Gah...This story has taken over my thought process. DAMN YOU SWEDISH FOLK MUSIC! This story is based off of a Song in Swedish called 'Herr Holkin' by the Swedish band Garmarna. Look it up on Youtube for Prussia-Awesomenessssssssskeseseseses ( THOUGH IT PRETTY MUCH CONTAINS SPOILERS). The story will be a bit different from the song for a few chapters so bare with me. I DO NOT OWN HETALIA (if I did, Sweden would be naked allllll the time 3!) Thank you to my Awesome Swedish/Finnish translators, MalinChan, yotzie and Ruusu! Much love to you beautiful Swede's and Finn's!
(Still looking for that Danish Translatorrrrrrrrrrr!)
CHAPTERS WILL BE SHORTER! But will be updated faster :)
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"What do you suppose he's doin'?" A loud voice droned with a murmur from inside the snug and warm stable. The low roofing of the thatched barn was lit with the soft glowing from dripping candles that caked wax against the stale and sour smelling hay. The huddled stable boys were not permitted to light such fires in the stable—but they thought nothing of it, deciding that the little added light was worth getting a whipping from the kings guards.
The fine and short legged Icelandic ponies stabled in their stalls whinnied softly in an unheard answer to the Danish child whose red cheeks were pressed tightly to the glass for a better look of the Finnish Monarch that was carrying something in the snow, the old mans eyes looking so distraught that it made the little Danish boy named Mathias frown.
After pressing his nose against the crumbling and dirty glass of the small window in the snug and grand stable, the wild blonde haired boy pulled his frown into a tight and confused pout as he watched with glimmering eyes as the High King of Finland sat and wallowed in the snow like a damned fattened badger looking for a warm den to sleep in.
The boy whirled his head around then to suddenly face his companions, a silent blonde with chipped glasses, a dull eyed Norsemen with a bone clip in his hair, and a less desirable companion of the Norsemen's younger brother who had oddly silver hair and timid eyes.
"Perhaps he's rootin' round for some turnips...?" The small and silver haired brother to the Norwegian asked, his hands struggling to wrap themselves round his tunic covered knees and his stuffed Puffin keepsake.
The loud boy with an upturn of golden spun hair frowned and lowered his eyes to thin slits.
"First of all Björt—He's the King a' Finland. I don't think he'd be rootin' round the snow fer' some scraggly ol' turnips! Secondly—he was carrying somethin' that was crying. Turnips don't cry...Least I thought they didn't..." The young boy of eight placed his left hand on his red tunic covered hip, his other hand scratching the back of his golden flecked head as if he was deep in thought.
Did turnips talk? He didn't know... he guessed they could if you carved a mouth on them and some magic runes... Then it might talk. Suppose it spoke in turnip tongue? What if it spoke Danish! Did that mean that all Danish people were turnips? Then...did that make him a turnip? Oh dear Gods! He hoped not!
The young Dane named Mathias shook his head fiercely, trying to dispel all thoughts of talking turnips from his witty needle sharp mind.
Talking vegetables were not important now! No—what was important was to find out just what was the King doing with a bundle that was crying it's little head off like a damn wobbler bird!
It sounded like an adventure, a mystery, something that consumed the shifty eyed Danish boy to no end. He would find out what the King was hiding, even if it cost him his life! Grinning from ear to ear he raised his gaze back to his companions.
"So, who wants to come with me to see what it is?" Mathias grinned, his hands on his hips as his shifty blue gaze flickered to every uninterested face in the stable. Björt stuck his tongue out and huffed, sinking his back into a low set clump of scratchy hay that all four boys slept in when the weather turned sour. Winter was the hardest for them all, as they were not permitted to sleep in a spare room in the grand Finnish Hall and they had little money to rent a room at an inn, so, the stable was the next best thing. They would often huddle close together for warmth and burn a bit of peat if it could be spared. It was the closets thing to home that they had.
