Denmark's jaw tightened, and his eyes uncharacteristically darkened as his King only sighed. It was just the two of them in the room at the time, the other guards had scurried away with their orde"You want to roll over and kiss German ass?" The blonde growled rhetorically.

"We can't win this. We need to start preserving lives Matthias."

"This stupidly obvious ploy is just a way to get to the other Nordics, we have a duty to protect them."

The older king just sighed again. His old eyes just bored into the blue North Sea ones that burned with fury. The nation paced, and his red coat swished back and forth as he muttered.

"Worry isn't a good look on you. Smile, you won't be hurt too bad." Christian said with a bitter and empty happiness. The blaze of anger was momentary paused as his gaze unconsciously wondered to the yellow star of David on his King's clothes, something that wouldn't go unpunished once the Nazi came.

"And my Jews then? What do you think will happen to them?" He countered impatiently, both already knowing the answer.

"It's the price we have to pay." His eyes never wavering from the fierce Viking gaze that would make even the mightiest nations cower. His mouth opened to yell but the soft spoken but firm voice cut him off.

"I am your king, and you have your orders."

The heavy boots that had walked with long strides across the floor, as well as the door slam echoing, was indication that Denmark had left. The royal closed his eyes and set his hands to pray, because by God did they need help.

The plan of neutrality and low security worked for a while, a silent and futile hope that the Nazi's plan didn't include the Scandinavian country. The topic was never mention again and instead sat like an elephant in the room every time the personified nation and its boss saw each other.

But even unspoken, the issue was battled out in their eyes and the subtext of every word. Denmark neither slept nor eat like he used too. The stress and paranoid of his people took a toll and resulted in the heavy slouch in his shoulders and the bags under his eyes. The glimmer of mischief and boisterous spirt never left him thankfully.

And now the day, the day the inevitable attack finally happened, the glint turned to a roaring fire. The streets were panicked, everyone looked to their king whose hands couldn't quite hold in the tremors as he spoke calmly. It would be a compromise, no violence and no surrender. The tension and uncertainty radiated off of them, but they listened to the only soothing sound among the chaos of marching boots and German spit.

The Nazis came into view as their final battle within broke out. The hate was boiling over as Denmark ran his calloused hands through his wild hair and his red eyes lacking sleep was restless and wide.

'We have to fight! We are the only thing protecting the Nordics from the Third Reich!"

"You care too much Denmark. Your loyalties to the rest will get us killed." The mortal man said with a monotone reason. The Monarch was out of steam, out of fight and the pounding of Nazi feet entering his country was in rhythm with the pounding of the blood in his head.

Meanwhile the self-proclaimed King of Scandinavia was roaring, his inner Viking was coming back in full force, a wave of passion that his people no longer processed. The surge of protective instinct for his family, the one he failed in the past, was raging from every terse movement.

"WE ARE VIKINGS DANM! WE DON'T JUST GIVE UP!"

The volume shook the room, nay the whole house as the echoes of German grew closer. His fingers itched to have his axe in his hands, so he could fight or do something to stop the advancement. Meanwhile his boss looked unfazed and unmoved by the volatile outburst, only sad. He looked at the nation, a man out of his time and long past his glory days.

"We are not Vikings Mathias. Not anymore, I'm afraid," He said with a touch of nostalgia, as if he too was wishing they still were. "And you love the Nordics too much. We need to think of your people. You're not a human, you're Denmark."

The silence was prolonged, the things unsaid were heartbreaking and Christian hoped it would be enough to convince his nation to settle down, knowing well that eventually the anger would lead to a unitary revolt in the citizens. He watched with a hawk's eyes as the younger seeming man sagged into the chair, the stress finally bringing him down.

"No." He said quietly, the German were at his gates, his skin barely tingling in physical response. "Not good enough."

And before anyone could protest, the fight was back, and he was blazing like Icarus. The door slammed in his wake, and only a weak hand was raised in a retracted protest.

"Your people have given in already, why haven't you?"

The regular Danish monitors of the boarders were in a hesitant stance between surrender and support as their nation stood boldly ahead. Beads of sweat were barely noticeable on his forehead, having run there in record time. The ports harbored unwelcomed ships and guns ready with itchy trigger fingers in control.

