Svea
Svea is a female Swedish name derived from svea,
meaning "of the Swedes",
as in Svea rike ("kingdom of the Swedes"),
an older form of Sverige (Swedish for Sweden).
Mother Svea is the female personification of Sweden.
1.
"Why?" Lukas asks, both men's eyes set on the nurse. Lukas's blue dress is the same color as Berwald's suit, gold accents reminiscent of the Swedish flag. Behind them the window looks out onto the dark landscape, useless in the winter months. Several decades have passed since he came to live here.
"It is my duty," the Swede replies, still looking forward. His tone is flat, the same voice he uses when discussing leaving for meetings in Stockholm or speaking of Swedish history. There's a little bit of pride, a lot of humility, and something akin to acceptance that this is what they're life is: out of their control.
"No it is not, beloved," and Norwegian eyes look up into the set face that is only a little softer in the firelight. Those eyes will not leave the nurse at work.
"I made a promise," the Swede finally whispers in hushed Norwegian.
"You do not owe any mortal anything."
Sea-green eyes come down to look at him behind delicate glasses, as if Berwald is seeing his lover for the first time. Lukas knows there is still the occasional mortal lover, normally female since the smaller nation has come to share his bed. They mean nothing to Lukas so he lets Berwald do as he must to keep up appearances. He cannot blame the Swedish women that fall for their nation incarnate, that he must court and kiss and pretend to love before breaking their hearts in the most delicate of ways, leaving them in the wrong and other women seeking to comfort Berwald in his perceived time of need.
This one was different.
"Yes, Lukas, I do."
"You are not that child's father," he says, growing indignant. Why must the largest nation always be so stubborn in all the most loving of ways?
"I know, beloved."
"Then why?" He's still yet to answer the original question, or even to look at Lukas, really look at him liked he normally does. But then Berwald sighs, his whole body turning to face the Norwegian, taking him in with sad eyes that are almost defeated. "What duty do you owe that babe?"
"Her mother," Berwald starts, hand on a window sill as he looks out into the darkness beyond, "was very dear to me. She was sweet and kind and humble and worthy of respect. I employed her when her husband left for battle."
"Why did I never meet her then?"
Berwald shrugs despite knowing the answer. "I normally saw her before her marriage, at home. When her husband left she came to me for protection. She stayed in my quarters." Lukas has never seen Berwald's quarters; for years now the larger man has slept instead with him, in the tower set aside for his Norwegian ward. "I think she wished to hide from the world; she never said."
The nurse lifts the baby from the cradle, rocking it back and forth. Lukas hates the child already.
"Before she gave birth the letter came, saying her husband had died. There were already whispers that she was my mistress; she could not return home from my castle pregnant. I told her I would care for her and the child always."
"She is dead," Lukas states flatly.
"She is dead," Berwald agrees. "I promised to care for that child, beloved. It is my duty." They watch the nurse approach, cradling the child in her arms, before bowing to Berwald and handing him the bundle. Large arms take the baby from her, holding her carefully with a hand supporting her head. She almost seems to disappear in his arms, the baby so small and Berwald so big. The nurse bows once more before stepping out to give them alone time with the newborn.
"Did she live long enough to name the child?" Berwald shakes his head. "Then what will you name her?" Lukas asks quietly.
But his words go unheard as the Swede lifts his arms to look closer at his new daughter. The Norwegian tries to see her too but it is difficult to do without looking obvious; besides, the babe is not what is so interesting to him. It is Berwald's face, now so open and amazed. His eyes are soft, showing the small lines he has around them, his mouth hinting at the happiness in his heart. The sight makes Lukas's own heart race, to see his lover so in love, so beautiful like this. Gentle lips come down to kiss the baby's forehead, the girl cooing.
"I never imagined you with a daughter," Lukas admits. Without looking up Berwald's grin becomes lopsided, showing his amusement and agreement.
"Neither did I, beloved."
The nurse comes less and less each week, Berwald carefully watching her and what she does, Lukas carefully watching him and and what he does. Part of the Norwegian nation wants to bring his Swedish lover's attention back to him and solely him, because he doesn't care for mortal beings. They used to make love every night, pass every evening in the same bed. Now Berwald comes sporadically, staying up in his chambers with the child that Lukas will not allow to sleep in his room because of the incessant crying.
But to watch the large man with the small girl, baptized Freja Erika Oxenstierna, Lukas cannot hate her. Something in him that he wants only to suppress stirs when he watches them, sitting before the fireplace. Berwald whispers sweet things to the girl, too low for his lover to follow entirely, catching only words here and there before he kisses her. Berwald holds her while she is awake, lets her lay on his chest when she sleeps, her father's arms always protective of her as if he could stop the death that draws closer each day for her.
Mortals live on borrowed time. Lukas knows Berwald counts each day as a blessing, forgetting that he and Lukas are also living on borrowed time.
Berwald is at a meeting several months later. As the baby has grown she has become less needy; Lukas allows her to be carried through his chambers, though she still does not spend the night. With her father out of the house the Norwegian makes his decision, sneaking down the hall to find his Swedish lord's chambers he has never seen.
