Aah I'm so sorry this is late and it's really short! But Chapter 7 is here, try to enjoy! :D It's the promised angsty thingy but I don't even know if it's sad- also please review? The comments so far have been really nice, thank you! :D

The fights between Denmark and Sweden, by some twist of fate, brought about an unsteady truce in the house. They had both won one, both lost one, and now circled each other like crows on a battlefield, waiting to see who would make the next move. But it only served to irritate the rest of their family. Finland's colonial status naturally inclined him towards supporting Sweden, and he did just that, rebuffing Denmark's half-hearted attempts to rekindle their friendship. It was more complicated for Norway. He was not a colony, but a country of his own, and he did not deny that watching Sweden's desperate struggle for freedom had planted doubt deep within him. Though there is far more to it than that, he knew. His people were more accepting of Danish rule, therefore having no reasons to rebel, and Norway himself was bound to the union by much more than a signed parchment. The voice that says good morning and good night every day, the face that smiles no matter what, the person I have come to love. And it tore him apart, truly. He used to think nothing could be simpler than unconditional love. Oh, how wrong I was.

Norway was putting his brother to bed one frigid spring evening, when he felt Iceland's arms slide around him. He softened a little. These past few weeks Denmark had not been able to tell him a story like usual, weighed down by meetings and all the other pressures of being a powerful nation, and so Iceland had turned to the next best option- his brother.

'What is it, Island?' He must have heard the slight edge to Norway's voice, for he let his arms slide away.

'Will they shout again tonight?' Norway stiffened. He put on his polished pretend-smile, and turned around so he was sat beside Iceland on the bed. Though the fights had lessened, the arguments themselves had not. Sometimes it carried on until past midnight. Norway would sit in the library with a book, listening to every word and locking it away in some dark part of his mind.

'I don't know,' he said, lying through his teeth. But Iceland was not so naÏve as that, it would seem.

'They will,' he said, rubbing at one eye with a small fist. 'Noregur- why doesn't Sví just go?' Icy fingers crept up Norway's spine. He gripped the blanket tightly, holding on until the scream in his throat died away.

'What do you mean?'

'Last night, when they were shouting, Dan told him to go. And he didn't say anything after that, so I thought he might have.'

'Listen, Island.' said Norway gently. He reached for Iceland's little hand and held it between both of his own. 'Denmark- he often says things he doesn't mean. He just gets angry. Sweden is not going anywhere.' For now. The irony was so bitter Norway almost laughed. Here I am, defending one loose-tongued fool for not thinking before he speaks, then doing just the same and lying. Sweden's time here would not last much longer, he knew for sure. He swallowed, attempting to soften the blow for Iceland. 'And if he does, Emil, then you will be good, won't you?' Iceland just stared up at him, with eyes that were too knowing for a boy his age.

'You only call me that when you're being serious,' he mumbled.

'Call you what?'

'Emil. It's not my name. Other people call me it, but they don't know my real name, so that's all right. But you know, Nor.'

'Iceland. Island.' Norway said quietly. Iceland nodded. They sat in silence for a while longer. Norway's heart ached, with fierce love for this small, solemn brother of his, and a sorrow that he was already wise to the evils of the world. I would have liked to protect him. Just for a little while longer.

'Storebror, is Dan going to die?' That dashed all the nostalgic thoughts from his head instantly.

'Island, why would you say something like that?' Iceland's eyes flickered to the door.

'I wanted to ask if we could go riding the other day, so I went to his room, but when I got there he was just stood by the door, and his hands were all covered in blood.'

'Lillebror...'

'I think he was punching it, or something. And another time I went in the library, and he was just sat on a chair, with his knife out. He was just staring at it, Noregur. It frightened me.' He said the last part a little abashedly. Norway pulled him close, burying his face in the pale hair so it would soak up his tears.

'Island, I can promise you this. Denmark is not going to die.' I won't let him, he added. 'But you have to let me go and find him now. Understand?' Iceland nodded, worming out of his grip and under the covers. His own face was blotchy as well.

'Góða nótt, storebror.'

'God natt, lillebror.' Norway pressed a kiss to his forehead, and took the lantern from the bedside table. His legs buckled as soon as he stepped out of the door. He had not been entirely truthful with Iceland. Denmark could not die, no matter how many times he stabbed or strangled or drowned himself. But the fact he wanted to was just as bad. For the first time since this whole mess had come about, Norway felt hatred curl up in him at the thought of Sweden. I will not let you destroy him.