He stood with a cool smile, a battle tactic to show no fear, as he held his axe in a loose but twitchy hold. The Danes exchanged distressed looks of uncertainty, guns feeling heavy and cumbersome in their hands.

"It's ok boys. Kiss the dirt and throw your guns aside." He said casually with a genuine tone lacking sarcasm or condescension. The silence sign of relief left their mouth as they followed the order of their Royal King and nation. They scuttled back to the safety of their post and laid belly down behind the barricades.

"Hallo Dänemark." A booming voice greeted respectfully, a hint of remorse already shining through. It was meant to be a sign of willingness, a sign of amicability. The blonde German, the real Germany himself that stood front and center on the boarder, made one fatal error.

"Du taler dansk her, ikke din beskidte tysk." We speak Danish here, not your dirty German

Germany cocked his head as faint rough barks of prideful laughter rippled in the barricade. A few worldlier Germans grew red in the face and sharpened their posture with dignity. The embodiment of the Nazis still looked uncomfortable under the harsh stare and could only guess the insult that had come out. Nonetheless, he tried to diplomacy.

"Denmark, we just need passage to Norway through your land, no harm will come to your people if we have your cooperation." He reasoned and the smirk on the older nation's lips twitched humorlessly.

"Du truer dem, du truer mig." He said but the meaning was lost on the invader. The confusion on their faces was enough evidence and reason for him to scoff and roll him eyes, much to their anger. "Are you literate enough for English? You threaten them, you threaten me."

The army digested the words in stony silence.

"Now get out." If Germany wasn't Germany, maybe the nervousness would be more apparent than just the audible hard swallow and hesitant tongue.

In all honestly, Germany wasn't too keen on his boss's ideals. The Nazism being a separate issue he was opposed to, the Nordic states never showed contempt for him when he had fallen after WWI, never fought nor aided him. But he could respect their neutrality, even if it infuriated his leaders. They weren't the reason for his post-WWI downfall and he saw no reason to drag them into something like this. However, the commander saw fault and spoke for him instead.

"You are a small country Denmark, you can't deny us entry for long. We were merciful before because of your Arian background, but we can only give you so many chance." The armed and uniformed military man boasted with a wave of arrogance that only antagonized the nation. "We'd hate to hurt one of our own."

"I'd rather die in battle than be compared to you racist filth."

The gunshot rang out as he finished. The smooth slide to left dodged it gracefully and he spun his axe in his hand before running into battle. They had been expecting a quiet surrender, intel told them that the Danes weren't looking for a fight. Nothing told them that Denmark himself would be an issue.

They charged, a few passing him and running to the city center much to his distain. Firing openly at him, the bullets grazed him but missed as he blocked them with his axe or moved with expertise.

The cowering soldiers were renewed in fight from their country, feeling the resolve as well, and fought back as best they could. The scattered Nazis came in by the truckloads by land and the few dispatched Danes took them head on.

Meanwhile Matthias was alone. He cut and slaughtered fleets of them. Having taken a gun, not quite ditching the axe yet, he took cover and fired. The Germans had reformatted as tires squealed inside city walls and gunshots echoed.

The platoon of 20 was dwindling to 16 by the first hour. They were starving off them in a shootout but the German's advanced quickly, waiting them out on Ludwig's orders to reduce casualties.

Soon the bubbling ache of fight returned, and he charged out on an impulse, moving them back 5 meters and 12 men down. In return for the attack, he had a burn on his arm when a bullet scraped past and a tear in his coat.

The city wasn't faring well either, outmanned and out matched for weaponry, the king was reeling in the militia and letting the Nazi soldiers who bled though the defense, take over. It was a losing battle, everyone but Denmark was accepting it.

There was a graze near his ear and a sizable chuck missing from the side of his legs by the second hour. It was him and 7 others left. The ship towering over in harbors, lazily waiting for the command to obliterate. Jumpers were sent out from planes that bellowed above with a spray of bullets accompanying it. Copenhagen was being captured by the end. In various parts of the country, bodies were already being stacked while the Invasion of Norway was already beginning.