His bedroom is unsurprisingly as vast as his lands and body, a fireplace on either end roaring. In the middle is an intricate four-poster bed and Lukas knows immediately who carved that wood, his fingers running over it as he steps up onto the bed's platform. The sheets are deep blue, trimmed in gold fabric. Lukas is surprised by the pillows though, which are patterned on various flags: the one that flew during the Kalmar Union; the Danish flag, for so long what Lukas stood under; his lover's own Swedish flag; his recently adopted, rarely used Norwegian flag; and the flags used to represent both Norway and Finland under Swedish rule. He steps forward to knock the Finnish pillow to the ground before moving on.
Like the bed the cradle is carved wood, its pattern intricate but more delicate than the bed's. Peering over the side Lukas finds the golden sheets wrapped around the sleeping babe, a pale blue pillow beneath her head and a cross hanging above. There's a glint of something and the Norwegian leans down to see a small bracelet tied about one of her wrist's, gold with a small band of what looks like painted blue. That's when the babe shifts.
It startles him for a moment as she turns her head. His face still close to her body, Lukas sees her smack her lips in her sleep, the same way Berwald does. It takes a few moments to realize he's holding his breath because it's something the Norwegian nation has only ever seen his Swedish lover do, and already the little girl Berwald calls his daughter is so like him. It's probably just a coincidence, though he knows the other man would call it Fate.
There's a commotion outside the window that signals Berwald has returned earlier than expected. Lukas stands slowly and lets one hand run gently along the girl's cheek, her skin so soft like her father's temperament when he's holding her. As he leaves the room Lukas wants so much to hate her.
He wants to.
They're laying in the grass by the lake, Berwald's jacket beneath Lukas. The larger man has his eyes closed as the Norwegian takes him in, lounging on his side. His one hand is propping up his head; the other is being held tightly in the little girl's grip.
She's sitting up now, and getting better at walking. She's grown, so much, and it feels like it's only been days to Lukas though he knows it has been much longer. Freja's other hand (the one that hasn't claimed Lukas) is on her father's face, fingers poking into his eyes, one up a nostril. Berwald's glasses have been safely moved to rest on top of Lukas's head to keep them from the little girl's grip.
"Pwah pah!" Freja says to Lukas.
"Indeed," he replies lazily, fighting the twitch in the corner of his mouth, the one that wants to bring his lips up to form a smile. Freja's grown on him, he has to admit. He still hates when Berwald spends nights with her; the thunder that so scares his daughter most excites his lover. But there is something in the little Swede that Lukas cannot deny, something part Berwald but also part angelic.
The little one's hand moves over her father's mouth. As the Swede's lips kiss her hand the girl announces loudly, "Papa!"
Berwald's eyes shoot open, quickly trying to focus on his daughter's face despite his missing glasses. Lukas sits up immediately, his grip on Freja's hand having tightened. Startled the girl looks at her father, than Lukas, before returning to her father's face and smiling.
"Papa!" she says once more.
Two strong arms come to wrap around the girl, pulling her to her father's chest as he sits up. Berwald's lips find her head, kissing the light blonde hair over and over. "Freja," Lukas hears him murmuring into her hair with each kiss. "My little Freja."
"Papa!" This time those bright blue eyes are fixed on Lukas, her gaze peaking out from her father's grip.
"Indeed," Lukas concedes, and he allows himself to smile this time.
For her third birthday they go to Stockholm for the first time in Freja's short life. It had been so long since Lukas had left the countryside castle; he hadn't realized how close to the Norwegian-Swedish border it had been. The girl sits quietly in her father's lap the whole time, whispering and cooing to him. Berwald rubs her back contently, his eyes closed most of the journey. Lukas knows Berwald loves Freja, and that he must love the Norwegian too to allow him to share in such an intimate moment. That thought alone calms his insecurities that sometimes well up in him, that perhaps Berwald still prefers Timo, that Freja will replace Lukas, who was only ever a replacement to begin with.
Normally Berwald is very strict about what they eat. Lukas knows it's partly that Berwald still feels he must stay in the best physical condition possible, always ready to set off for war against Denmark. But it's also because he wants Freja to grow up strong, to have a long life that only humans on strict diets obtain. The Norwegian rarely complains about the food, because a part of him wants to watch the sweet Swedish girl grow old too.
But today, today there are seemingly no rules. They have cake, and pastries, and imported chocolate. There are gifts after gifts and some of them (well, most of them) are from Berwald but there are others as well. Some are from Lukas, which make Freja's face light up in delight and wins the smaller nation chaste kisses from the doting father. Others are from officials who visit the far-away castle, have seen the little girl though they have never reported her existence here in the capital. And there are even a few with names from other countries, countries Lukas was vaguely aware Berwald communicated with but had never truly allied himself with: a beautiful dress from Francis Bonnefoy, a book of old stories from Matthew Williams, a hand-drawn watercolor from Lili Vogel.
Lukas doesn't miss the thrown-away gift bearing the name « Ivan Braginski ». The letters are straight, upright, too well formed for a man who uses a different alphabet.
Lukas remembers Berwald teaching Timo to write those letters.
Two weak arms wrap around his side before the face looks up from under the light blonde hair. Freja's smile is wide, so wide that Lukas often finds himself wondering if it hurts to smile like that the way she does, as often as she does. But she keeps on smiling before saying in very loud Swedish, "I love you Lulu!"
From across the pile of presents Berwald watches them, Lukas picking Freja up to sit her in his lap, kissing her hair and closing his eyes. "I love you too Freja," he whispers as her arms come around his neck.
His words make the girl giggle.