DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya

WINTER FRIENDS

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Please excuse my taking liberties with some character relationships and the chronology of historic events, as well as my personal—fictional—interpretation. (I really can't stress enough how much I've manipulated historic events to fit my purpose.) All countries will be called by their present-day names rather than their historic names to avoid confusion. In this story, Denmark and Norway call each other by their native-language names: Danmark (Dan) and Norge.

"From the fury of the Northmen, Good Lord, deliver us."

PART ONE

DENMARK

SEPTEMBER 1812

I told him not to do it. I warned him not to invade Russia in September, but did he listen? No. Fucking Napoleon.

Fucking France.

I'm standing at the bow of my flagship, a fierce autumn wind tugging at my blood-red cloak. France says that too much red is gaudy, but what does France know? Fuck France. I like red. I'm wearing my armour, but it's still shiny; untarnished. I haven't participated in any hand-to-hand combat yet, which is a shame. I'm really good at hand-to-hand combat. Give me a sword and I'll give you a real show. Prussia and I used to spar (and fight) a lot in the days before guns. We were—are—good, but that's not how battles are fought anymore. My navy is strong today, but there's something about crushing a rival's windpipe with my bare hands—God! I miss the Old Days! I think Norge does, too. I look sideways at him, my partner, standing at the bow of his ship, side-by-side with mine. His ship is a masterpiece of naval engineering, but it's old and weathered. So are his clothes. They're threadbare and sun-bleached; durable, but outdated. There's nothing fashionable or luxurious about Norge, no adornment except for a gold hairpin. (I gave it to him long ago as a wedding gift.) Norge is poor and it shows. The wealth he had acquired in the Old Days has long been lost, spent, stolen. It's why I've taken over the care of his colonies, because Norge can barely afford to feed himself now. But he never complains. He never protests or rebels (much) or petitions my monarchy for more. He carries on like he always has: quiet, stoic, mysterious, dignified. He has an incomparable survival instinct that I've always found desirable. He might lack the wealth and refinery of mainland Europe, but in my whole life I've never seen anything in the world more beautiful than Norge.

Norge's violet eyes are surveying the French Army. I turn to look, too.

Saying that Russia has defeated Napoleon's army is a huge understatement. Russia's harsh climate, that is. His strategy was brutal, cruel even, but necessary. I'd spotted it. Norge had spotted it. France had not spotted it. He had chased the Russian Army farther and farther north, all the way up to Moscow, too arrogant to consider Russia's retreat as a tactical strategy; too ignorant of winter. Norge and I had watched as France, our ally, marched Napoleon's army too far to retreat from the blistering cold.

"It's only September," France had said, baffled.

"Winter comes early in the north," Norge told him. But did he listen? No.

Poor bastards, I think as I watch the French Army retreat. The soldiers are shivering from head-to-toe. Most of them have frostbite; some have even lost appendages to it. All of them are starving. None of them ride horses. The cavalry has sacrificed the beasts to the climate and starvation. They have no overcoats, no protection, no supplies, no food, and Russia is making sure they stay that way. France had arrived in Moscow only to find it burnt to the ground. The Russians had intentionally torched their own city—reckless bastards—and then retreated deep into the interior, destroying fields and shelters, leaving the French with no protection from the oncoming winter. France had entered Russia with 500,000 troops; he's leaving it now with less than 100,000. And he's barely engaged Russia in combat. He had marched Napoleon's army across the continent, defeating friend and foe alike, anyone who dared to oppose him. He had even forced powerhouses like Prussia and Austria to their knees, but you can't make nature bow. France learnt that the hard way.

I told him not to do it.

I warned him not to do it.

But did he listen to me? No.

"There's a reason only north-borns fight winter battles," I say to Norge.

I don't expect a reply, and Norge doesn't give me one. He doesn't usually talk unnecessarily (not unless he's drunk), so I'm surprised when he says "Dan" really quietly. "If Napoleon is defeated..."

I look at Norge, who's looking northward at Sweden's country. I hear the doubt in his voice. I see the fear in his beautiful eyes. I want to jump aboard his ship and pull him into my arms and envelope him in my protection, but I don't. I can't, not here. Here we're both leaders, both personifications of everything that our flags represent. It's our job to inspire hope and pride and strength in our people, not show fear or weakness. Here we have to behave like the great nations we are instead of the married couple I want to be. I can't lend my partner comfort to ease his fears, and it irks me. It's why I fucking hate military campaigns, now. It's the reason I haven't participated in one for so long.