The cool dockside air whistled sweetly about Sweden's head, salting his tongue and loosening his limbs. He had always felt more alive at night, and never more so than now, with a ship full of gold bound for his homeland. It is going to a good cause. Our freedom. King Christian's peace might have lasted, were it not for the Stockholm Bloodbath. He had control over the people, whether they willed it or not, then tossed away their respect like it was nothing. He had always seemed a prudent, able ruler on the few occasions Sweden spoke to him. Not the sort of man to butcher nearly a hundred others in public. He nodded to the ship's captain, who raised a hand in return and cast off the ropes. Relief swept over Sweden. No one else knew of his little nighttime jaunts on the jetty, but fear hung about him all the same. Denmark had people watching him, he knew. It was only safe to slip out in the darkest hours of the morning, when everyone else was asleep. Yet it is hardly a surprise. I would set my own people on him if I had that sort of power. But he did not, so he lived in constant terror of discovery, only tempered by the thrill of aiding his people undercover, in the capital city of his greatest rival.

Sweden came back inside via his usual entrance- the garden door, always unlocked but well hidden. This place was one of the few untouched by Denmark, who loved flowers and was completely clueless about their cultivation. But Sweden knew it like he knew his own mind. He had come to cherish the quiet company of trees and plants, took pleasure in taking handfuls of soil and letting it spill through his fingers. There was a rich, green aroma in the air that calmed him like nothing else. Now he walked past his neat flowerbeds, admiring the bright little shoots that poked up from beneath the ground. It was stiflingly warm inside. He crept up the stairs, mud-caked boots in hand- and collided with someone coming down.

'Sorry,' he mumbled, praying it was not one of Denmark's spies. But a hand grabbed his arm, wrenching him around into the watery light cast from the landing window.

'Ruotsi, it's me.' Finland's face came into view, smiling. 'What on earth are you doing up at this time of night?' He opened his mouth- then closed it again. I don't even know if I can trust him. That's how far this has come.

'Couldn't sleep.' he said at last.

'We both know that's a lie, Ber.' Sweden sighed. Finland was so etheral, so otherworldly in this light, his golden hair taking on a silver glow and a misty light entering his violet eyes. He could not lie to this fairy-like creature any longer.

'I was down at the docks.' he muttered, shamefaced.

'Doing what? It must be freezing out there!' Sweden hesitated. He dared to take Finland's hand, and that made him braver.

'I've been sending supplies to the rebellion. Money, food, weapons, things like that.' His reaction was hardly surprising- a gasp, muffled by one hand.

'You do know how dangerous that is?'

'Yes.'

'And you know what Denmark would do if he found out?'

'I'd rather not imagine.' Finland laughed suddenly, a bright, unexpected tinkle of sound.

'You utter fool. You brave, brave man. What are you going to do now, Ber?' He sat down on the top step, pulling Sweden with him. If I dared to hope for one second...

'What do you mean?'

'Denmark'll find out. Or your rebellion will succeed, something like that. Either way, he won't even let you out of the house afterwards.' He stared down at Finland, whose smile was beguiling with none of the guile, eyes angelic.

'You think I should leave?'

'That's what I would do.' Sweden focused on their still-clasped hands, small and deft palmed in big and rough. But it feels right. He pictured his own exit- would it be swift and silent, in the night with no disturbance? Or should he go right to Denmark and tell him the truth? Sweden wondered which would anger his brother less.

'Then we should go tonight.' It was difficult to decide which he liked more- the thought of being free at last, or Finland's face at the word 'we'.

'Both of us?'

'Why not? On a political note, you're my colony, and it's the law.' He nudged Finland playfully, smiling. 'And on a personal note...'

'Yes, I understand, Ruotsi. I'll go and get my things.' It was so sudden, so easy, that Sweden found himself unable to move for a moment. He was going to escape. The endless days of oppression, of Denmark yelling and slamming doors, Norway's silent judgement and his own crushing regret, all would be swept away by one glorious night. Sweden rose to his feet on shaking legs. His hands clenched into tight fists. I will not let anything stop me.

Finland could not keep the smile from his face as he threw clothes into a bag, grabbing all manner of useless objects from his bedside table and flinging them in too. We're going to be free. He was Sweden's colony- Sweden's misery had become his own these past few weeks. But now fate had given them a chance, and Finland planned to seize it with both hands. He tightened the strap on his bag, slid into his sturdiest winter boots, and flung on a cloak. He blew out the candle one last time. He shut the bedroom door. Finland let a hand trail along the thick stone wall, riddled with memories. That dent in the wood marked where Iceland had fallen down the stairs and hit his head; here, a series of small scratches, reminded him of the stray cat Denmark had brought in before a servant chased it away. And the library- home of a thousand stories murmured quietly over aquavit, the place where he had learnt Sweden's language and held it deep within his heart. Denmark's room was the door opposite. And he is in there now, plagued by the nightmares that are just as present in the daytime. A fledgling feeling of pity built up in him. He would miss his brother, the oldest, their protector, who could not even protect himself from his own mind.

Sweden met him at the foot of the stairs. He carried a bag of his own, as well as a sword sheathed at his belt.

