Author's note: fem!Norway/Sweden, Denmark, Iceland, and a splash of Finland from 1000 to 2012.
Fem!Norway I love almost as much as I love Norway. And don't worry about how truly obscure some of the references are; if any pique your interest just let me know and I'll tell you what it's a reference to.
Kristina
His eyes are like the sea, frozen by winter. The other one is the one who speaks, smug in victory, but the taller one's eyes hold hers.
"And so," the Dane concludes, "you are ours now."
"I belong to Christ," she replies defiantly. That's when the taller one finally steps forward, speaking for the first time. His voice is steady and confident, not in victory but in who he is, a sort of acceptance she herself has yet to find.
"Your god, like your king, is dead."
The Dane, Ketill, had tried to have her tied up; Björn, a svíar, had taken her to his room at that. One word, "Stay," was all he had said at the door, leaving with it still unlocked.
She stays, and prays.
Björn hands her something from her trunk. The men have been going through it all day now, inspecting each item; the Holy Bible has been long since consumed by the fire. "What is the year?" the Swede asks in a voice that seems to lack an ability to rise at the end of the sentence.
Without looking, her eyes locked on his, she takes the calendar and replies knowingly, "One thousand." She leaves off the "of our Lord." Björn nods, taking her in curiously as Ketill picks up something else, something shiny. Her eyes widen in fear before the Swede smoothly takes it from his companion, handing it to her.
"One thousand," Björn repeats as she threads the metallic cross into her hair.
With winter they go south, to Ketill's village. When he tries to touch her she screams and Björn punches him so hard the man falls unconscious for several hours. She sticks to the Swede after that for fear of retribution that does not seem to frighten him as much as it does her.
As the days get longer they move further north, the incident of winter seemingly forgotten by Ketill. Now she stays with Björn always, sleeping on the floor beside where he lays. When he leaves in the night for raids he wakes her so that she may sleep in his bed.
She makes them food; the villagers refer to her as the men's slave.
Summer and one of them finally asks; she always knew it would be Björn.
"What was your name before you were baptized?" he asks as they sit by the water, her hands braiding his hair.
It takes her a moment to remember, her hands resuming their work. "Líknvé, my Lord." Ketill detests Christianity, does not understand it. Björn, she can tell, has at least read the Bible.
"And now, after having been-" He searches for the word.
"Baptized?"
"Reborn," he settles on, "What shall I call you now?"
She sneers. "You may call me anything you would like, my Lord, but my people call me Kristina."
"Kristina," he repeats.
A fierce and passionate battle: Ketill returns home almost dead, men carrying him to his king. For the first time since joining them she sees emotion in Björn's face: fear, true and irrevocable fear. When his eyes find hers watching him from the other side of the room, he looks away quickly but it was too late; she'd already seen his tears.
Later in the night he finally returns home. She had come back hours before, ashamed of what she saw, how naked he had been in a different way before her. Wallowing in that misery she does not hear him enter, startling as his hand touches her back. The Norse woman rises to take him in, finally noticing how filthy the Swede is, how bloody and bruised.
Not a word is spoken but when he turns she understands she is to follow, picking up what he points at on their way out of the house. In no time they are by a small creak, the water clear and cool. She places her things down carefully as he begins to strip, her gaze drawn to his bare flesh.
He turns then, eyes empty but still almost hopeful, and holds out a hand that she takes, allowing herself to walk closer to the water's edge. Björn disappears below the surface for a moment before reappearing, pushing his long blond hair from his face and looking up expectantly.
Shaking hands begin to remove her garments and with each layer gone the wind chills her skin more. But the Swede is patient, waits beside her in the water until her shame is all consuming, naked before a man for the first time in her life. Her arms try to cover her flesh.
"You are beautiful," he murmurs, hands reaching out and reluctantly she joins him, her body aching from the raw water lapping against her skin.