The truth is, I'm tired of fighting other people's battles. I'm tired of taking sides and hoping the victor throws me his scraps when he's done. I just don't fucking care anymore. All I want to do is return home to the Kingdom of Denmark and Norway with my partner, hug my stepsons, eat something hearty and fattening, and then fall asleep in front of the crackling fire with Norge in my arms, satisfied and exhausted from making love to him. Let winter howl, I don't care. I've weathered a lot worse than this. As long as my family is secure, Europe can tear itself apart.

I smile at Norge, trying to convey my feelings; trying to hide my doubt and remind him that it doesn't matter who wins or loses this conflict, because we'll survive like we've always done. We'll be who we've always been. I smile, trying to remind him who we are together.

It's okay, I nod at him. It's going to be okay. I'm not going to let anything bad happen to us. You don't have to be afraid, Norge. I'm here.

But Norge doesn't smile back.

SWEDEN

JUNE 1815

CONGRESS OF VIENNA

Did you want me that badly, France?"

I stop at the threshold. It's better not to intrude on a private exchange between England and France if it can be helped. As neither of them have noticed me yet, I decide not to interrupt. Instead I stand in the entrance, awaiting England. As commander-in-chief of the coalition that had finally defeated Napoleon at Waterloo, England is needed to decide the future of France. He'll be France's chief persecutor in the months to come. He knows it. And he loves it. He's cruel, I think, but France and England have an intimate 's always been this way with them, and I don't care enough about either of them to get involved. I had thought, perhaps, that England had come down to the prison to discuss the disarmament of France with the defeated nation, but the hushed conversation between them does not seem to involve matters of governance.

"I like you on your knees," England purrs, smiling down at France. No, not smiling—grinning. "It suits you."

France doesn't reply.

"Tell me," England continues, unperturbed. He coils his index-finger teasingly around France's blonde curl as he speaks; France doesn't flinch. "Did you really think that pathetic blockade of yours would cripple me? Did you think you could conquer me if you isolated me from Europe? Oh, poppet." He laughs and leans in. "I live in fucking isolation from you squabbling Continentals, and I fucking prefer it that way. Did you really think I wouldn't use Spain and Portugal to my advantage? Did you really think I wouldn't bleed them dry to save myself? Did you really think my colonies—my children—wouldn't provide for me?

"I suppose I have you to thank for America's little tantrum in North America?" he says, straightening. His ire is notable as he begins to circle France like a bird-of-prey. "It wasn't a bad tactic, I'll admit. I was even afraid I'd have to send re-enforcements to Canada to expel America's invasion. That was your hope, wasn't it? You wanted to distract me from the conflict here in Europe, but it failed. The Anglo-American War—no, the War of 1812, that's what the wee colonies are calling it. Cute, isn't it?" He chuckles and smiles—genuinely? "But I'm curious," he continues. "What did you tell impulsive little America that provoked him to attack my Canada? How did you convince my darling former-colony," he spats, "to invade his own brother?"

"I told him," says France quietly; his voice is raw and thirsty, "that he needed to rescue Canada from you. If anyone is the champion of freedom and liberty, it's America. And you're such an easy antagonist, England. America is still drunk on his Independence. He thinks he knows what's best for everyone. He thinks he needs to save the whole world. I simply told him to start with his dear brother and save Canada from your tyranny."

England stops. He stiffens. He doesn't like the accusation that he might be a bad parent. He glares down at France, and says: "Do you really have the gall to call me a tyrant after what your Napoleon has done?"

France shakes his head. Not in denial or regret, but in reluctant defeat. "You—everyone—has stolen from me. I was only taking back what should be mine."

"Well," says England coldly, matter-of-fact, "you failed. You and America both underestimated my Canada's strength. And his loyalty. You underestimated me, France, which is something I warned you never to do. France," he repeats softly. He takes France's chin in his hand and raises it, almost tenderly, so they're staring at each other eye-to-eye, nearly lips-to-lips. The Englishman leans down, as if he's going to kiss France, but his words are cruel.

