affair, but he has aged only several months. How long until she is old, near the end of her life? He will still be young, still be sixteen. Björn doesn't know if his heart can take that.

When he leaves she kisses him sweetly, slipping her thumb ring onto his ring finger. "Come back to me Björn?" she pleads, blue eyes wide. She's scared.

Pulling her to him he crushes their lips together, desperate for some memory to take with him to that foreign land he has never seen but will now fight against. "Forever." And with that, he leaves.

The town is different when he returns. His clansmen's wives have had their children, babes that their fathers hold for the first time. And though Björn wants to stay with the Steirnungs forever, he has his own woman to return to in his longhouse, more weapons to decorate its walls after over a year away.

She's not there when he returns. Everything is away, clean, though he gets the impression Unna has not been here for a while. He reasons that she must be at her uncle's, no reason to stay in the small longhouse if there is no immortal Swede to share it with. The thought only pushes away some of the anxiety he is beginning to feel as he seeks out her hiding place.

Through the market he walks slowly, eyes searching for some clue. He remembers warmer days where she would throw that long hair over her shoulder, smiling back at him as it glistened like gold. Or the first time her sensitive skin was exposed to the sun as he took her on a boat out on the water, their shouts leaving them forever. Björn remembers her crying that maybe she cannot have children, cannot give him sons, and he remembers kissing away the tears because no, surely that was his doing. Surely in exchange for eternal life he lost the ability to have children but she is all that is important to him.

He's on the other side of the market before one of Unna's cousins steps to him defiantly. "She is not here." His lover had told her cousins of their affair.

Don't panic, he tells himself. "Where is she?" Björn is fighting the urge to shake the stupid woman smiling so coyly at him, stepping forward seductively. But Björn has eyes only for Unna, and so he repeats again, "Where is Urd?"

"She is not here." Delicate hands pull at his shirt. "Forget her Björn. Take me instead." Her dress lacks the modesty of Unna; he can easily see down the front.

Large hands grab hers, seizing them, and she freezes at that, a moment of fear crossing her eyes as he watches. He's getting worked up, knows how intimidating the sight can be, but he hopes that means the stupid woman will give him a straight answer. "Where is Urd?"

"You," the woman whispers, shaking her head. "You immortal being. Did you think it would end any other way?" And she pulls herself free of him.

She must have prayed for months to give Björn a son. If he had known he would have returned sooner, but no word had come, no word ever given to his clan to send to him. Unna had died, the midwife assured him, before she knew her son was a stillborn. Björn's name was the last thing she'd said.

He swore he would never love another; it wasn't worth it.