They were orphans, not of the Finnish blood—why should the cruel King take pity on them? They were not...Fit.
"Why should we go outside? It's so cold! Our noses will freeze off!" Björt whined as he snuggled his body deeper into the hay, like a little rabbit trying to make a warm nest for the winter. His hair rumpled and ruffled as stalks of dried bed grass clung to his dirty locks. They all had been refused a bath in the kitchen, and no one had the gall nor the courage to sneak a pale of hot water and a cloth from the cooks for fear of punishment.
Mathias growled, his eyes stern.
"Are ya' afraid, ya big dumb baby? It's just a little snow! For Odin's sake—yer from Iceland aren't ya?Ya should be used ta' a little blizzard!" Mathias barked out menacingly, making the little Icelandic child pout and rub his red rimmed eyes. Outside the 'little blizzard' wailed painfully, accompanied by a high pitched crying—almost like that of a lost soul.
"Mathias, don't pick on him—he is but a child." Nikolas, Björt's half brother murmured, his voice low with warning, cold blue eyes piercing into Mathias'. Björt sniffled as he allowed his elder brother to scoop him up into his embrace, the young Norwegian of six years combing his hands through the four year old's oddly snowy colored hair.
The Dane frowned but dissolved his glare, his lips still twisted into a pout that made his face look quite irritable. "We're all children! But that doesn't mean we shouldn't go out explorin'!" Mathias argued, his eyes lingering onto the heavy latches of the door that seemed to mock at him, begging him with jeering delight to press back the doors—to find an unknown secret about what was crying in the swaddle and cloth. He had to know...Oh he just had to know... It was in his very blood, calling out with unknown riches and spoils.
"Fine then. Since you two are content being children, Berwald and I will go out to investigate, right Waldy?" Mathias' face suddenly curled into a promising grin, his ruffled hair collecting the golden spirals of the lit candles. The smoke from the candles filled the chilly air with dull color, biting back the winds yapping and howling.
A young boy no more than six years old looked up at the loud mouthed Dane with a heavy and glaring face, his startling green eyes masking his emotions well, all except one emotion—annoyance.
"Dun' call m' that..." The rough speaking child growled, his numbingly cold hands weaving underneath his tunic to rest on his belly, hoping that his skin would give him some added warmth. Damn if Finnish winters weren't as cold as Hel's sickened breath...*
"Aw, come on Berwald! Lets go! If it's gold I'll share half of it with you? I promise on the God Njord himself!"* The Dane laughed with brightness, his hands covering his heart as if he was really giving a full fledged serious oath. Berwald shook his head with irritation, his frozen lips opening slightly to sigh.
"Nej. Dun' wanna."* He barked lowly, his eyes drifting back to his tummy. Ugh...he was so hungry...
But the Dane seemed to pat no heed to his younger yet more taller 'friend' as he began to grin and stomp around the stable—the dozing Icelandic ponies tossing their heads with skittish fright at all the noises the young lad was making.
Already the Dane's feet were taking Mathias over to a pile of wicker baskets and wooden crates that the four boys kept their rags and menial belongings in. A few toy swords, a bit a' scrap cloth to mend ripped tunics, some clay chess pieces with broken or chipped noses and heads, and even a few flatten pebbles that they had found last spring along the rivers of the palace when they took the sheep out to pasture.
Mathias scooped his numbingly cold hands into the wooden crates and, with a sharp tug, produced a woolen cloak, the seems almost ripped to shreds by moths and mice. But, it would keep the Danish boy warm, that he was sure of. Slinging it over his shoulders he wrapped it tight, as he had no broach to connect it with. When he was done with the itchy wrapping he turned to Berwald, a bright smile on his face, his hair whispering in the drafty wind that made everyone shiver in the cold and dismal stable.
The sharp haired blonde Swede only frowned deeper, his crudely made glasses stinging with gold as they collected the yellow softness of the candles flames—making his sea green eyes burn brighter.