"You lost," he whispers maliciously. "And I won."

France spits on him.

England licks it off and grins. His green eyes sparkle.

I finally decide to interrupt. I clear my throat loudly.

England's gaze swivels and pierces me and for a moment he looks furious, but he controls his expression and straightens as if he's only been talking to France. As if that's all he ever intended. His human—and geographic—body is not big, but a ferocity lives in those mad green eyes, which puts me on-guard even though he's my ally today. I wait for him to leave France's side and approach me. I look down at him. He looks up, unafraid.

"Yes, Sweden?" he asks.

"I fought beside you, England," I say. "I helped you win victory at Waterloo. I want what you promised me after the Battle of Leipzig."

England's contemplative pause is convincing enough for me to feel briefly jarred, cheated. In that moment, I don't trust him. (I never trust him. I wonder if anyone does?) Finally he nods at me.

"Yes, of course," he says, chipper. "Shall we?"

He doesn't wait for me to reply and he doesn't excuse himself, as is polite. He doesn't need to. He's in control today and he knows it.

He doesn't look back at France.

DENMARK

14 JANUARY 1814

KIEL

Don't fuss," warns Prussia.

I may reply nonverbally with a rude hand gesture, and he may reciprocate. (He's one of my closest blood-relatives and, usually, we get along well, but he's never completely forgiven me for bullying Germany as a babe.)

I sit down heavily on a bare, un-cushioned bench in the chamber, growling in annoyance. The noise startles Austria, who casts a disgruntled look my way. Posh prick. It's satisfying, though. So is the wide berth that most of the congress attendees give me. Even though I represent the losing side of the war and am wearing iron manacles, Europe remains wary of me. It's my reputation. Good. I sit back, cross my arms, and kick my boots over the bench in front of me. I scan the chamber for Norge, but I don't see him. It makes me nervous not knowing where he is, especially since our surrender, but just then England enters the room and it grabs my attention. He's being followed by Sweden, like a prince and his bodyguard.

When did they become such good friends?

I narrow my eyes into a glare I hope will discourage Sweden from making demands of us (or set him ablaze; I'm not picky). Sweden—the bastard—completely ignores me.

I can't believe I ever called you brother, I think bitterly.

England steps up to the podium and begins giving an impassioned speech about tyranny, betrayal, treason, injustice. France this and France that, blah, blah, blah. France. France. France. God, I wish the two of them would just fuck (again) and get it over with (again). I stop listening—and I'm not the only one—until I hear:

"Norway."

My eyes snap open. I've missed something. Everyone is looking at me now, but I don't know why. Sweden is standing at the podium, staring at me expectantly. I blink, kick my legs down and sit straighter. I don't like the way he's looking at me, like he pities me. Bastard. I don't like the way anyone is looking at me, some in smug satisfaction, but most in sympathy. Hungary is looking at me like I deserve a fucking hug. But why? Why? What have you done, Sweden?I feel anxious as I glance from face-to-face, trying to decipher what it is they want from me; trying to look nonchalant and not like my heart is pounding in my chest.

Impatiently, England says: "If there are no protests, then let the Kingdom of Denmark and Norway hereby be dissolved. Norway will legally become a lesser partner of Sweden, thereby—"

"WHAT?"

I leap up. I lose my fucking mind. I yell: "No! I protest! I fucking protest!"

England—fucking bastard—ignores me. "If there are no objections from any of the victorious powers," he emphasizes, "then let this business be completed. Bring in Norway."

"No!" I holler. "No, you can't do this! You can't! Norway belongs to me! He's my partner! It's been fucking sanctified! It's fucking legal! You can't just take him from me! Sweden, you bastard, you can't do this!"

I try to lunge at Sweden, I want to tear him apart, but Prussia and Germany hold me back. I hate them. I lash out at them as I fight and growl and spit and curse, making a spectacle of myself as chains jangle and benches flip, but I don't care. My heart is pounding. I'm fucking panicking. I can't even think straight. I'm acting on impulse, on blind, beastly instinct. I barely know what I'm doing, but I know—I know—I can't let them take Norge from me. I know I have to protect him from Sweden, from everyone. I have to put a stop to this.

"Sweden!" I snarl in challenge. "I'll fucking fight you!"