Finally, there was a cold denial that came with his people's surrender. The seeds of bitter hatred would soon grow into a rebellious were in him by the fourth hour. His original platoon had surrender and only watched as Denmark refused to accept defeat. He was worn out and weak, the occupation taking a toll as well as the aching burn from his actions that could no longer be reflective of hi people.

His gun was depleted of ammo and his left shoulder had been shot, reducing him to wield his axe in his nondominant right hand. All guns were aimed at him in a circle, he bared teeth and snarled.

"Denmark, surrender. Your people have already, it's over." It was the final sixth hour.

"I'm not a vatnisse, a sissy, like you, doing as your stivnakket, pigheaded, idiot boss tells you too." That earned a shot to the stomach, but he didn't stop. His accent growing thicker and thicker as his home burned. "I fight for what's right or die trying!"

His axe swung wildly with a strength he shouldn't have had but did. It slashed through their uniforms and into their chest. Bullets rained sporadically, some missing some burying deep inside him.

Other had taken out pocket knives for the close combat and lunged at him. Their sharp blade caught his wrist and side mostly. But he never stopped, fighting and fighting until it was just Germany. The harbored ship having left for Norway, the city well managed by the occupiers.

"Please Denmark, Matthias, it's over, the ships left for Norway already." The hysteria and pleading were edging at his voice as he struggled to survive the horror that was Denmark. "Please, just surrender."

The falling nation only laughed and spit blood to the ground "Over my dead body. And if you so much as lay a finger on Norge, I swear I will kill every last one of you bigoted lunatics." Blood was dripping down his face and his weakened left arm was pressed to one of his many bullet wounds.

By now Germany looked stressed when Denmark's eyes allowed his vison not to slide in and out of focus. Denmark watched the man shift from foot to foot with his gun held tremblingly. Taking his chance, Denmark stumbling forward swinging the heavy weapon hoping to cut the German. His movements pulling and stretching the punctured skin, setting his whole body ablaze.

"DID I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR! YOU HURT ANY ONE OF THEM AND I WILL KILL YOU!" Such fury hadn't even been used in the losing battle of his more peaceful people. He was like Icarus, burning up all in vain. He always knew his people wouldn't fight, not yet at least. But his family, the loyalties Christian feared, they had a chance. He fought for them. Tooth and nail, blood and foaming spit dripping from his mouth like a deranged animal. Germany dodged and swerved, his gun puffing out bullets that missed. His blue eyes widened as the swift axe cut off a strand of his yellow blonde hair, he formulated a plan quick.

"Norway has been invaded and captured already!" He yelled the half lied but it worked all the same. For the first time in hours, the axe grew lax in Denmark's bloodied hands. His jaw had blood drying in the corner as it went slack with shock. His paling face lightened 10 shades and he suddenly felt the pain his hope and determination had been keeping at bay.

He started at Germany with such dead eyes and almost innocent confusion. "You're lying."

Ludwig's aim fell a fraction at the haunting display of raw emotion. A military part of him hissed at him for not shooting while he had a chance but it all felt dishonorable.

To him, his whole war felt dishonorable. The laws and discrimination were bias and unfair. He had shoved down his personal distain and replaced it with feeling of duty and loyalty to his people, to his boss. Every time he went against Hitler's order, he felt the burn inside. All nations got that when they let the human side be too prominent.

Staring at the broken human in front, he couldn't bring himself to do more damage, not to such a worthy opponent and honorable man.

"Es war meine Aufgabe, sie zu beschützen." It was my job to protect them

Denmark whispered hoarsely with Nordic inflection accenting the German words.

German felt an apologize play at his lips at the sounds of his language. It was built in his heart, climbing out with every breath and tugged up his throat, past the lump that compressed him to the point of tears. He wanted to get down on his knees and beg for forgiveness. Even when Poland had been invaded, he was still yielding to his boss's dictating thumb, blindly denying that he was on the wrong side of history.

Instead of begging or lowering his weapon all the way, his people's need for violence was diminished once the capital had been conquered, a final bang rang out. A strange sound considering the echoing crack had been absent from the chaotic noises for quite some time.