Björn moves slowly for her and she is grateful, jumpy as she undoes the braids in his hair. She watches him wash himself of blood and dirt, helping where she can and hating how much she loves the way his muscles feel, her body reacting to his. Pale, Swedish skin is once more revealed.
"Allow me?" he asks in a hushed tone, bending to better wash her shoulders. She shutters at his touch, soothing words coming from the man as he washes her arms. "Kristina is a very beautiful name."
"Thank you, my Lord."
"Your cooking is delicious, I do not think I have yet told you that."
"You are very kind, my Lord."
"When Ketill heals he will expect you as a prize."
At that her heart freezes, turning from where he had been washing her back to take him in. Björn's eyes are almost sad, that emptiness again in them.
"I must give him something beyond value," the Swede elaborates.
"Why me?" she begs. He smiles, one hand stroking her cheek.
"There is nothing stopping you from being his." He misses a beat before adding, "except me."
And Kristina nods, coming to an understatement in that moment of something greater than herself.
With the Dane still being attended to by his king's servants for days, they have ample time to become acquainted with one another by the fire.
The stories Björn weaves mesmerize Kristina, tales of his mother, of falling in love with a king's daughter, of the first battle he fought where he thought he'd die before learning the truth, that he was immortal. Just like Ketill, just like Kristina: another immortal child of Iðunn in the north.
For his generosity the Norse woman answers his questions about her home life, about days spent hidden from the sun reading, learning, studying. Björn inquires after foreign lands and she answers his questions with ease, making him smile though she does not know the reason.
On the third night she kisses him, one hand resting on a broad shoulder to hold her steady, the other threading through that beautiful hair, her soft skin rubbing against his unshaven chin. His arms wrap around her back but do not pull her closer than she herself comes.
In the summer, on the longest day of the year, she is married to Björn of the ætt Steirnung. It is the end of the era of the Vikings.
Kristina cries for days when news arrives of the events that had transpired in her king's latest battle. Björn holds her body to his under the sheets.
Though unified, she still feels weak.
Havoc in her country as men fight to be king. She sits on her husband's lap as he discusses this year's harvest with Ketill. The normally passionate Dane seems quiet.
"Are you unwell?" she asks him.
He smiles. "I am preparing to die." He means his upcoming baptism.
It's the first time he's visited her lands since they were married. She lays beside him, watching him breathe deeply as he takes in the ceiling. The Swedish chest is bare, pale, one of her hands running over it.
"Should I feel different?" he asks and Kristina shrugs.
"I was reborn so long ago, I no longer remember. With time you will come to feel Christ in you." Berwald nods before pulling her to him and kissing her deeply.
Oslo has in so many years grown; pity now she is leaving it.
"This is until the king dies, may that be many years from now," the official reminds her though Kristina has not forgotten. When her king had died without a male issue, his grandson had inherited the throne, a Swedish king to rule Norway. When his death comes the kingdoms will be split again, between his two sons; until that day Norway is in union with Sweden, and Kristina off to be with Berwald.
"Take care of my brother while I am gone," she says as the horses begin to pull away. The official nods and her eyes seek out the little one beside him, smiling wide to give Emil strength until they next meet again.
After their second, Christian wedding they hide away for three months in a castle near the border; there news arrives that trouble may be brewing. As Berwald speaks quickly with officials Kristina notices a young man off to the side, paler than anyone she's ever seen. His eyes shine purple in the light before snapping to the Swede, who commands something or other of him. The boy leaves with the officials.
"Who was that one beloved?" the Norwegian inquires, her husband drawing them back to bed.
"Think nothing of Timo," he assures her, smoothing her hair and kissing her lips. And so she doesn't.
Her hate for Christen knows no bounds. "Why?" she demands.
Eyes like the sky preparing for a rainstorm take in her weak frame, one hand coming out to stroke a cheek. She knocks the hand away, trying to move her body as far from his as possible. "Do not make this harder than it need be," he whispers in that foreign tongue of his. Berwald never spoke to her in his foreign tongue, only ever whispered sweet nothings in Norwegian for his wife's delight.