Sweden's voice is infuriatingly calm when he says: "You did, Denmark. And you lost. Norway needs someone who can protect him and provide for him. He needs someone who can take care of him. He needs strength, which I have. I can nurture his potential."

"So can I!" I argue.

"No, you can't. You've been married to Norway for centuries, and you've done nothing but tax him dry. While other nations have flourished in this modern era, you've let Norway succumb to poverty."

"No... that's not true..." I shake my head. "I never..."

"Norway used to be a great nation," says Sweden mercilessly, "then he married you."

"Shut up!" I yell, throwing myself recklessly at him. Prussia and Germany hold me back. It's a kindness. They know if they let me go I'll try to kill Sweden, and then what will happen to me? But I still hate them for it.

Then the door opens and Norge walks in and I freeze. I go completely still. Even though he's being ushered in by jailors; even though his wrists are manacled; even though his clothes are threadbare and his face is bruised, he looks regal, like he's proceeding an entourage. He's so fucking dignified, so beautiful. His pace is swift and graceful. He keeps his chin raised and his eyes hooded. He looks as characteristically expressionless as always, but I can see tension in his posture. I can see fear in his eyes, and it hurts me. He doesn't look at me as he passes, but he betrays acknowledgement in the way his lips tightened. So soft, those lips. He swallows. I can see that he's been stripped of all his symbols, all his power. Anything suggestive of our unified kingdom has been removed, even his hairpin. I wonder where it went. It's stupid, but I want that piece of gold jewelry back. I want it back for him. Norge stops in front of the podium and he doesn't look frightened. Not on the outside. He stares coldly up at England.

"Norway," he says authoritatively, "the Kingdom of Denmark and Norway has officially been dissolved."

I thought Norge would react, I really did. But he doesn't. Not obviously, anyway. He sucks in his breath and holds it for a minute, and I don't think anyone notices but me.

"The Kingdom of Norway has been ceded to Sweden," England continues. He sounds bored. "You are hereby ordered to wed Sweden and become the lesser partner of the Kingdom of Sweden and Norway. You will abide by Swedish law and live in Sweden's house. Do you understand these terms?"

Norge's voice is quiet, but sharp as ice. "Yes."

"Good." England waves his hand in absent dismissal. "Sweden, you have the support and permission of the congress to take Norway away."

I watch, helpless, as my rival extends his hand to my partner, my Norge.

Norge hesitates. He doesn't take it. Instead, he addresses England: "May I say goodbye to my colonies?"

England glances at Sweden. Sweden nods.

Norge turns on his heel and strides swiftly from the chamber, chains jangling. He doesn't even look at me.

NORWAY

I leave the chamber as quickly as possible without looking like I'm running. I don't want anyone to see me cry. I don't want Dan to see me cry.

I'm escorted to a bedchamber, where my colonies are being kept. I've never agreed with bringing colonies to peace conferences; colonies—children—should never be traded as spoils. At least mine are staying with Dan. At least they haven't been auctioned off like commodities. No one thinks my colonies are commodities, or that they're worth anything at all, and for the first time I'm grateful for that.

I press my lips tightly together to stifle the messy emotion boiling like a geyser inside of me. I don't want my colonies to see me cry either.

I close my eyes and feel instantly dizzy. I feel unstable. I think I'm in shock. I can't believe what's happening.

My marriage to Dan has been dissolved?

I'm being forced to marry Sweden?

The manacles on my wrists jangle as the jailors relieve me of them. Only then do I realize that I'm trembling.

I enter the small bedchamber and I see them, my colonies: my three beautiful colonies asleep in a bed that is not theirs. Theirs is at home in Copenhagen. Faroe is lying on his back in the middle, Iceland to the right, Greenland to the left. Despite being blood-relatives, none of the cold-climate islands looked anything alike. Faroe is silvery, stoic. Greenland is dark, wild. Iceland is the only one who looks like me (uncannily like you, Dan says). Iceland and Canada are the only colonies who have inherited my eyes, which shine with the lights of the Aurora Borealis. How long will it be before I see Iceland's shining lights again? How long will Sweden keep me for? Looking down at my three colonies, the only colonies I have left, I feel tears blur the edges of my vision, and I know then I can't do it. I can't wake them up to say goodbye.

Instead, I sit on the bed by Iceland's side and I sing them a lullaby.