"Es tut Norge weh. Mach, dass es aufhört." It hurts Norge. Make it stop.

Denmark only knew it had happened when the heartache had turning into a real one. The blood pounding in his ears, as well as the screeching voice telling him he had failed once again, had been enough to block out the world. His final words had been weird on his tongue and foreign to his ears. Later, he'd realize the exoticness came from the fact he was speaking German, the language of power in his country and the final sign of defeat.

Nonetheless, the growing sickly smell of fresh iron was mixing with the smell of rot from the dead and browning dried blood that caked his body. The lemony hair and the skittishly wide blue eyes were the last real thing he saw as the patch of crimson blood stretched at a steady rate from his chest to his entire torso.

The last look of shock on the German was somewhat worth the pain, he thought bitterly as he crashed to the ground, about as motionless as his favorite tool that was right beside him. The shock and tears that glistened in his eyes was almost convincing enough to make him believe the German was genuinely sorry. Almost.

The darkness that wrapped itself around him was cold and numbing but not unwelcomed. He felt cowardly for letting himself slip into oblivion so easily, for letting Norway getting taken down when he still had a brotherly duty to do. If he had been awake, he concluded later, he probably would have cried.

Meanwhile in the real world, German had sunk to his knees with a chocked gasp as his commander gave a bloody tooth smile. His pistol still smoking as he kept its steady potion up a moment longer.

"I thought he'd never shut up." The man joked before tossing his bangs back with a laugh. "C'mon now. Norway's people are putting up quite the fight."

The man brushed back, utterly unaware to German's breathless shock, and sauntered to the docks. He gave a glance behind him as saw caerulean eyes glued to the limp coated figured on the floor, blood pooling under it.

"Germany!" He barked and said nation was pulled from stupor. "Let's go, we have to get Norway to surrender. Forgot about the stubborn dummkopf. We told him that immediate surrender would leave him unscathed. Now look at him, surrendered and half dead, it's his own fault."

Something in Ludwig broke, but Germany still had a job. So, he swallowed his regret and followed along like a good soldier. The echoing sounds of boots on the Danish ground were that last sound Denmark heard for a while.

Nation never died really. Faded, yes. Disappeared, yes. But dying was an art only humans and animals knew. Bullet wounds, burns and broken bones were easy to mend and not a real health concern. But even a nation will succumb to something with 5 broken ribs, a cracked sternum and 26 bullet holes, not including the one that nearly pierced his heart and the few that grazed him too close for comfort.

Denmark was on house arrest during his time under the German empire. The royal family had been moved to exile, all except Christian who was steady and prideful. Most of his citizens were fearful however. The German front was in control of trade and media. Their cooperation was a result of blackmail and dread of an economic collapse. Next to no one liked it, especially since their personification nation was still under lock and key. But the Danes were untied to protect their Jewish population, a fact that kept Denmark from dying too.

He had woken up 4 days later, tears on his cheeks and no one to console him. Norway was being occupied for real by then, and he couldn't do much about it. Weak and drifting in and out of sleep, he remained alone in a house for a while. Years to nation are fast and more like months. The physical toll was long and grueling, especially as the German's pressure to relinquish power grew.

Germany was off in another country or training; the memory of Denmark was still haunting him. But he returned once resistances were blossoming from the original seeds of contempt. He returned to skeptical Danes with turned up noses and exasperated Gestapo in 1943. The previously injured, still injured really, nation had color in his cheeks and a more placid disposition. His simple request was innocently asked, and the sea blue eyes were still clouded and loss of spark and fervor as they once were. The dullness around him was reason enough to scare Germany into granting his wish, the visit to a certain Swede, in secret hopes would giving back life.

A single telegram was sent out to the neutral state who answered with a false nonchalant. He took a car and some painkillers to get there, alone and unarmed. The Nazi's had deemed him as a weak failure who wouldn't try anything. They weren't really wrong.

"Hey Sweden." He said tiredly when the front door opened. His reply was a hug that pressed on his wounds. He hissed in pain and the ever silence younger brother frowned even more.

