Svea

2.

"Lord Oxenstierna," the servant pleads once more at her master's door. No response comes.

Lukas, done with waiting for the servants to do this the polite way, pushes the woman aside and tries to open the door. Locked. He jiggles the handle once again, becoming more and more infuriated, before he stomps one foot down and breathes in deeply. "Björn Steirnung," he says forcefully, switching to Old Norse and his lover's old name to communicate fully what he's trying to say. "Open the door. Now."

There's a silence that follows, the servants stunned that someone would talk to their lord and master like that. Then there's a gentle click and Lukas lets himself slip in, locking the door behind him. Berwald's already retreated back to the bed.

Clothes lay all over the floor, in a messy way he's never seen the Swede exhibit before. He was always such a neat freak, everything squared off and neatly put away. The windows are thrown open haphazardly, too, the curtains blowing in the summer breeze. Lukas hears Freja's laugh from the balcony as he steps to the bed, where Berwald is laying on the sheets, a dead look in his eyes. He's in only his chemise and pants; it looks like he hasn't shaved in days.

"Beloved," the Norwegian sighs, one hand running over the foot of the bed. His tone becomes lighter at the sight because as angry as he was with the larger man for locking himself in his room like a child, he cannot stay mad at him when he looks so pitiful like this. And Lukas knows before Berwald explains what caused the sudden depression; there's only ever been one person who could do this to him, could rip out his heart and shatter it into a million pieces on the floor without any effort.

"Got a letter," Berwald murmurs dully. The Norwegian nods. "From Timo." He nods once more. No words follow that.

Sitting down, Lukas reaches out to take his lover's hand. Though nothing else in the Swede changes, Berwald's grip is tight, desperate, as he continues to stare straight ahead.

Another laugh comes in from the balcony, and the smaller nation catches sight of the sweet little girl spinning in a happy circle, her face turned up to the summer sun. His heart melts at the sight, so innocent and perfect. He knows that for Berwald to still feel so depressed while his daughter is playing means that whatever Timo wrote must have been serious. Or maybe it's just that the letter came from the long-silent Finn the Swede had put so much time into.

His mind makes his decision, the Norwegian standing suddenly. With one last look on his depressed lover he makes his way to the balcony, scooping the little girl up into his arms. "Freja," he whispers. Her face lights up as she nods. "Shall we walk by the lake?"

"With Papa, Lulu?" she asks hopefully. Lukas shakes his head.

"Just you and me, if that is fine by you."

Freja thinks for a moment, her chin sticking out just the way her father's does when he contemplates something. "Yes!" she announces suddenly, throwing her arms about the man's neck and hugging him.

One hand rubbing her back, Lukas carries Freja through her father's room. Without a word he unlocks the door, stepping out, closing it behind him. "Leave," he says to the servants, and with that the two head outside.

For nearly three weeks Lukas doesn't see Berwald. Freja's bedroom being attached to her father's, the Norwegian supposes he could go and sit with his lover while putting the girl to bed. But instead he decides to let Freja stay with him, tucking the girl in early and reading by the fire while she drifts to sleep.

They're out by the lake when two large hands slide over his shoulders and down his chest, a chin coming to rest on his shoulder. They silently watch the little Swedish girl splash in the water of the lake's bank, enjoying the rare joy of being given pants to wear, before Berwald shifts to sit beside him. An arm wraps around his waist and so Lukas rests his head on his companion's shoulder.

"I am sorry," the Swede starts. When nothing happens at those words, he continues. "I was not expecting a letter, from Timo. He- he left without a word."

"Did he share your bed?" Lukas asks out of nowhere.

"Yes," the man breathes. The Norwegian had figured as such, that that was why he had his own chambers: so Berwald didn't lay in the same bed with Lukas as he had with Timo. "I- I still love him," he finally manages, and the Swedish nation's whole body sags as he says the words, as if a great weight has been lifted from him with that confession. "I have never stopped loving him. I had believed I had gotten over it, moved on, with you, because I have always loved you, since before Timo. But perhaps I was, once more, mistaken."