I brush my fingers gently over their sweet faces, tracing the lines I memorized long ago: Faroe's long, silver eyelashes; Iceland's smooth, rosy cheeks; Greenland's shapely, petal-soft lips. All of them have a different colour hair, all different lengths, but it has the same texture, soft as fine silk (just like yours, Norge, Dan says). As I sing, I drag my hand over their blanketed bodies, so small, so slight and skinny, with fragile little fingers I know the feeling of so well. They used to grab at me as their squeaky voices cried for attention: cold, hungry, sick, scared, lonely. So lonely. They cried so often for love and affection, and so often I failed them.

I'm sorry, I think now, touching those tiny fingers I love so much. I'm sorry I wasn't a better parent to you.

I was so very young when they were born, a teenager in human-years. If I had had more wealth, more people, more resources, more allies, then maybe. If I hadn't been so selfish and reckless and stupid—maybe. I lost my three eldest island colonies: Orkney, Shetland, and Hebrides. They were taken away from me early. And I lost my youngest colony: Canada, because I abandoned him so very long ago. I lost them all, because—

I've been a horrible parent. And now I'm leaving.

I look down at my sleeping colonies and shake my head, but it doesn't matter. Nothing can be changed now.

Tears sting my eyes again as the song ends. It's time for me to go.

Cautiously, I lean down and kiss each of my colonies'—my sweet babies'—cold foreheads, whispering to each one: "I'll always love you."

I stand up, turn.

Dan is standing in the doorway watching me, a big, broad silhouette. He's looking at me in a way I don't like. It makes me feel weak.

"Norge," he says.

I wish he hadn't.

He steps into the bedchamber and meets me in the middle. He's always been so strong. It kills me to see him looking so helpless, now.

"They can't do this," he says, his deep voice—I love that voice—lowered considerately for the colonies' sake. They're such light sleepers. "They can't break us, I won't let them. It's not our fault. It's Napoleon's fucking fault. It's France's fault, not yours. Not mine. Why are they doing this to us? There's got to be something we can do, someone we can bribe or threaten to fix it. Maybe we can pay them? Maybe we can fight it? I'll go to war with Sweden if I have to. I'll organize a resistance to fight him. I'll do whatever it takes to keep you, Norge."

He's babbling, but I'm not listening. Not to his words. I'm listening to how his low voice undulates under the weight of emotion. I'm listening to the sound of his breaths, the gasps and intakes, the habitual intonations that make his voice his. I'm listening to the beat of his heart.

"They can't do this!" he repeats, impassioned.

Dan has always been the most emotional of us Nordics. He's never favoured the cold passive-aggressiveness the rest of us have adapted in modern-times. Dan has always been hot. Hot-blooded. Hot-tempered. Impulsive. His government, his people, may have evolved, but deep down Dan has never changed. They can dress him up, teach him new things, force him into submission, but he's still the warrior deep inside. His hands remind me of that as he takes mine in his. Big, strong, callused and scarred. Hands that won't touch me again after this.

"I know I've made mistakes," he admits. His tone has softened, now. "I know I haven't always been the best partner, but I can't lose you, Norge. You and I, we've always been together. Even when Sweden left and took Finland, you..." He pauses, swallows. "You've always been with me. I can't... Norge," he says. His voice is so sad. "I'm so sorry."

He knows now. He finally understands that we're cornered. We can try to fight Sweden, but I honestly don't think I have the energy left. My people are tired and poor from fighting foreign wars. Dan has strength in him, but I'm afraid it's not enough to stop Sweden and his allies. The strong control the world like they always have, and Dan and I together aren't strong. Not anymore. I'm sorry about that, too.

Dan looks to the bed and tenderness joins the pain and sadness in his voice. "I promise I'll look after them," he says, squeezing my hands.

Something inside of me breaks. I want to ask him to tell the colonies after I'm gone. I want him to make sure they know why I had to go and that I didn't want to go. I didn't want to leave them. I want him to tell them that I love them. But I don't ask. I don't say anything. I'm too afraid.

Dan knows this, but he begs me anyway.

"Norge," his blue eyes are beseeching, "say something. Anything. Please, Norge."