Sweden lead him inside and made tea. He took stock of Denmark and compared it to what he had heard. The 6-hour struggled between Matthias and the Third Reich, a photo of a limp and dead looking body was included in the papers.

"I thought you'd be healed by now." The answer was an amused smile and a purposefully aloof shrug, and he pressed on "You don't look good. Even Norway is in better shape."

At the mention of Norway, the china set rattled and Sweden cursed at his own words. Tears were brimming in both their eyes and they looked away. It was true, a nasty black eye and a wrapped chest of yellow and green bruises were that was left 3 years later. No one wanted to point out why neither were healing well.

"I'm glad he's doing well." Denmark said honestly and mustered a smile that must have looked like a grimace. There was a pause and a storm brewing in his eyes "I need a favor."

"Shoot."

"The German forces are getting impatient at their denied request for power. My Jews are getting worried and I need to start evacuations." The unspoken question was blunt, and the Swede's eyes narrowed. His glasses reflecting making his presence even more menacing.

"Please Berwald, I'm begging you. I couldn't save Norway or my own people but…" His voice trailed off from the hot sob clawing at him, but he regained composure. "But you can, please."

The silence was tense and heavy as they stared down, swirls of thought and sadness coating their eyes respectably

'I'll do it. Send 'em over, and I won't 'em turn away."

This time real tears watered his eyes as pain started to ricochet in him, something was happening back home that made him double over in pain. He saw white as his wounds reopened at once and slick blood spilled. His hands gripped Sweden's arms and the last thing he saw were riots and protest. Nazi soldiers yelling at his freedom fighter, and then watching their face fall as they got shot one by one. Flashes of people escaping on boats and Swedish citizen's taking in his people, his government too. The Swede himself hovering as he collapsed.

A dopey smile was etched into his face as he blinked slowly and weakly. His brother's swift moment barely registered to him, but he felt the warmth of blood on his body hit the icy cold air as his wool pea coat was removed. Haziness too over and the voices echoed around, the comforting chants lulling him asleep.

"Det kommer bli bra. Det skal nok gå." It will be fine. It will be ok.

The next time he woke up, he was in chains. A cough was deep in his lungs as his government had collapsed too. But his wounds had healed faster, a sign that his people were taking charge and healing.

A few times someone came down with water and food. He grew skinnier, but he took in all in stride. The more angered the Nazi's got, the more resistance he people were showing. After a week or so, he was let out. His chest still riddled with holes and dents, but he took a painfully big breath of the Danish air.

People were on strike, power was cut, and water was restrained as marchers yelled and picketed. The Germans yelled and raised gun, but they too, took the violence and abuse in stride. A few Germans, faces are red as a swastika, looked to his smiling face for help but he only shrugged and joined in.

He saw their veins pop with frustration and skin scrunched up like a wet paper bag. But in the end, not much happened on either side. The most important work was done in secret and he was forever grateful for it.

A few mishaps happened along the way still. And air raid gone wrong killed over 100 innocence a school. But 18 tortured people went free. A give and take, a comprise. His king would sit proudly on his horse, like Arthur's stories about the days of Camelot, with a yellow star tucked somewhere on him, and parade around town. Matthias now saw why the not so surrender was key to their survival and aid in the war. When he was finally able to live in more decent condition, all they needed was an exchange of looks to understand. Aging pools of blue smiling proudly at the vast and forever young sea colored eyes that held a sheepish apologize, no regret however.

He purposefully kept out of Norway's business and did everything to avoid the topic. It hurt too much. Thought of the Kalmar union and long violent past of him going with his leader's order to reign his brothers back in. He was like Germany back then, skillful and sturdy but lacking will.

Fighting his family wasn't something he really wanted. Covered it up with false cheer and playful tactics. And in the end, he still failed both sides, the guilt was sheened over his body in a way they had all learned to ignore and adapt to. But with news that his loss was helpful in Norway's invasion was the final straw for him.

A part of him wanted to see how the personified country was faring, how the fighting had wounded him, and the bitter Holocaust was taking its toll. He was so lucky in comparison, at least his people were. The wounds that left him as swiss cheese refuse to heal all the way while he was still occupied. Instead he walked around like a mummied man, white bandages over his torso and into his shoulder. The smaller cuts, burns and bruises were fading nicely, he'd have a few thin pink scars by the end.

