Years later, Denmark stood affront a longboat. The wind tugged at his hair, grown longer and wilder. He had plaited it down the sides to keep it out of his face, and shaved his beard in caution of an enemy using it as leverage to sever his neck – though, as well predicted, Denmark and Norway didn't expect to encounter much resistance. He relished in the freedom he felt as the boat skipped along the waves, the sails full and the men taking well-deserved rest from rowing. They'd been sailing for a long time, and everyone was tired and in anticipation of a fight. The men told tales of gold and jewels that they'd bring back to their wives and children, wealth that would birth glory for generations. A fitting place in Valhalla was present for any who fought and died bravely – though, Denmark though with an amused snort, it would be more likely the Britons who met their harsh God first.

"Land!" A watcher called down from the crow's nest, "I see the shore of Briton!"

Denmark pushed himself from the side, straining to see through the sea mists. Norway was at his side in an instant, already clad in battle armour and his sword close to a slender hip. He smirked knowingly at Denmark, and Denmark knew the runes had told of victory. He left his fellow nation to strap on his own armour, cajoling the men into battle frenzy and shouting promises of treasure and women. When he joined Norway's side again, the slender nation smiled up at him, looking too pure for his armour, and pressed a Vegvisr into Denmark's palm, "for protection."

Then they were rowing ashore, and their boots met British sand, and in a blur Danes and Swedes and Norwegians swarmed the Island, mounting sand dunes, ravaging trees, rushing as if drawn by ropes to the humble-looking monastery perched on a peek. Denmark and Norway led the band of men, and they made an assault on the silence as they went, shouting and yelling in a plethora of dialects. Coming to the thick, very shut door, Denmark rose his axe and with one deft swoop began the assault on the barrier. They hammered for what felt like only seconds, Norway surging back to avoid splinters, and when, finally, the door gave way, the mass of men roared forward like crows swarming a carcass.

And that wasn't far from the truth. The Danes, and Swedes, and Norwegians killed without mercy and monk who resisted them, enslaved those who tried to run. Denmark swing his axe into the chest of a bok-writer, and the man bled on all his precious parchments, dead immediately. Holy screams radiated the building. Norway came into the bok-room where Denmark was gasping, and they shared an elated smile. "I've killed seven holy men!" Denmark boasted.

"I've killed eight," Norway lied, flicking droplets of blood from his sword to prove his point.

The shouting from outside seemed to become mute as their eyes got suck on each other, and the wild grins melted as they stood standing, sweating and breathing hard, taking in the sight of the allied nation.

Denmark took a step forward, and his next would have taken him eye-to-eye to Norway, but at the last moment he shouted "Duck!" and hurled his sword at where the Norwegian had been standing before he'd thrown himself to the floor. There, behind him, was a Briton whose clothing lacked the holy-man drabness. Dressed in a plain green tunic, his corn-coloured hair hung lankly in front of his eyes as he snarled at them in blind fury. The sword Denmark had thrown would have killed any ordinary man almost immediately, but this one ripped it from his chest, ignoring the fountain of blood that erupted onto Norway.

"You don't belong here," he snarled, his heavy eyebrows drawing together like storm clouds. Norway tried to thrust a dagger at his soft underbelly, but the man seemed to notice at the last moment, and parried the blade, kicking Norway's exposed face, sending him sprawling on the stone ground.

Denmark blackened in fury. With a yell, he swung at the man, who parried, only to have his wound kicked by Denmark's large boot. He crumpled with a cry, and Denmark raised his axe to decapitate him when Norway struggled to grab Denmark's arm.

"Stop! Stop, did you not think to ask him who he is?"

Denmark almost ignored his partner – almost – but with disparity in his eyes he held the final blow on the broken body as Norway crouched down beside the man. "Who are you?"

The man looked through his grimy fringe. "Fuck. You."

"Who are you?" Norway demanded, transforming into the rare yet terrifying picture of a man, face ashen with threat and eyes little daggers.

"I am England. This is my land, invader, and you shall not take it as you please."

Norway's expression turned into distain. "We have no want for this land. It is ours to rape and pillage as we please, and don't think you may win victory against our men."

"Who are you then?" England spat, despite the immediate threat to his life.

"I am Norway. This is Denmark. We are…" Norway looked to Denmark questioningly.

"Vikings," Denmark said, "we are Vikings."

They almost let the man go after that, but just as he was scrambling to his feet Denmark could hold back the urge no longer, and severed his midriff with one deadly swing of his axe. Norway glared at him disapprovingly, but Denmark, having lost his usual cheery disposition and not a little scary in his battle craze simply said, "humour me."

In the decades following, it was mostly Norway who went with his men to rape and pillage new lands. Suffering famine – his own body got at some points terrifyingly emaciated – he settled the Shetland Islands, Orkney, the Faroe Islands… Sometimes Denmark was by his side, and would watch in awe and pride as his friend garnered a reputation of fear and respect. His frailty and slightness of size seemed trivial now, as Denmark had seen what his skill and hidden strength was capable was – had experienced it first hand when they wrestled and sparred in times of relative peace. Norway's hunger for adventure was large, and it dwarfed Sweden's trading ambition and Denmark's easy-going raids. He was perfect in his ruthlessness, beautiful in his ambition. Denmark found every new thing he learned about his friend only caused him fall more hopelessly in love with the man, and he stuck by his side with a loyalty Norway would never experience again.