A high-pitched giggle reverberates in the hidden-away valley of the castle, Freja's hands coming to splash up water as she crouches down. With a sudden joy she stands up straight, bouncing from foot to foot. The two men watch her simple happiness as they contemplate heavy things.

"I am sorry," Berwald says once more, this time turning to look at his lover. His sea-green eyes seem so lost behind his glasses, as if he's drowning. And maybe he is, Lukas thinks, maybe he's drowning in all these feelings they refuse to speak of, all the things that for centuries they left unsaid, left to grow and gnaw at their insides. "I am sorry that I do not love you more than I do, that I do not love just you."

Fingers find his lips, shushing his words. "You love me," Lukas states simply. "That is all I need." And then he kisses him, deeply, because there are so many things they do not have words for but that they try to communicate through their kisses. Arms wrap around necks and backs as they pull each other closer, never close enough, until they sense someone small coming to stand beside them.

A Norwegian forehead rests against a Swedish one as the father takes in his daughter. "Yes Freja?"

"Are you sad Papa?"

Berwald chuckles once to himself, the sensation reverberating through Lukas's body, before one arm wraps around Freja and the Swede pulls the three of them close. "Not anymore beloved," he says to his daughter before kissing her forehead, laying his head on her shoulder. Small hands pat her father's head.

Commotion in the courtyard causes Berwald to run suddenly to the window, Freja climbing onto Lukas's lap. "What is it?" the Norwegian asks lazily. They hadn't been expecting any visitors.

But then his eyes sweep over the sitting room to take in the large nation as he stands, tense, at the window. His arms are locked, his grip tight on the window sill.

"What is it?" Lukas repeats as Freja finally settles in on his legs, pulling her tightly to his chest instinctively. Such actions have long ago become normal for her, the little girl seemingly thinking nothing of it.

His eyes are wide when the Swede turns back to look at him. "Christen Densen," Berwald says in one breath.

Bloody hell!, his mind screams as Lukas stands, taking Freja with him; the girl giggles. Both men leave the room quickly, Berwald most likely to meet the uninvited Dane, Lukas with only the slightest idea of what he is about to do.

"Bad," the Swede keeps repeating under his breath. "Bad, bad, this is bad." There are so many things they say in this castle that they can say no where else, secrets here for just the two quiet Nords. If their secrets were to be discovered by Denmark, by Christen- "Bad," Berwald says once more.

At the bottom of the stairs Berwald goes left, stopping suddenly to say something. But Lukas has already gone right, Freja waving goodbye to her father over his shoulder. The Norwegian doesn't stop until he's gone out the back of the castle, through the small courtyard, and entered the horses' stable. One of the servants quickly saddles up Lukas's horse before the nation puts the little girl on, getting on behind her.

They ride out into the Swedish countryside, Lukas only vaguely aware of where he's going until he sees it in the distance, stone ruins of building from centuries ago. Freja's gone quiet in his arms, looking up at his face every once and a while. But the five year old makes no objections when they finally stop, the man climbing down first and helping her place her feet on the ground. Lukas isn't sure yet if he's happy or sad to know that Freja has picked up his and Berwald's tendency towards silence over playful banter.

Hours pass as Freja explores the ruins of the old castle, a once-strong stone structure built to replace the previous wooden Viking stronghold. This was the first place he kissed Berwald, when the Swede was nine and he was eight. They had giggled then, not quite sure what they'd done; Lukas has never forgotten that day, that moment, that little boy he first loved, the man he still loves.

"Look Lulu!" the girl declares from above his head, Norwegian arms stretched up to catch her should she fall from where she's standing on the crumbling wall. But Lukas cannot see what she's pointing at, helping her down as someone comes around the once-proud tower. It's Berwald.

Freja runs to her father, leaping into his arms as he pulls her up, high, to hug her and kiss her hair. Several minutes pass like that, Lukas only watching, before Freja is placed down to run about some more. That's when the Swede steps forward and he falls into Berwald's arms, kissing him passionately with a desperation that had been building for so long inside both of them.