Perhaps the worse injury was Iceland seceding 25 years early. He felt it before he heard about it. He could feel the emptiness inside of him, cold and left him bedridden for a day. His King sent a gracious and sincere telegram in congratulation to the newly independent country before visiting him.

"Iceland-"

"Left. I know."

The weighted silence wasn't tense just filled with unspoken words.

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault. Or his really. He needs to do what's best for his people."

They both internally cringe at the comment. Christian looked at the shivering lump of blankets on the bed and sighed. Neither pointing out that Denmark risked it all for family while Iceland left while they were for sure to let him go.

"I'm sure that Iceland wasn't so keen on the idea but instead went for what his boss told him to do."

"Sure."

The only sounds were the street cars and chaos outside, a twice a month occurrence nowadays. Give or take a violent kerfuffle every now and then. Denmark shivered again, the hollow feeling making his whole-body sting with freeze.

"Sent this out." He pulled out a red tinted bandaged hand that held a rolled-up telegram.

The king nodded wordlessly and took in, choosing to carefully not comment on the blood.

Dear Iceland, STOP I heard you finally grew a pair and left STOP I'm proud of you Ice, no matter what I've always been proud STOP Never forget that, ok STOP I hope you stay well out of them war and you prospect under independence STOP Sincerely Denmark

Denmark wouldn't know of the fat tears that rolled down Iceland's face when he read it. It was formal, lacking the hand drawn smiley face or a misspelt word. And he didn't write 'with love' either.

Icelanders cheered, but he let a tear falls volcanic ash.

The war progressed but Denmark was quick to ignore it, trying and failing not to think about Norway. His wounds characteristically still weren't healing. Not while the catalyst was still occupying his land. Instead, it became routine to have the binding gauze wrapped around his chest, extending to each fingertip. Always tinged with a weak flow of blood and pointedly ignored by everyone who saw it.

Sweden never visited, not ready to risk his people's safety for seeing Matthias. The slightly shorter older brother understood of course, couldn't complain since Sweden was already being generous by taking in his Jews. But it only added to the emptiness that Iceland's departure caused. Constantly cold, goosebumps textured his pale skin no matter where he was. He felt like a hollow shell of the Viking he was, something weak and old instead of his vigorous self.

It was the silent nights and uneventful days of his people's discontent and the suffocating hold of the Nazis that made him think. Did the others feel like this when Kalmar was in motion, unsatisfied and uncomfortable under his rule? Was he no better than Germany?

That thought alone, the genocide and mass murder, the fighting and compulsive need for dominance, the eerie parallels he saw to himself, those ideas made him threw up a few times.

But mostly, he lived. The resistance went on, ranging from work strikes to power outages in the capital. The Germans grew frustrated, people died because of it obviously, it was only par for the course. It was sharp pains in his chest or a dull ache in his legs. But the pain always brought a smile to his face, it meant change was coming. Every time it seemed too unbearable, he thought about the Norge, the true fighter.

It was no secret he had it worse, the holocaust there and the more controlling German demand. Maybe that's why Denmark liked causing trouble, it drew attention away from his brother. His people were more than willing to fight those who stood in their way, the amount was irrelevant. It was a trait both the people and the nation had, it bled through and prompted each other.

And then it ended, the war was over. A conference in Sweden was called, Jewish collection and economic meeting. The guilt that had festered was making it hard for him to go. He didn't want to face them, not with his thoughts still swirling and the sadness of his people in him. His king, the old man was tired and much too happy to ruin the moment with a debate, took his decline at face value and sent a telegram to their expats.

The wounds were quick to knit themselves together, a painful process coupled with the cold he was fighting left him exhausted and sickly. Nonetheless, he dismissed all ailment and helped to rebuild his country. Houses needed to be rebuilt and his collapsed government needed reform.