"We will take our freedom back from you," she challenges, her heart racing. "We are not so weak anymore."
"And yet the plague begs to differ." His words are like venom that calls itself a healing potion. Kristina doesn't know what to believe anymore.
She runs to him with wide arms, her whole body being lifted as Berwald spins her, kissing her over and over. The rest of the room seems to melt away in that moment of happy reunion after so long apart.
At dinner that evening the elder men sit at either head of the table; four chairs, two on each side, separate them. By the time she's arrived the one called Timo has seated himself beside Berwald, Emil at the other end of the table beside Christen. Which means she must pick one man over the other.
The Dane does not react when she sits with the Swedish kingdom.
Thunder sounds outside the window, a loud boom shaking the land. The door to the room is thrown open as Emil comes running in, climbing in beside his sister. "Send him away," Berwald complains as he kisses the Norwegian's neck, his head disappearing under the blanket.
"Everything will be well dearest," she says softly for the Icelandic boy, stroking a cheek. "Go back to your room, I will be there shortly."
"Can I stay with Timo for the night?" he inquires.
"No!" a voice calls from under the blankets, because the Finnish teenager had spoken back to the Swede during the day and was now being punished.
"Go find Christen," Kristina mouthes and her brother nods, kissing her before leaving. "You do not need to be so harsh with my brother," she scolds, her husband sitting up, the blanket falling from their naked forms. Her anger melts away however as she watches him stroke himself.
"Forgive me if I am impatient," he says with his suave voice, leaning forward, "but you see, I am married to the most beautiful woman to ever live."
"Don't ever leave me," she gasps as he pushes into her.
"I never will." He pulls out, thrusting in again. Norwegian fingers dig little half-moons into the strong Swedish back.
"Liar," she breathes, the tears still coming.
"Now you know," Christen sighs beside her, one arm wrapped about her shoulder. On the floor Emil lays his head on her knees, watching Kristina cry. "I am sorry, truly I am."
"What now?" Her eyes like the sky at night meet his so like the sky during the day. Immediately the Dane understands her question.
"I will write to him, we will work something out. But you cannot leave Kristina, surely you must understand that."
"Even though she is his wife?" the Icelander asks. Christen smiles for the boy's benefit.
"One day I will teach you all this Emil." Because Berwald is no longer here to teach her brother for her.
The letter from a far-away capital informs her that she must choose if she is to remain Catholic or join the Protestant Reformation. No one else to ask, she goes to Christen for advise.
"You must be true to yourself," the Dane sighs, kissing her hand. "You were true to God when Berwald and I were pagans; remain true to Him now and all will be well, I know it."
It scares her how much she trusts Christen now.
Despite the wars the yearly visits continue, visits where Berwald can only stay from noon to noon, visits where Kristina locks the doors to her chambers behind them. They send letters every week, sometimes up to ten or twenty, so on the day of the yearly visit the married kingdoms do what they cannot by letter.
They touch.
They feel.
They make love.
It must be the hundredth time some stupid Danish noble has suggested forcing Kristina to divorce Berwald so that she may marry Christen instead.
"I don't want to be married to you," he mutters over dinner, "no offense."
"None taken," Kristina replies from the other end of the table, reading the latest letter to arrive. Emil sits quietly between them, no longer a little boy but now a young man. She must write to Berwald about that in her next letter, about how he will not be able to recognize her beloved brother when he next sees him.
Just beyond the battlefield Christen hands her the scope, pointing to a tall figure in the distance. "That's Berwald," he whispers in her ear and Kristina nods. In her Danish uniform she would be unrecognizable to her husband but even at this distance, she knows that body. Knows that man.
At the small dinner in Copenhagen officials toast to the wealth and prosperity they are experiencing. With it Norway begins to reclaim some of its power. Kristina smirks, delighted, on the arm of Christen.
She hears of revolutions in the distance. The thought excites her, though neither Christen nor Berwald speak of such events with her. And Emil, who has taken to spending most of his days sitting by the lake, continuously tells his sister he has no interest in independence from the only home he can remember.