'Good thinking,' called out Finland. He had only a small dagger, but it worked well enough if you knew how to use it. Which I do. Even a knife was more formidable than a sword if its bearer was fast and fleet-footed. 'Said your goodbyes?' Sweden's mouth twisted wryly. 'Told the dog. Or at least, I thought it. Didn't want barking to wake anyone up. You?' Finland shrugged.

'The library, that wall where Iceland hit his head. Just memories, really.' And Denmark. I said goodbye to him, whether I meant it or not. Sweden nodded.

'There's been some good ones, I'll give you that.' He hesitated, casting a look about himself. Finland knew without looking that his eyes had gone to the dark patch on the rug, where Denmark had lain bleeding as a result of his brother's fists. Does he regret it? Perhaps it was only justice, like he said.

'Come on,' said Finland softly. 'There's nothing you can do now.' They walked to the door- slowly, for this was a momentous occasion. Sweden reached into his bag and took something out.

'I wanted to leave this right here,' He pointed to a spot just before the door.

'Ruotsi...' Finland drew in a sharp breath. Sweden held the old blue book: the one in which his own looping copperplate, Denmark's elegant letters, Norway's dense hand, detailed centuries of history. Leaving it there would be to make a statement of the boldest kind. No more history. We are done with you. 'Do it.' His hand had just released the worn leather when a voice called out.

'That's mine.' Finland's blood ran cold. He turned about- dreading, pleading, hoping. Please. Please. No, no. The shadows made Denmark a horror; his pale face could just be seen, peering from darkness eerily, axe held aloft. But the thing in his other hand was far more dangerous. 'Care to explain this, little brother?' He dropped it to the flagstones with a flourish. Slowly, flushed angry red, Sweden took the bait and picked it up. You fool, cried Finland inwardly. Let's go, quickly, now. Don't waste time here.

'A letter to Gustav Vasa, rightful King of Sweden.' he said calmly.

'From who?' Denmark's voice was teasing.

'From me.'

'So you admit your treason, lillebror.' He stepped out into the light, and Finland recognised at once that he had been drinking; his smile was too wide, manic, hair messier than ever, and there was a lurching courage about him that only came from alcohol. Tanska, what have you become?

'I admit it,' said Sweden in the same level tones. 'And I admit I did it for my country. So we could be free.' Denmark stepped further forward. None of his odd grace with an axe had disappeared- he twirled it casually from hand to hand, never missing a beat. Drunk, but just the right amount. There's a thought I never imagined having.

'See, here's the thing, Sve-' He raised his axe overhead, and Sweden's sword flashed out to meet it. Denmark quirked one eyebrow. 'Fighting nasty, are we? Well, none of it matters. I won't let you leave. Stay, and we'll forget this.' His voice was self-assured, but the words themselves betrayed his fear.

'Come on, Ruotsi,' muttered Finland. 'We need to go. Now.' His plea fell on deaf ears. Sweden could look at nothing but Denmark, eyes cold and sad, hear nothing but the taunts that were sapping at his control.

'...too weak to survive on your own, see what happened last time, we conquered you once, we'll do it again if we have to, not strong enough, not powerful enough...'

'Shut up!' roared Sweden. 'I don't need you anymore!' He was a furious lion, leaping forward, claws bared- but Denmark was pure fire, channelled into one being. He deflected every swordstroke easily, smile ever-present. He is playing with him, realised Finland. 'You've always thought- I was- too weak-' Sweden grunted between blows. 'That I couldn't- stand alone- you're wrong!' He leapt, leaving himself open, stupidly open- and Denmark seized the opportunity gladly. His axe took Sweden in the back of the head.

No, no no. This isn't happening. Finland moved as though in a dream, speeding to Sweden's side. A great lump was already swelling up on his skull.

'Finl'nd...' he muttered. '...Suomi.' Tears welled in Finland's eyes. That is the first time he has ever called me Suomi. It was his true name, one he kept to himself, only brought out when speaking with his own people. And said here, now... He fought his way to a kneeling position.

'You didn't kill him.' Denmark was breathing heavily, exhilaration plain on his face.

'No. I couldn't afford to do that.' As much as I'd like to, was the rest of that sentence.

'Why?' Finland let out a ragged sob. 'It would have been easier...I...' And he could not put it into words- how Sweden was alive, still, still, how all of this hurt too much and too close and-

'You have no choice but to stay now.' Denmark extended a hand. But is it of friendship, or are we prisoners again? Cautiously, Finland took it. He pulled Denmark into a tight embrace.

'I knew you'd stay,' he murmured. 'I knew it.' I am so, so sorry, Tanska. His hand came up, up, up- and the dagger plunged into Denmark's chest. He staggered backwards, coughing.

'Fin...how...please...' He let out one cough that was louder than the others, and blood flecked the carpet. 'Please...Fin...' Denmark was on his knees now. Tears rolled down his face. From pain, or guilt? If the gods were good, it was both.