I pull my hands gently out of his, breaking contact, but only for a moment. I reach up and cup his handsome face, holding his defined jaw, his smooth cheeks. I can feel locks of his thick blonde hair. I used to braid it when it was longer. I memorize the feel of him. I memorize the way his lips tilt gently upward, even when he's upset; the way his nose slopes, broken so many times; the way his fair eyebrows draw together over his eyes when he's thinking hard; the way his blue, blue eyes pull me in and make me forget everything else.

I kiss him. I kiss him like it really means something, because it does. I kiss him, knowing it might be the very last time.

I love you.

But I don't say it.

I walk away before I can't.

SWEDEN

SUMMER 1815

STOCKHOLM

Norway is silent the whole journey to Stockholm. I let him be. There's nothing for us to say that we haven't already said on the battlefield and in parliament. If he wants to hate me, he can.

It's late when we arrive and it's a cold summer. There's no entourage awaiting us. I offer my new partner my hand to escort him into the city, but he ignores me. He still hasn't looked at me. I take his hand anyway and pull him along. I don't want to be a villain, but I will not be disobeyed or disrespected in my own house. If Norway expects to be treated like an equal, he's mistaken. He's not my equal. Not here. I will protect him and provide for him, I will give him everything that I am able to, and I will respect him, but I will not tolerate insubordination. I am the master of this house, not him, and he will either accept that or live here in misery until he does. I squeeze his hand hard to convey this fact, but stop almost instantly. Norway's hand is not like Finland's. It's just as cold, just as white, but Finland has small hands that are round like the shape of his face, with callused fingers. Finland's hands have strength in them. I've felt it. Norway's hands are long and so slender that they're almost bony. I'm suddenly afraid that I might break one by squeezing too hard. Briefly, I wonder how he can wield a sword so efficiently with such fragile fingers?

Finland is waiting in the foyer of my favourite house, bathed in silvery moonlight. He's rocking his son—my son—our son—Åland.

"Welcome home," he says, big, pale eyes going apprehensively to Norway. He knows why Norway is here. He knows that Norway is now my partner, my wife. He sees our linked hands. I quickly let go of Norway, but Finland has seen. "Hello, Norway," he says.

Norway looks at Finland. He sees Åland cradled in Finland's arms, sleeping, and he looks wordlessly away.

How did this happen to us? I wonder. We all used to be so close.

I break a tense silence, but I don't make it any less tense. I say: "Does Russia know you're here, Finland?"

Why did I say that?

Finland bows his fair head. "No," he admits. "I wanted to see Åland. I wanted to see..." He doesn't finish, not in front of Norway. He says: "I still have a key to your house."

I nod, but don't ask for my key back. I want him to have it.

"You should return to Russia."

It's hard for me to say, but too easy to imagine Finland suffering Russia's wrath for sneaking away, even if it's just for a short time. If Norway must now obey me, then Finland must now obey Russia. It's how the game of conquest is played. We're all cruel at heart. We all want to take from each other what the other one loves most. Denmark and I have been playing this game for a long, long time, and just when I've finally won his most precious treasure from him, Russia has taken mine from me.

How did this happen to us? I wonder again.

Finland places Åland in my arms and brushes my sleeve. I don't need to feel his fingers skin-to-skin to know how tender his touch is. I take Åland, swaddled in a wool blanket that still smells a bit like livestock. It's been cleaned, but not dyed. I take the baby and cradle him close to my body, like holding a piece of Finland close. Finland smoothes back Åland's sunflower-gold hair and kisses his forehead. He whispers to the little archipelago in Finnish, and I know what he says because I've heard it before:

"I love you."

Then Finland looks up at me, looks at Norway, and leaves. I watch him go until he passes through the gates.

"Come," I say to Norway. I start walking, expecting him to follow. I have no hands to spare for him while I'm holding my son. "I'll show you to your rooms."

NORWAY

My rooms—?

"Am I not sleeping in your bedchamber with you?" I ask.

"No," he says.