All the fears he hadn't realized he had had melt away suddenly, the Swede whispering over and over, "He is gone, everything is alright now, Densen is gone." He kisses all over Berwald's face, his nose, his necks, his forehead, his eyelids, pulling the glasses off to hold in his hand. Lukas wraps his arms around the other's neck, pulling him closer though the angle is awkward for the larger man. "He is gone, we are safe now Lukas, we are safe."

When he finally relents in his kissing the Norwegian feels those two arms around him turn him so his back presses into Berwald, arms slung low around his stomach holding him in place. Together they watch Freja take in the tallest tower left.

"Thank you," Berwald whispers. Lukas knows it is meant for having taken Freja from the castle, from where Christen might have found her. No one else has seen the little girl.

"I do not want to share," Lukas says suddenly. The man behind him tenses before nodding for him to go on. "I do not want to share you anymore, with anyone else. And I-" He sighs, his eyes falling closed for just a moment. "I do not want to share Freja either."

Lips turn to press into the side of his head, becoming an upturned smile. "Have you come to love my daughter?" Berwald teases, kissing his head. He can tell the man's eyes are closed from the way he speaks; it's subtle, but there's a difference in his tone when the Swede speaks while seeing and when he speaks without being able to see. But Lukas's eyes are trained on Freja as she runs to pet the horse.

"Yes," he gasps suddenly, as if realizing it for the first time. "She is so perfect Berwald, like no one else has ever been." The man nods against him. "I love her, beloved, as if she was my own."

"She is," Berwald whispers in his ear. "She is our daughter Lukas; she always has been, and always will be. Ours, forever."

"Forever," he echoes as Freja runs to them happily.

"Forever!" she screams without seeming to understand to what the word was spoken.

They stay at the castle this year, the local villagers bringing gifts for the unseen birthday girl they have never met. Lukas knows it is because they fear Berwald, because they and they alone understand that he is immortal and powerful and can make their lives easier or harder with the snap of his fingers.

But it's become dangerous with so many people knowing of Freja, who still hasn't been reported to the Swedish king. Her seventh birthday all Lukas can do is worry: worry that Christen will return, worry that officials will arrive suddenly, worry that one of the servants or villagers will dare turn away from cold and heartless Lord Oxenstierna and reveal his master's secret. The Norwegian would do anything, anything, to stop that from coming to pass.

When the end of the day comes, nothing has happened to put their daughter in danger. Once she's been put to bed, Lukas watches his lover sigh deeply, their eyes meeting from across the room. Nothing had happened today, but the risk is ever-present.

Several months later the letter finally comes, the one that starts off, "To that fucking bastard Oxenstierna," and ends with, "You were never going to be given permission to keep the child. Surrender her tomorrow morning or we will take everything from you and that Norwegian whore." The body of the letter is strongly worded, to say the least.

Berwald in his office shakes in rage, in fear, in hatred like Lukas hasn't seen in so long. The man shakes, balling the letter up in his hand, his eyes out the window; in the light swords and axes glistening on the walls. But the Swede was always a vicious and unpredictable Viking, bloodthirsty, unstoppable. It's like they've unleashed a sleeping beast, and the Norwegian would hate to ever admit aloud that to watch Berwald shakes like that scares him.

He never asks if he'll fight to keep Freja. It'd be the stupidest question of all.

That night had taken all Lukas's energy to try and calm Berwald, who was desperate and frightened, masking it with overzealous actions and too forceful passion in their bed. Lukas knows that come morning the Swede will apologize for having been like that, for not having loved and lavished his lover gently, but Lukas also knows he won't be there to hear the apology.

In his arms the Norwegian listens to Berwald's breathing, that muscled chest rising and falling beneath him. When he's sure the larger man is out for good tonight, he sits up, taking in the man. For all his flaws, and Lukas knows just how many Berwald has, the man is as close to perfect as he could ever find in all their centuries. So he kisses him deeply, lovingly, his heart beating quickly, the sleepy Swede responding instinctively before falling back into his slumber.

Silently Lukas dresses, packing the last of his things into his hidden bag. Silently he makes his way through the castle to Freja, rousing her and helping her dress quickly. Silently he finishes with her things as well, having started their packing during the day as the girl's father lashed out on trees with his swords. Silently they make their way out through the back courtyard, to the horses in their stables, setting out from the Oxenstierna stronghold as the sun starts to rise.