Berwald collapses on her chest, exhausted, their breathing still labored as they hold each other tight.
"Good God," he gasps into her neck. Swallowing he continues. "Sometimes I forget how much I ache for you." Kristina kisses his head, smiling.
"I love you too Berwald."
Christen quickly sends her back to Oslo, insisting they must move fast. "I want you to have your freedom," he says when she asks once more why he's doing this.
"What benefit is this to you?" Kristina demands as the carriage arrives near the ship.
The Dane's response is to take her in with those same, loving eyes he has looked upon her with for nearly five hundred years and smile. "You never were going to notice."
"Notice what?"
"That he loves you," Emil interrupts, rolling his eyes. "That he's loved you for centuries like the idiot he is."
The Norwegian's mind reels, trying to connect her brother's words with some long-forgotten actions: Christen's promises to be kind, Christen's letters to secure her meetings with Berwald, Christen's continued effort to stop her from being forced into a divorce, Christen's raising of Emil, Christen's words of assurance when she felt weak, Christen's happiness when she grew strong-
"Oh God!" she moans. "I'm as stupid as you are."
"You were blind because you are already in love," the Dane says happily, stepping from the carriage and helping her down. "But it's been decided, and you must go. Hurry!"
"Emil!" Turning Kristina throws herself on her brother, hugging him and kissing his cheek. For all the apathy he's picked up in his teen years he does make an effort to hold her tight, preparing for the separation of some unknown duration they are about to make.
"I love you Kristina," he whispers in her ear and she kisses his nose.
"And I love you too Kristina," Christen laughs, hugging the Norwegian close. In a split second decision she makes up her mind, pressing her lips to the Danish mouth in a chaste kiss that takes him by surprise.
"Thank you," she breathes, "for everything."
"It was my pleasure," the Dane laughs again. "Now go, go!"
In Oslo she has only a day to contemplate the differences between kissing Berwald and kissing Christen, to regret the parting with her brother, before an official comes to order her servants to stop unpacking.
Kristina doesn't need to ask why. It had been a bold move by their governments, but the Swedes had always had determination on their side.
"I would have thought," Berwald starts in that flat voice of his from the other end of the table, "that you would be happier."
Kristina sighs, her eyes closing. "I do not know what I am at the moment beloved, beyond confused and wishing I could see my brother."
"You can't," he observes. No false promises, no attemps at making her believe he can do anything: at least Christen had tried.
"Believe you me," the Norwegian mutters under her breath, eyes on her plate. The gentle clinking of Berwald's cutlery stills. "I will not forget."
The air is volatile. Where Christen was defined by his tries, Berwald is defined by how quickly he understands.
"Happy anniversary Kristina," he mutters before resuming eating.
They used to be so happy she thinks, squeezing her eyes shut and holding her breath; the last thing she wants is for Berwald beside her to hear her tears. They used to be so happy, Kristina's heart racing for days before Berwald's visits in Denmark. And before that, when there was the Kalmar Union, yes it had been hard, yes times had been tough, but they had been together and so anything had seemed possible. The world had been theirs.
This year was their 850th wedding anniversary, 1012 to 1862. And what had Kristina gained in all this?
A husband who had become Christian.
What had she lost?
A friend who also had become Christian, who had loved her deeply and expected nothing in return, who was now separated from her.
A brother whom she had watched grow and would now have to imagine instead of hold.
Her freedom, though she questions if she really ever had that, being a woman, being Norwegian, being Norway.
What had Berwald lost?
Timo, though she never really cared enough about his relationship with the boy to notice how close they were, and perhaps a few days of discomfort as he went out to and returned from Denmark.
They used to be happy.
Maybe 850 years were too many.
She slips beneath the water of the bathtub before coming up quick, gasping for air and loving the cool Norwegian breeze blowing through her open window.
Home. She was finally home.