He was curious as to see what was outside, what the King of Finland himself was hiding out in the snow. But he was in no mood to investigate such a mystery with the loud and brash Dane. No thank you.
But with curiosity came questioning. What did not make sense to the young Swede of six winters was why the King was rummaging out in the snow? Shouldn't Lord Mauno and Lady Jaana be asleep, or rocking their babe in their contented arms? They did just have a child did they not? Berwald furrowed his brow. He was more than positive that the two royals had had a baby—a boy, with pale hair and violet eyes like the Queen. It was announced all around the villages, all throughout the kingdom. A young small babe crowned the Prince of Finland. Berwald's brows furrowed further, giving his child-like face the gaze of an ill tempered wolf.
He had no care for such a child. A child that would probably grow up to be a tyrant like his father, cruel and pompous, fickle and barbaric. The Finn's were stubborn. Too stubborn for Berwald's taste. They did not bow easily to the rule of Swede's nor to the rule of the Slav's. That alone made Berwald an enemy in this country, in this land. He was seen as a traitor to the Swede's and a disgrace to the Finn's.
He could not go back to Sweden, back to Halland, for fear of being questioned—for fear of being persecuted for living in the kingdom of the Finn's.*
Yet he could not show his face round the Hall of the Finn's as he pleased as well. It was by mere miracle on the part of the Gods that King Mauno did not lynch him were he stood—of course he had done no wrong. The king had took pity on his scrawny state and allowed him work in the stable—so long as he kept out of his sight. No, it was only his birthright that was the culprit, that Was the problem. He was a Swede. Finn's did not associate with Swede's.
Nikolas, Björt and Mathias were in no condition to brag about their currant standings as well—but at least they weren't born of the blood of Svealand.* At least they weren't hated by the Finnish crown.
Berwald had many a times over cursed his parents for leaving him here, for dying in a damned snow bank near the rivers edge—picking rose buds for food, the last of the harvest before the frost killed everything. Including his Mamma and Pappa.
They had slipped in the ice, grabbed at the roses thorny branches as they bobbed in the icy water till—not a single breath was heard. Berwald was left alone for hours, his toes freezing, eyes closed shut with ice until by some feat of the Gods, he was found by Nikolas, Bjort and Mathias. His only family. He was a frozen babe with sea green eyes and a crown of blonde hair. A bloody Swede.
Berwald gnashed his teeth together childishly as he wiped a tear away from his eyes that threatened to fall with rushing rage.
This was not his country. This was not his land.
Why should he be concerned about what the King was burying out deep in the snow, some secret, some scandal. Why should he be concerned about a sickly child inside the castles walls, about the Finnish crown, about the Finnish Prince...
But Before the young Swede could revel over about his great dislike for the Finnish monarchy, a certain loud mouthed Dane had jerked his hands over to Berwald's shoulders and yanked him up by his own ratty cloak.
Berwald let out a sudden 'oof!' as Mathias, with fire in his eyes, grinned wildly, yanking up the poor and deeply annoyed Swede from the hay. Within an instant Berwald let out a strong of curses that no young boy should learn yet until his late teens—and even then his anger rose. The Swede shoved away from the persistent Dane with a huff, only to have his legs get caught in an upturn of musty hay and spring him backward, his rump landing harshly against the graveled and wood chipped ground that was not fattened by hay. His hands, though not exposed to too much of the impact, stung more, his knuckles having knocked themselves against something smooth and worn. In an instant the dulled voice of the Norwegian, his eyes careful, lips moving slower than they should, spoke.
"Berwald, what is that?" Nikolas' voice was low but sharp, his blue and icy stare pinning Berwald on the spot where he half laid half sat in the mushy and half chilled hay. The Norwegian had o concern for Berwald's apparent spill onto the hay—No. Nikolas found only concern in what Berwald himself had fallen on.
"S'nothin'." Berwald quickly spoke, his hands moving on their own with a quick burst of speed to shove the floppy and dull brown object deep into the hay. His eyes tensed in the fire light as the Norwegian suddenly frowned, the loud Dane next to him now taking an interest in the turn of the conversation. Berwald gritted his teeth with fret.
