Here's chapter 10! Hope you like it :D I will be updating every 2-3 days now, for definite (until school comes back) Enjoy! Please review? :D

There was a hole where his heart had once been. It did not hurt exactly, not like the dull throb of his stab wound, but it was cold. This was a cold that numbed his entire body, spreading to his mind until every word felt false, and he was floating, detached, above what was warm and real. Denmark knew he had to remember. And yet it was easier, a thousand times easier, to just let go. To forget. When I forget, I start to drink, and then it starts to hurt... These days, he did not dare touch alcohol. It would offer him sweet release for a while, then cram an iron helmet across his mind so all he could see was the life leaving Sweden's eyes, Finland's knife darting in and out. Smile, he told himself. Smiling hurt his face, and the facade was so bitter he wanted to cry. But Iceland always beamed back. He laughed, ran about, lived each day in a rose-tinted haze, things that somehow filled the hole inside Denmark. Norway did that too. Just being there was enough; to hold him, to stare into those melancholy blue eyes and see sweet truth, could have completed Denmark again. Except there was a hole in Norway too. He kept his hidden, between layers of practiced poise, so deep it almost seemed natural. But he spoke of his homeland more often now, of the frosted peaks and sweeping valleys, of lakes wide as whole cities and a sky brought to life with dancing sheets of light. He spoke with love- longing, even. Someday, we'll return, Denmark would find himself thinking. But he never voiced the thought. Because if we went there, Norway might never return. What did his country, pretty as it might be, with its long beaches and sapphire seas, have over a land where the very ground hummed with magic? So he kept Norway close, and held him each night in guilt.

These days meetings were depressing affairs. In each one the king brought news of more Swedish victories, their own dwindling treasury, and the repercussions of the crushing loans they had taken from the Hanseatic League. Reclaiming lost lands became a mere dream. Money was the problem now- money, and aquiring it.

'We still control both sides of the Øresund Sound,' pointed out Norway. 'We should raise shipping taxes, or impose a harsher deal on the Swedish side.' King Frederick did not look up from his steepled fingers. He was a solemn man, given to bouts of depression, and had taken up his nephew's crown reluctantly.

'They've already conquered Scania,' said Denmark, drawing absent-minded circles on his parchment. 'Doing that would only provoke an invasion, and we're powerless to stop them.' Norway frowned.

'Your Grace, how many operable warships are there in the harbour?'

'Twenty, perhaps. Not enough to ward off an attack.'

'We won't be using them for that.' He pulled out a scroll, covered in densely written numbers. 'This is the revenues and profits of the harbour in the past six months. We are still bringing in money, but it is less and less each month. Soon we'll be paying for trade ourselves.'

'Then we have to raise taxes-'

'With respect, Your Grace, there are other ways of raising money. Denmark is a sea nation- why not use that to our advantage? The city already trades with Germany and France.' Norway's fingers drummed a dull beat onto the table.

'East.' Denmark was surprised by his own voice. He could not remember the last time he had put forward ideas in a meeting, let alone good ones. 'We go east. That's what the Swedes did to get rich, before the Kalmar Union. They were forced to join it because of the succession, not any financial problems.'

'Exactly.' He exchanged a smile with Norway; they had the same thoughts, same instincts, unlike their beaten-down king. Frederick spread his hands wide.

'You can take the warships and dress them up as merchant boats, but what happens if we're attacked? There is nothing to stop the pretender Gustav from expanding his kingdom.' Their smiles soured. Oh, but there is something. Our sweet brothers. Of course, that rested upon the slim possibility that Sweden and Finland still harboured some affection for them. Denmark could think of nothing his brother would like better than to pay back six hundred years in kind and take everything. He tried to picture his life under Swedish rule. Gloating at the start, definitely, followed by the endless I'm-better-than-you struggle that never truly left siblings. Fuck it. We'll elope up north before the bastard can find us. A glow entered his face at the word 'elope', and Denmark hastily looked away from Norway. But running away- with Iceland, of course- was a thousand times more appealing than waiting around for Sweden to conquer them.

'That is a risk we shall simply have to take, Your Grace. I hear the grain trade in Poland and Netherlands is flourishing particularly.'

'Then trade with them,' spat the king. 'But you're my army commander,' he said, stabbing a finger at Denmark. 'The defence of this country is up to you if Gustav Vasa decides to invade.' A sick feeling curled up in his stomach. Suddenly the romantic running-away plan did not seem so daring after all.

'I shall protect Denmark with my life. You have my word.' It is my life, you miserable bastard.

'And I will send four ships to Amsterdam.' said Norway. 'We will invite more countries to trade with us, and bring in greater profits. I assure you, Your Grace, Denmark will be a rich and powerful nation again in no time.' Frederick merely grunted.