It wasn't until the conference ended did the pain start to take its toll. He felt it as a stabbing pain to the chest, right near his already tender bullet hole. The anguish of the taken ones and the still tinging fear of the ones returning unscathed. He collapsed in his own room, cold and hot with Icelandic emptiness and the hasty return of his scarred people. He felt their grief and hurt, their joy at the sight of home. The emotions made him writhe on the carpet and chocked his breaths. Tears threaten to spill at his eyes as a new pair of hands found him. His vision tunneled, and his ears pulsed with his heartbeat, but he still heard the hazy voice of Finland, real or otherwise.

"He's in here!"

"F-Finland?"

He croaked before hissing as blood glued gauze were pulled from his skin. The Finnish man muttered a pleading sorry and Denmark could only nod and suppress a whine. He barely registered the hurried footsteps as the fever over took him. A collapsed government, failing economy and the fallout of a dictator was taking its toll while his previous war wounds scrambled to heal. It was all finally taking much for him. He saw the blinding light but didn't shy away. His baby Kristina was there, her hand out stretched for her papa to take, a smile on her ruby red lips.

But before his own hand could take her, the light was shut off to darkness, a sleep not death. A dark, cowardly alternative to facing them, a way to force him through it all. He didn't feel so strong anymore.

"Mister, Swede? Is ta-san gonna wake up soon?"

"Dunno."

"Of course, he will wake up! He's a fighter, older than all of us!"

"He's a stupid fool who doesn't know how to quit."

They all were frowning around Denmark's bed as the nation laid with raspy breaths. His hair was sweat soaked, and a cool towel was placed to combat the fever. In less than 10 words, Sweden managed to explain the situation. He was too human, too independent from his people and so the fever of a lifetime. The guilt wasn't something the Danes sympathized with and thus ate him up. Accompanying that was the quick but repercussive regenerative properties of his immortality, it alone left him weak.

Sweden was safe through the war, a bit lighter and cold from the refugees who returned home. Finland was no worse for wear either. He spent his days with fragile peace and a 5 years' worth of anxiety attacks.

Norway, was doing ok all things considering. His wounds were at a minimum, fading already but a dull ache from his people made him sore and throbbing. He had grown gaunt and weary, worried over his brother's current state didn't help either. Iceland, taller and a year older now, was just nervous and wishing he could shoulder his ex-ruler's pain.

After their brother's collapse, they all helped to put Matthias back together, a rare moment of their humanity coming into play without international repercussions. They saw his skinny bullet riddled chest and the long scars from burn and blade, from that terrible 6 hours that lasted longer than it should have.

All of it, it was so futile and silly to them. Without a proper Danish explanation, they couldn't fathom why he didn't just let listen to his boss, avoid the fever and the wounds. He could have easily let the invasion mark him with a 5-year papercut rather than lethal injuries.

But for now, they waited. Norway sitting in a chair whist fighting off his cold, Iceland pacing and Finland resting on Sweden's lap, a rare occasion in itself. Berwald's hands running up and down the fragile nation's back and lazily petting his hair while Finland nuzzled close to the Swede, sighing in relief when he heard the deep echoes of his best friend's heart beats.

No one spoke much, a few words from each of them every so often. But they were all just happy to see each other ok, no words were needed. After 2 hours of waiting, a muffled groan and a flutter of eyelids made they stir.

Blinding lights and 4 hovering shadows were the first thing he saw. All frowning with various degrees of tears brimming in their eyes.

"Gave us quite a scare."

"Wha?"

The guilt coming back like a tidal wave pulling forward and he broke down in tear, the fever taking hold as well. Strong arms gripped him and pulled him up as he took gasping breath with every sob that wracked his body. He knew he must have looked pretty pathetic, crying like a child when nothing bad had really happened. Ditching the meeting and staying in bed when he really should have been out with his population, helping them heal. He knew Norway was the corner, rolling his eyes or getting his stuff to leave, he was so danm sure of it.

In fact, his scrunched-up eyes refused to open and see the empty spaces where his family were once standing. The glimmer of hope that chided him into thinking they had stayed, was dashed by the prospect of their overlapping voices yelling at him for being weak. God it was a spiraling thought, comparing himself to the Norge who had strength to be here, even after the holocaust that took place and the prolong fighting in the beginning.