His eyes are like the sea, thawing in spring, as he watches her from across the room. "I still love you," he offers in that flat voice of his.
"I have never doubted your love Berwald," Kristina replies. "Everything else yes, but your love: never."
"Maybe we should start over?" he muses aloud, watching the alcohol in his tumbler swirl.
"What? Like we've never met?" When she sees how the young men and women in Oslo court each other nowadays, it makes the Norwegian glad she's married. "Don't be ridiculous beloved."
He smiles to himself. "I could take you on dates."
"You hate going out to eat."
"We could go to a movie."
"You can barely see in the theater."
"Driving?"
Kristina laughs. "You'll get me motion sick."
"That doesn't mean I won't enjoy myself," Berwald chuckles and his grin is genuine like she hasn't seen in so long, little lines around his eyes, his cheeks full.
"Oh hush you." Slowly she walks to him, sitting on his lap and allowing the Swede to pull her to him. "Why don't we fly somewhere?"
"Fly?"
"Oh yes, I heard all about the aeroplane during the Great War from the young soldiers who were assigned to keep me informed. They were quite impressed."
"Neutral Ally," Berwald mutters under his breath. "But maybe flying wouldn't be so bad. Where to?"
"Anywhere."
"Well that narrows it down. Sometimes I forget how indecisive you can be."
That strikes Kristina as odd. "What do you mean?" Placing his tumbler down Berwald fixes his eyes on her, serious, before answering.
"Remember when we were first married? How I would take you out on my boat into the ocean, and tell you to point any way and I would take you there? You could pick and there we would go?"
"Yes, I remember."
"And do you remember which way you'd point?"
The truth is, Kristina can't; then she remembers. "I wouldn't point," she sighs, rolling her eyes at herself. "You're right, you're right, I could just never decide where I wanted to go next. I guess I've so rarely had the chance to pick I never did become any good at it."
Fingers stroke her cheek, pushing her hair behind her ear. "Now you have all the time in the world to practice," Berwald murmurs and she smiles up at her husband with his handsome face and strong lines.
"So long as I'm with you," and she taps the center of his chest, "you can still be the one to point."
The only word she ever gives that German is Oxenstierna. Good God, when did they start making nations so stupid? she thinks as he storms out of the room. Ridiculous, when she was his age actions like that would have gotten you left behind in Vinland.
She had been the one to make the decision late one night, Kristina being ushered into a room with her king. She would part with the government she had informed His Majesty graciously, she would do her best to remain strong and escape but on her own terms. She was over one thousand years old, no one had killed the Norwegian woman yet.
His grip had been strong on her shoulder before he'd nodded, understanding.
But this one, oh this one, this stupid German didn't seem to understand a damn thing. Marching back into the room he slams his hands down on the table, as if such things would scare her.
Kristina had seen war.
Kristina had seen famine.
Kristina had seen the Vikings.
Kristina had seen the Black Death.
Kristina had seen the Kalmar Union.
Kristina had seen more than his little mind could ever fathom.
Kristina never flinches.
"He said," Berwald starts slowly on the train as they're rattled along, away from Oslo towards Stockholm, "you gave him hell." The Swede tips his drink to her at that, drinking deeply.
"Do you remember," Kristina starts with wide eyes, watching the glint of Berwald's gold wedding ring in the low sunlight, "when I first came to live with you and Christen? How sometimes the mood would change, when Christen had decided he wanted me for his own?" Slowly her husband lowers his drink.
His words are almost a snarl, "Did he touch you?" A deadly threat.
"No," she breathes though his grip on the tumbler does not relax. "No but I think he wanted to."
Berwald shakes his head. "That man could do with a punch to the face and a kick to the groin."
"I will happily deliver those things when the war is over," Kristina says in the Swede's flat voice as her body aches, the same ache she feels each time she crosses over from her beloved country into Sweden. "Let's come back out to the countryside when this is all done Berwald."