He doesn't offer an explanation, and I don't ask. I follow Sweden to a suite of three connecting rooms on the second level of his lavish house, a stunning Gustavian manor. He opens the double-doors to a sizeable sitting-room, a bedroom, and a boudoir. Are these all mine, just mine? I've never had my own room before. I've always shared with someone. First it was Dan when we were young, and then Sweden and Finland when they joined our family. Later it was my colonies. I loved sleeping with their little bodies snuggled close around me by the longhouse's hearth, feeling safe in my arms. Then Dan again. I loved sleeping in his bed with my colonies snuggled close to us both, and how safe I felt in his arms. It was Dan for a long time, and it would still be Dan if Napoleon hadn't royally fucked-up. I'd never felt lonely on those long, cold, dark winter nights with my family beside me, but tonight it seems I'll be sleeping alone.

I survey the stylish three-room suite and it's elegant and empty.

"Goodnight," Sweden says.

He closes the door behind me, closing me in.

I don't want to stay here.

Finland and I have that in common. He doesn't want me to stay here, either. I saw the hurt in his eyes when he looked at me and saw me holding Sweden's hand. He saw the hurt in mine, too, when I looked at him and saw him holding his sleeping son. Since our youth, Finland and I have rarely met in peacetimes, but we've always understood each other. In fact, I think he understands a secluded part of my heart that no one else does. It's a compassion born of shared experience. It's tarnished by pity and envy and resentment, but it's not something we'll ever apologize for. It's not something we'll ever verbally acknowledge. It's just something we both respect.

I walk into the bedchamber and see the large, empty bed, and I know my whole family would fit into it, and I feel tears roll down my cheeks. Here, I don't have to hide them. Here, I can finally let them fall.

I walk to the cushioned window-bench and I sit there instead. It's bright out. The moon hangs low in the sky, big and pregnant. I wish it was dark. And I wish it was snowing—blowing, raging, howling.

I bow my head to my knees and cry.

DENMARK

COPENHAGEN

I empty another bottle, but it doesn't help. I can't feel it anymore. I just feel numb.

I set the bottle aside, but my hand shakes and slips and it falls onto the floor. It lands on a reindeer pelt and rolls. It joins all of the others on the floor, beer from the finest barrels in my finest breweries. How much of it swirls in my belly? How long have I been drinking in the dark for? What day is it? What month? What year?

"Denmark?" says a small voice.

I look up, blink. At first I see a single misshapen shadow. I blink again and it divides into three much smaller shadows: my stepsons. Greenland is clutching Faroe's hand; Iceland is standing a little apart. Iceland looks so much like Norge's colony, so much like young Norge, that I make a strangled noise deep in my throat that scares Greenland.

"Denmark," Faroe repeats. He's a good boy. He's trying to be brave. "Where's Papa?"

I don't reply right away. I look at them, my three little stepsons—so very little—and I open my arms for them.

They come over to me and let me wrap my arms around them, engulfing them. I bury my face in their silky hair—just like Norge's—and I inhale deeply. It smells different but it feels the same. I pull them all onto my lap and sit back in my armchair and hug them. I'm shaking. I can't feel it, but they can and it scares them. I'm scaring them, but I can't stop. The alcohol has numbed my body, but not my mind. Not the hurt.

Hurt.

Hurt.

Oh God, it fucking hurts.

"Denmark?"

This time it's Iceland's melodic voice. I feel his soft, fragile hands on my face, so much like Norge's hands. He lifts my head and I let him. I look at him through a blurry film of angry, unshed tears. He's so tiny, so underdeveloped for his age, but he's not young and he's not afraid. He stares at me and his eyes are so, so beautiful. Just like Norge's violet eyes. They shine. When he's sure he has my attention, he asks gently but very seriously:

"Where is Norway?"

"Gone," I croak.

Greenland cries. Faroe asks: "When is he coming back?"

"He's not."

Greenland doesn't understand what's happening, but he's scared. He buries his head in my chest and cries, cries, cries. And there's nothing I can do except hold him.

Faroe cries too, quietly; stoically. He's a good boy. A strong boy. His voice cracks when he asks: "Why not?"

I'm not as strong as Faroe. I feel broken. The Treaty of Kiel has fucking broken me. I don't know what to do. I don't know how to feel. I don't know how to pull myself together for my people, my stepsons. I don't know how to hide the hurt from the rest of the world. (Not that Europe doesn't know. They know—the bastards. They all fucking know and don't care.)

I answer Faroe, but I'm still looking at Iceland. I can't look away.

Why not? Why isn't Norge coming back?

"Because I failed to protect him."