"Ja Waldy, whatcha' got there? Is it food? A bit'a treasure?" The Dane asked, his body all but crawling over the piles of scratchy blankets and hay filled pillows that served at their sleeping mats. Berwald's hands immediately sprung into action, his fingers grabbing at the pouch like object—the battered dull look of it seeming to soften in the artificial light with a slow and sloppy sound as Berwald quickly tried to hide it further in the masses of hay. Mathias smiled quickly, a wolfish grin that meant a world of trouble for the young Swede.
In and instant, before Berwald had any say whatsoever, the Dane lunged like a loosened dog from it's fetters and snatched at the sack that flopped with some unknown liquid. The Danish boys grin widened as he inspected the object, finding it to be a worn water sack.
Berwald made a move to grab at the gourd but the Dane made a quick turn of his heel, cackling like he always did. Berwald growled as angry as the storm outside as he made a move to clip the Dane's body down with his stubby clawed fingers, his aim missing miserably.
Mathias' feet crunched against the hay as he back peddled his steps, his poorly covered ankle just a few feet from Berwald's clenched hands as the young Swede, with rising anger, began to crawl across the floor to grab at the Dane who was making his face heat and burn with wrath.
But Mathias would have none of it, and soon his legs, which were still shorter than Berwald's, even if it was by very little, swung the Dane over a pile of crudely stacked hay and onto a loose boarded rafter where the leftover mash and grain was sometimes stored so the rats could not reach it with their hungry hands.
Berwald, realizing that the Dane was too high for his little fingers to reach, began to rumble and shout, his rough voice erupting into Swedish and funny spoken English to flat out gibberish. All the while Mathias only hummed and inspected his spoils, his hands playing with the corded rope that held the leather water flask in place, the top being stopped shut by a bit of wax, no doubt applied by the clumsy hands of the young Swede.
Mathias' fingers ran over the fatten and squishy flask, the smooth and cold sensation of leather making him grin. He looked back to the huffing and growling little Swede with the sharp eyes before, with a wink, he hooked his fingers against a cotton string of knots to lift up the leather sack. Within an instant that the crude and hard wax was chipped off with dirty fingernails, a red liquid began to drip from the wax casing and onto his lap. The red liquid trickled down his fingers with persistence, melting away into his bright red tunic that had been ripe with holes and rips. The Dane licked his parched lips before he twisted the last of the wax that caked itself onto the metal rimmed gourd, his nose filling with the sweet fermented smell of wine.
Berwald made a clipped shout of a warning to the Dane before he heard the hay from behind him crackle and sway, his eyes shifting over to the young Norwegian who up until now had been oh-so-quiet.
Nikolas seemed to smell the liquor as well as he, with a quick flick of his head, stabbed his gaze against the Swede, his eyes blue and burning, like liquid flames that made Berwald halt. The Swede's mud caked and bruised hands squeezed a hand full of hay into his fingers, getting ready to throw the fist full of straw at the annoying Dane.
"Where did you get that?" The Norwegian hissed, his eyes narrowing against Berwald's. The young Swede of six winters lowered his head, his face blushing a shameful red as he did his best to look away from the Norwegians curious and suspicious glance.
"So, it's wine then?" Mathias cackled, his fingers finally chipping off the last of the wax from the water sack, a bit of red speckling his pale hands. Berwald growled low in his throat as the Dane, lifting up the sack, took a long drink from it, the liquid staining his lips red.
"Dun' drink it all!" He hissed with anger, trying to grab at the cotton strings that connected to the leather flask. Each time Berwald made a grab for it the Dane, with a cheerful and sinister grin, would yank up the string with a harsh tug, as if he was playing with a dumb cat. This, Berwald reasoned, was too much a blow to his pride.