Freja never asks any questions, her own horse keeping her close to Lukas. And the nation never gives any answers, because at seven she's old enough to understand some things but not others, but she's also smart enough to understand what had happened in the day. Once more the Norwegian regrets that she learned her silence and introverted nature from the two nations, regrets what else she must have lost when Freja grew out of the extroverted child who called him Lulu and would leap into her father's arms and was flawlessly innocent.

It takes them three days in the bitter cold to pass from Sweden into Norway, heading slightly north to an old, abandoned castle just over the border. Lukas starts the fire in the master's chambers, where they settle in for the rest of the week, the little girl silently assisting him and doing what he asks of her.

Freja sleeps in his arms mostly. He tells her tales of when he and Berwald were Vikings, of when they were children; once she smiles against his arm.

Once.

He's lost track of how many days it's been when Lukas wakes in Berwald's arms before the fireplace, Freja still in his own arms. The Swede kisses the back of his head in recognition that he is now awake.

In quiet Swedish the Norwegian asks, "How did you find us?"

"Please, Lukas," Berwald sighs, "you do not give me enough credit some days for how well I know you."

"Did you know?"

"That you would leave?" There's a pause, a log in the fire cracking in two, Freja shifting to rest her head under Lukas's chin. "When you kissed me in the night, I knew. You've done it before Bondevik. Like I said, I know you well."

Lukas chuckles inwardly at that. He knows he should have left without the kiss, but the temptation had been too strong, Berwald too beautiful. When the Northern Lion sleeps his face relaxes, is soft without his lined glasses obscuring his sweet eyes. The skin on his cheeks are Lukas's favorite, the way they feel under his fingers, the creamy color and slight blush. It's like Berwald is drawing Lukas to him, though he knows the man rarely means to when he sleeps. He is simply a magnet the Norwegian nation has always been drawn to.

"Did she cry?" the father whispers as Freja shifts again.

Did she cry? Of course she did, they both know she did, so Lukas doesn't answer. She hadn't the first night here, but in the morning Lukas had found her crying on the unused bed. That time she had said nothing beyond gasps of "Lulu" and "Papa" and "please". Several nights later the pained words had begun to resemble more sentences, about not being taken away, why would they do that, why does the government care so much what Papa and Lulu do?

What Lukas had realized, beyond how much of her father's screaming she had heard, was how careless they had been in what they said before her. Though they had never addressed the issue of their immortality directly, Freja seemed to understand some small part of what was going on with their officials' involvement.

"We have to tell her," Lukas whispers. Against his back Berwald becomes stiff.

"No, we do not."

"Yes," Lukas sighs, closing his eyes once more. Just a few more hours of sleep and he would be ready for whatever argument this would bring on, but Freja was no longer solely innocent. She understood some things; now she'd have to understand it all. This was a battle the Norwegian could not let his Swedish lover win. "We both know it is time."

"Too early," Berwald mutters into the crook of his neck. "Came too soon." One of Lukas's hands goes back to rest on his lover's head. "My little Freja."

Winter is approaching; there is no other option than to return home. Freja rarely leaves Lukas now, clinging to his clothing. But no government official has come yet to take the girl away, only to try and calm the warrior nation she calls Papa.

One day Berwald bursts into the bathroom, which has Freja shrieking for her father doing such things while she was changing. But the Swede is too overjoyed, picking up Lukas and swinging him about in his strong arms, making circles across the floor as the seven year old pulls on her robe.

"What is it?" Lukas gasps, no air left in his lungs. He's put down so that Berwald can swing his daughter about.

"They gave in!" he yells before pulling Freja to him so they are face to face. "They gave in," he whispers. "They gave in."

After dinner the servants are sent home early, the family enjoying time spent together without further worry. And once Freja's gone to bed, Lukas and Berwald continue the celebration in private, with wine and their bed and words that they would normally not admit out loud.

Because the officials had given in, and Freja Erika Oxenstierna could stay.