"Alright," he agrees. "Whatever you want: house, dog, farm, I'll get it all for you." When Kristina smiles at him Berwald winks. "Happy anniversary beloved."
She's in the garden when Emil comes running out of the house, waving something in his hand. "Oil!" he keeps shouting.
"What's your brother going on about?" Berwald grumbles, pushing his hands into his thighs to fight against the pain in his back. Kristina shrugs, watering the flowers she had just planted and waiting for the Icelandic nation to explain.
"So," Kristina says from her seat, journal clutched to her chest.
"So," Berwald murmurs as he leans against the wall beside her, kicking at the ground.
And that little word sums it all up perfectly because so much had changed, so much had stayed the same, so much was beyond them and yet they were still so very much in love.
"Dinner?" the Swede offers brightly. "European Union's paying now."
Of all the countries to be a female incarnation for, Kristina is very much aware that at this point in time she's in the best position possible, married to a man with the only conditions better for women. Life is good now.
They ring in 2000 in Copenhagen with Christen, since that was where they'd spent the year 1000.
And that boggles even Kristina's mind as she kisses Berwald deeply, passionately, her hands pulling in his hair as his arms sweep up behind her to hold her tight. Had it really been that long?
"Ought oh," Christen murmurs, eyes wide as he watches her. Kristina raises an eyebrow, Berwald watches the Dane over his newspaper, Timo's gaze goes between all three, and Emil just shakes his head. "How much of it did you-"
"All of it. Good Lord, Densen, you have some weird taste in porn."
"Maybe next time," Berwald says, going back to his paper, "you should outsource having someone fix your computer to not-my-wife."
"Will do," the man sighs. "Will do." Emil just continues to shake his head.
She hears the news but can't bring herself to watch, Berwald holding her tight. "We'll get through this," he keeps whispering in her hair. "We'll get through this Kristina, we'll get through this."
His hands are still covering her eyes as they come to stop somewhere. "Will you tell me now what we're doing?" the Norwegian practically giggles.
"Well, first I should explain," Berwald starts in that tone that's all hers, alive like no one else gets to hear. "You see I had thought wouldn't it be romantic if I reenacted our first meeting? But then I realized you were fond of your king and would probably get mad if I killed him. So then I thought I'd enlist Christen to help, but that idea was immediately shot down. And then I thought and thought and finally, I came to… this."
They're in a field somewhere in Sweden, and it's bright with blooming flowers and patches of trees, but try as she might Kristina can't place it.
"You don't remember?" Berwald says as he steps before her, disappointed and a little bit hurt.
She shakes her head. "I'm sorry beloved, I just don't know what I'm suppose to be remembering."
The Swede steps in close, pulling the lithe Norwegian woman to him and kissing her lightly. "A thousand years ago," he says against her lips, "you, me, a Dane, this pagan guy that I know you really hated-"
"Oh my God. Oh. My. God." Kristina steps away from Berwald then, wide eyes and a heart that's forgotten how to beat in rhythm. Because now she remembers, now she knows why he brought her hear, and suddenly a thousand tears spring to her eyes and she can't stop them, can only laugh at herself and at Berwald the ever-sappy romantic and at the thousand years they've spent together as husband and wife. "We got married here," she laughs. "Oh my God, we got married here, right here, didn't we?"
"A thousand years ago today," he grins from beside her, looking out proudly over the fields.
"But how is it still here, like this?" That makes the man chuckle.
"I bought this land."
"When?"
"Oh," Berwald says nonchalantly, "three days after we were married, before we left for Denmark."
"And it's just been like this, all this time?"
"No," he shakes his head, "no it's changed in those thousand years Kristina, just like us. It's seen sunny summers and harsh winters and everything in between, but it's still here and it's still as beautiful as that day, just like you.
"Hey, Kristina?"
"Yes Berwald?"
"Would you still marry me again, if you had it all to do over?"
She steps to him, wrapping thin Norwegian arms around a well-built Swedish torso and smiling up at those sea green eyes as alive as the ocean.
"Without a doubt."