"Where'd ya get it? Steal it from the kitchens did ya?" Mathias asked, his hands on his hips, his nose still a bright red from the cold that was still blistering outside with strife. The storm looked like it would not let up tonight, not for anything...
Again the cotton cloth went up and down, Berwald's fingers just out of reach each time the Dane lowered the string. With an angry red face the Swedish boy backed up with lingering steps.
"Didn't steal it!" He huffed with strife, his voice shaking as he tried to keep his pride. His fingers were balled into fists as he all but growled out the words with sliding venom.
The storm howled outside.
"I m'de it..." He explained with clipped breath, his eyes dangerous as they glared up at the Dane who by now was swaying his feet back and forth from the low set rafter, his fingers idly working with the poor stitching that barely held the flask together.
"Then, you mean you stole the ingredients..." Nikolas' dulled voice reached Berwald's ears. The Swede took a quick spin of a look to the Norwegian, feel guilty and accused at the same time.
"Only th' bit a liquor! I got the water from th' creek and th' roses from th' forest! Took 'bout six month's 'a fermentin' ta' do it too!" Berwald protested, trying to protect his innocence as best as he could. The Swede's face grew flushed as the Norwegian only shook his head and seemed to mock the Swede, his hard eyes making Berwald feel more shameful, more guilty.
"You could get hanged for this, if they knew. The King does not take kindly to thieves." Nikolas spoke slowly, warningly. His eyes were cold as he gave Berwald unfettered advice, the young Swede frowning solidly with his flush and red bitten lips.
"Dun' matter. King hates m' anyway. I'm a Swede—Finn's hate Swede's. 'S how it's always been." Berwald rumbled, his eyes peppering with a bit of icy tears, his cheeks stained a sickly red.
Nikolas immediately softened his eyes, his hands lifting from his waist to clutch as the Swede's shoulders in comfort when Berwald, with a hateful noise in the back of his throat, pushed away from the Norwegian, his sleeves wiping unrelentingly at his wet face and streaming nose.
Berwald, not really sure what to do, but realizing that he really did not want to be cooped up in this damned stable any longer, ripped a woolen horse blanket from the rafter and wrapped the thick and scratchy material round his shoulders, the blanket smelling like sweat and horses—but he didn't care. He couldn't care.
He faintly heard the rushed apologies that burst from Mathias' mouth as Berwald, with a great deal of struggling, pushed the grand and thick slabs of the stable doors open, the snow from outside piled high and thick, making the young boy suck the cool air into his mouth and down his throat, his eyes stinging.
He looked behind him and saw Mathias step down form the rafters in an attempt to catch up with Berwald, but the Swedish boy would have none of it. Instead, with fumbling legs that stuck to the ground, he shoveled his way out the door and into the frothing coolness.
The wind ripped at his hair and tugged at his tunics as the snow sucked his feet under. Berwald swallowed thick in his throat as he pushed onward. He knew there were eaves by the palace, strong sturdy walls flanked by thick fir trees. That would be a nice place to sleep tonight—granted he might wake up with frozen blue toes!
"Not l'ke it matters..." he mumbled out sourly. So what if he woke up, blue and icy, covered with snow. So what if he didn't wake up at all. It's not like he had a bigger destiny—a fate that could compare to that of the Gods. He had been told to believe in fate, to be the best person he could be. He was told to believe that everything happened for a reason. Berwald frowned his heated anger, his tears biting back again.
"What fate is th's then? Why was I brough 'er. Ta' be mocked?" He growled out, the wind carrying his voice over a snow white copse of Ash trees, the huddled branches eerie and skeletal as they combed and cracked in the wind, a soft knoll and bump in the middle of the snow—a currant of white.
His glare grew stronger as he stared at those trees. Those holy branches, rough flaking back, long roots that were supposed to hold up the world of men, giant and Gods. But Berwald knew the roots were dead, the Ash trees all asleep in the land of Hel, only their groaning dirges being heard.