'Come on, Ber.' said Finland gently. 'We need to go now-' His voice cracked, trembling horribly, and all of a sudden he could not see for tears. So he focused on the door ahead. He focused on helping Sweden to his feet, looping an arm around his waist to help him walk. On the frosted air of outside. On anything except Denmark, one hand fallen limply across his chest, the other staring deadly still at the sky. But he could not ignore the blood seeping into the carpet, or his own bitter tears.

He woke to the sound of screaming. Norway stretched, feeling oddly contented. That was something he had not experienced for months. When the screams did not stop, he groaned, rolling out of the warm bed in reluctance. A knock sounded at the door. Gods, I hope no one's been murdered.

'Come in.' he mumbled, pulling a cloak over his shoulders. A servant appeared in the doorway, face grave.

'I am so sorry...' A few small words later, he was sprinting down the stairs, heart pounding and a dull sickness in his throat. The sight in the hallway stopped him dead. Denmark, slumped sideways across the floor, blood still slowly trickling from a dark hole in his chest. His eyes were closed, but his mouth gaped open as though terrified, lips crusted red. Norway stepped cautiously towards him. He recoiled when his foot landed in something wet and red. This can't be happening. Please, say it's not so. Please. His hand shook, coming down to rest on Denmark's arm. It was icy cold, even through his sleeve.

'Get him upstairs,' said Norway suddenly. He snatched back his hand, curling the fingers around each other to try and forget that terrible freezing sensation. 'Who found him?'

'I- I did, sir.' offered a maid. 'I heard raised voices, and...well...' Something clicked in his mind. Sweden and Finland. They've gone. It was all too much- Denmark, as good as dead; Sweden and Finland, run away, probably never to return; the blood, too much blood, blood staining everything.

'Bring clean cloths, and bowls of water.' Two servants scurried off to obey. Norway pressed a trembling hand to his face, following upstairs blindly. Denmark was deposited in his room, lying limp and cold on the bed. A pulse. Why didn't I think of that? He dashed away tears as he placed a thumb over Denmark's wrist. Something- the late hour, more likely finding Denmark dead- had addled his thoughts, mixed up everything until he could not be sure if this was a dream. A flicker. Please. Please. I'll do anything. He felt around again, up and down the cold arm. A faint, irregular beat fluttered under his touch. Thank the gods.

'Leave me.' The servants looked hesitant.

'But, sir-'

'Leave. Please.' They did as he bid, all anxious faces and hushed voices. Norway did not care. He dipped a cloth into the warm water, tearing open Denmark's tunic to survey the wound. It was small, most likely done by a dagger, but deep. Whoever did this aimed to kill. Sweden, he guessed. Puncture a lung or find the heart, and he's done for. I don't have much time. But he had performed healings before, and this one was no different. A strange serenity came over Norway, cutting off the flood of emotions that clamoured at his mind, longing to be set free. I cannot afford to lose focus. He wiped carefully at the wound. Soon four cloths were soaked in red, and his hands were like those of a murderer, but the wound was clean.

'This is going to hurt.' Or, it would have if Denmark was awake. Norway threaded a bone needle, snapping off the yarn with his teeth. Then he stabbed the end of it into Denmark's skin. Each stitch was painstakingly slow, so as not to tear the delicate tissue. Norway's eyes stung by the time he was finished. But a little colour had come back to Denmark's face, and his breathing was at least visible now. Whether that was one of the benefits of being a nation, or pure luck, Norway would never know.

'You idiot.' he murmured, taking Denmark's hand and skimming his thumb up and down. 'What did you say that made Sve stab you?' No response. Norway sighed. He often complained about Denmark's neverending need to talk, even yelled at him to be quiet. Now the silence was just wrong. He took another look at the wound. It was high up- a little higher than the heart, just between the lungs, barely avoiding the windpipe. Once, he would have thanked every god under the sun for such luck. But something about where the dagger had fallen did not seem so coincidental. Did Sweden really do this? He could imagine him running Denmark through with a sword, that seemed plausible. Yet a dagger...and placed so accurately too. An unpleasant jolt shivered down his spine. Not- not Finland? He was small, smiling- and deadly with a knife, if memory served.

'Oh, Den.' he whispered. 'What have you done?' He ran a hand through Denmark's hair, noticing that it had lost its usual body to fan out over his forehead. He knew what he was doing with that knife. He knew it would not kill Denmark. And then his tears fell properly- in great floods, spilling over by the dozen, dotting Denmark's comatose face and destroying Norway's facade of calm. Gone, gone, gone. They finally did it. They finally left us.

He knew he had to be strong. He knew this would break Denmark utterly.

Yet all he could do was cry.

Review and I'll update more quickly :D (sorry)