That's it. I've said it. That's all I can manage. I'm done. I'm broken—fucking heartbroken. Drunk as fuck and fucking heartbroken. Fuck.

I pull Iceland close and bow my head and press my forehead to his slight shoulder. He holds me. He puts his skinny arms around me and pets my hair and whispers in soothing Icelandic. I don't speak Icelandic, but I don't care. Iceland is so much like Norge. Not Norge, but like Norge. As close a copy as I have right now. So I don't care what he's saying to me. I only care that he's here with me. He and Faroe and Greenland are all I have left of Norge. The three of them, and the song that Iceland quietly sings. It's an old lullaby, and I understand it because it's in Norwegian. In my memory I can hear Norge singing it to the colonies, singing to them in goodbye, and the last threads of my dignity let go.

I rock my stepsons, my colonies now, and I cry as Iceland sings softly to me until I finally—finally—pass-out.

SWEDEN

STOCKHOLM

I can't sleep, so I go for a walk. It's quiet so early in the morning, a lot quieter than my mind is right now. I can't stop replaying the events that led us here. I can't stop seeing the look on Denmark's baffled face when England declared he and Norway separated, like someone had just ripped out his heart. I call him rival now, but I used to call him brother. I used to love him. A part of me still does—brother—and always will, but that doesn't mean I don't feel justified in my actions today. It doesn't mean I regret what I've done. I know I did the right thing for Norway, for Europe. Even if it doesn't feel like a victory, I know it is. I tell myself it is as I walk down a moonlit corridor, not consciously aware of my destination until I reach Norway's rooms.

I stop.

One minute passes, then two. I don't know why I'm here, but I push quietly inside.

It's bright. All of the windows are open, letting in a breeze that sweeps the gauzy curtains across the floor like ghosts, but nothing else looks touched.

Why am I doing this?

I cross the sitting-room and reach eagerly for the bedroom's doorknob. My heart thumps hard in my chest.

Is it victory? Is it guilt? Is it because I miss Finland? Is Norway Finland's replacement, my new wife?

Why am I doing this? I think as I step inside.

My eyes land on the bed where I expect Norway to be, but he's not. He's sitting on the window-bench, curled into a defensive position, long legs folded, pale-blonde head resting on the glass. Asleep. He looks very beautiful in the moonlight. He is very beautiful; I don't think anyone would disagree. How many others have touched him? Not many. I did once, a long, long time ago when we were all young and stupid. (We're still stupid—look at me; look at what I'm doing—but now our stupidity can't be justified by youth.) I've seen him and touched him before, but it was so long ago that I want to see him and touch him again. He's my partner, now. He's mine to have whenever I want (like Finland is Russia's to have whenever he wants), and right now I don't want to feel alone.

I approach him slowly and lean down, seeing Norway's face anew; shaking the look on Denmark's face out of my mind.

"Norway," I say gently, laying my hand atop his. I don't want to be a villain. I want him to want me too, even if it's just for tonight. I'm sad, you're sad. Let's be a little less sad together. "Norway," I say again.

Norway doesn't wake, but he speaks. He whispers very softly: "Dan..."

It's sad. It's pleading.

What am I doing?

I straighten and hastily back away. Norway shivers, as if he can sense the retreat of my body-heat, and wraps his arms around himself. Like that, he looks lost. And cold. I fetch a wool blanket from the bed and drape it over him.

I look down at him and I see Denmark, Faroe, Iceland, Greenland. I see his family. I see their broken hearts. I see Finland's broken heart and the last dregs of lust go out of me. I feel awful. I tell Norway this:

"I'm sorry, my friend.

"I'm so very sorry," I confess to his deaf ears.

Then I leave. I shouldn't have come in here. I shouldn't have taken Norway away, because now I'll have to look at him—at the heartache—every single day.

What in God's name have I done?

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Regarding Åland, I know that it was ceded to Russia in 1809, therefore Finland should have taken Åland with him when he moved into Russia's house; however, I decided to leave Åland with Sweden for two reasons. Firstly, I really wanted to emphasize the Swedish influence (i.e. I'm perpetrating a ruse wherein Åland is Sweden and Finland's love-child :P). Secondly, I wanted to emphasize Finland and Norway's similarities by separating them both from their children. So, please excuse me completely botching up Åland's history to fit my plot.