Berwald looked down at his feet, his boots covered with snow, the leather doing very little to keep his chilled toes warm. With a soft turn of his head and a slow sigh the Swede looked back to the badly lit stable, the warmth of the musty hay looking more appetizing by the second.
Feeling as if his anger had cooled some by the winds breezing storm, the Swede, with a shuffle of his feet, made a move to turn away from the the flanks of Ash trees, the wind calling to him from behind.
Wha...unf...mnnf!
Berwald's eyes widened as he turned his head around quickly, his now blue turning fingers clutching at his blanket more securely.
Coo...mnnn...
Berwald swallowed harshly, hearing the noise again, the voice that was not the wind, nor the trees, not the ravens nor the misty Trolls asleep in their caves. No, it sounded human, innocent almost.
With a deep breath that burned his throat all the way down to his lungs, the Swede of six winters set off towards the noise, the skeletal Ash trees beckoning him, guiding him with boney hands to the treasure that they cradled so soundly.
His hands brushed and crawled as he wedged himself into the copse of the trees, the thing branches scratching at his face with stinging hisses. He narrowed his eyes tightly with pain as he closed in on the sound, the muffled noises sounding like that of a sick animal, of a sick little thing.
Fearing for a mere moment that it might be a tricky fairy, Berwald comforted himself with the knowledge that faeries could not stand such temperatures such as these. No, his life was in no danger, least, that's what he hoped.
Onward his hands clawed until, with forced breath and icy sweat dripping from his face, he sat himself upright into the very middle of the swaddle of trees, where, to his widened shock, stirred a bundled of cloth, of pale face and blue cheeks, of small gripping hands and pink lips.
Under the mass of white, the icy snow flakes that dotted his face, curled the small and fragile body of a young child near death. The child crooned and cried with forced breath, his toothless mouth making loud shill noises that made Berwald blink and swerve his head in the snow.
What was this? A Trick? Did a Troll leave her baby here—perhaps a nymph's child?
Berwald swallowed hard, his clumsy hands working to dig the child out of the snow that had shelled around him. The babe twisted with pain as he was cradled to the Swede's chest, his icy shut eyes doing their best to flutter open.
With soft breath that steamed a dull white the Swede, stripping himself of the thick horse blanket, wrapped it snugly round the little babe with the soft blonde hair so much fairer than his own. He had to save this child, every person had the right to live, to prosper. Berwald would not let this babe meet his undoing.
Then, with a bit of a staggering step, the Swede, carrying his precious cargo, made his way back to the warmth of the stable, his heart pressed soundly near the small child's own, his warm breath beating over the crown of the childs head as the babe, with a bit of a stirring noise, opened his eyes.
Pale violet eyes that gleamed brighter than the moon.
Berwald, looking back down at the child snug in his arms, gasped with amazement. It couldn't be. No. His mind was playing tricks on him. Berwald could not even entertain the thought that—that this babe—this sallow thing could be—could be...
This child, this child with silvery blonde hair, full rosy cheeks and bright violet eyes...He could only be...
The Prince of Finland.
…...
Ughhhh. I am dead. Okay, well, I hoped you liked the second chapter! Please review of the Dolphins will eat mehhhhhh!
Authors Notes:
-Damn if Finnish winters weren't as cold as Hel's sickened breath...*-'Hel' in Norse Mythology was a cold and damp pace ruled by the Goddess 'Hel'.
-"Aw, come on Berwald! Lets go! If it's gold I'll share half of it with you? I promise on the God Njord himself!"* -'Njord' was a main fertility God in Norse mythology who was called to witness oaths.
-"Nej. Dun' wanna."*-'No' in Swedish
-He could not go back to Sweden, back to Halland, for fear of being questioned—for fear of being persecuted for living in the kingdom of the Finn's.*- Halland' Province in Sweden.
-Nikolas, Björt and Mathias were in no condition to brag about their currant standings as well—but at least they weren't born of the blood of Svealand.*-'Sevealand' One of the three states in Sweden.