They should be mad, furious at him at his weaknesses. The silence was deafening as he waited anxiously for them to scream or throw something at him, prove they were there after all. They should hate him, he thought that much, but at least he wouldn't be alone with the pain and his thoughts.

"Denmark."

Oh, he thought as hyperventilation did nothing to make his tear stop, they were still here.

"Denmark, just open your eyes, look at us. We're not mad, I promise." It was Norway who was speaking so gently, the crying nation paused a moment in disbelief that he was being so soft with him.

His blinked slowly and hesitantly, big doe eyes stared at them with tears spilling out but locking gaze with them. They looked…concerned and scared. Norway had intertwined his finger with the bandaged hand and absent mindedly play with it. His greyish blue eyes were vulnerable and sad, not icy and aloof like always when he brushed off Denmark's affections or protection.

Sweden even had glistening tear tracks on his face and slacken jaw, a look of horrified shock was on his usually emotionless face as he held tightly to Finland.

"Why are you all so sad," He looked at the tallest and shortest nation who were wrapped in each before cocking his head in confusion. "Y-you weren't hit too bad right?"

His stare broke to his former charge who was snot nosed and weeping. "Icy, congrats." He hiccupped a bit, the fever making jump from emotions so quickly.

And finally, Norway, he smiled a bit, trying not to look so forlorn. "I'm so sorry Norway, I couldn't hold them back. Took a few bullet holes to figure I wasn't strong enough."

That statement alone fit all the pieces together for the rest of the Nordics. He wasn't worried about himself, his people yes, but Matthias wasn't worry about his own condition. He felt guilt, sorrow too but not worried.

"You're an idiot." Norway said seething, and everyone tensed up apprehensively. "You think we're mad at you because your boss didn't want to fight!? MAD THAT YOU'RE HURT?!"

There was a tense pin drop silence that followed. Denmark's shaky breath were silence as his eyes flicked around in thought. His dry lips parted ever so hesitantly as he chose his words carefully.

"I'm your big brother."

That threw them for a loop. His voice was soft and slow, sadness dripping like honey. He didn't meet their eyes, their watery eyes, but instead looked at his crisp white gauze. Norway's hand absent from his.

"S-so?"

"You're not supposed to see your big brother cry," A tear plunked onto his arm. "I'm supposed to protect you, whether my boss agreed or not. I knew my people gave up, but I wasn't ready to. Not when I could still save you 4." He sniffed at looked up with sea blue pools of worry and self-hate. "But I failed and I'm so sorry."

There was another beat of silence, the heaviness once of his chest was gone and he felt his wounds pressing together and skin actually growing as his monologue healed his soul. He didn't expect warmth to press into him. 4 pairs of arms wrapped themselves around him and nuzzled his aching chest gently.

"All this pain, just for us." Finland's voice of disbelief was muffed but audible.

"You didn't fail, not at all." Sweden's face was tucked into the crook of Denmark's neck and he felt the vibrations of Sweden's gentle voice.

"We're sorry we weren't there for you." Iceland said, a sniffle still present.

Norway had yet to say something, still snuggled close to his older brother like the rest of them. He had played the war conservatively, the only wounds on his body were symbols of the injuries of his people. The opposite of the loud mouth nation, he actively avoided the fight himself, opting to find work on evacuations and resistant movement. The mere notion that the less effected country was more inflicted with battle wounds made him want to scream. Wanted to yell at how unfair it all was, how he should not have burdened their safety on himself. But instead he picked his head off from where it laid on Denmark's chest and cupped his cheeks with both hands, both feeling the heat of the fever and seeing the emptiness in his eyes.

"You fought like a true Viking and we love you for it. All you have to do now, is forgive yourself."

The roaring cry of renewed tears cascaded down his hollow cold cheeks. They were hot tears of contentment and joy that no one had left him, that he was loved by his family. The ache was replaced with the swell of pride that gushed in him as all of it, Kalmar and conflicts and the recent World War II, it was all forgiven by them. He was at peace with himself now too, a feeling that gave him strength and life in his eyes again.

They stayed huddled together, tired and sleepy from the exhalation of crying. And by morning, his holes had been patched with love and healed over to be smooth scars. The war was finally over for Denmark.