'Very well. Do as you please.' He stood abruptly and left.

'You can be honey-tongued when it pleases you, Nor. I have to admit I never knew.' said Denmark when the door swung shut. Norway shrugged.

'Kings always want you to kiss their boots and praise them to the heavens, even if they don't know it themselves. I simply told him what he wanted to hear.'

'So that's it,' said Denmark, slumping back in his chair. 'We start selling a few more things, and hope our beloved Berwald doesn't come after us with his new rebel friends.'

'I wanted you to be in charge of the new investments,' said Norway mildly. 'We've gained enough leeway to start asking more of the Hanseatic League. You'll control taxes, which ships are permitted into harbour- and trade in Malmö. I'll deal with the king and my own country.' He stared for a moment, mouth hanging open a little. Norway had never been remotely interested in politics before, making suggestions only when it was necessary. But now he showed skill, knowledge- even enjoyment.

'Then I'll do it,' said Denmark, regaining his composure. It was worth it for the smile that broke out across Norway's face.

'I knew you would.'

His world was transformed into one of boats and merchants, holding endless councils with the Hanseatic League, where all they did was complain about unfair taxes and demand to see the king. 'He is indisposed' became Denmark's go-to excuse in such situations. He got them drunk, plied them with fine food and the castle comforts, then sent them off the next morning, slightly hungover and bewildered. Most days went like that. But sometimes, a day dawned where the air was cool and sharp, sky rose-kissed and cloudless. Denmark would don his cloak and walk amongst the people of the sea. My people. This was his earliest memory, all he knew before he knew words and faces and thoughts- a rippling mirror of blue, beautiful in its treachery. The sea never frightened him like it did others. Iceland always cowered at big waves, even on land, and Norway betrayed his fear only by the tense set of his face. Never me. It was his first love, his silent friend. And the sea will never leave me. He walked past the fish markets, salt winds whipping the stench of that morning's catch into his face. Fishwives gutted all manner of sea creatures with cruel, fast knives and even faster hands. They chatted as they worked, in the sailor-speak used around these parts. Denmark picked it up quickly enough. He had been a rough-voiced Viking once, and it was no trouble to slip back into that thick accent to converse with the locals. His eyes closed, and he lifted his face to the breeze. Somewhere, a sea shanty was being sung; its tune floated over strangely, like the cries of a dozen mermaids. I used to sing like that. Only my songs were different, tales of murder and magic. Denmark hummed as he continued along the quayside. He accepted two oysters from a scrawny boy pushing a barrow, drinking in everyone and everything until he reached the harbourmaster's tent.

Inside it stank of beer and fish, but in his opinion those were good smells.

'Come for the Swede's letter, have you?' The harbourmaster was a lean, weatherbeaten man, with wolf-grey hair cut short and a gold tooth. He had been captain of the Danish fleet once. Not that I am supposed to know that. And neither will he remember the boy who pulled him back onto deck when he fell overboard fighting English pirates. The boy had been old even then, an experienced seafarer despite his appearance. Denmark shook his head to clear the memories.

'Yes. The king has been waiting long enough now.' Raising taxes over in Malmö was not as simple as hoped previously. The Swedish harbourmaster had insisted upon seeing a scroll signed in King Frederick's own hand before he allowed any changes. This was his letter of agreement- or otherwise. Denmark took the paper and unfolded it.

'Well, what's it say?' He proffered it to the harbourmaster, but he waved it away with a gnarled hand. 'Can't read. Never bothered to learn.'

'He is satisfied that His Grace authorised the tax raise, and consents to doing so in hope of avoiding future conflicts.' A rush of warmth spread through Denmark. 'We are free to control the Øresund Sound, as it has always been.' My first victory, albeit a small one. He stood and thanked the harbourmaster, ducking under his tentflap. Cold air instantly whipped Denmark in the face. But the letter in his hand chased away any chill. I am good at this, he realised. Good at understanding the minds of fishermen, good at negociating with people that are sailors and merchants, not kings and lords.

Each day, he reported back to his king that the debts were slowly being repaid. They gave the Hanseatic League what was owed and sent them back to Lübeck at long last. The Dutch merchants proved to be particularly enthusiastic about the new arrangement. They brought in ships full of grain and other crops that could not be grown in the cold climate of Scandinavia, trading them for winter furs and other northern goods. Revenues began to climb. Denmark himself supervised the opening of a new brewery, from which dark ales and strong spirits were sold. Norway advised the king daily- but he was making money.

'What have you got to smile about?' said Norway one night, as Denmark collapsed onto the bed next to him.

'Hmm?' He had not even noticed he was smiling. Denmark pressed a finger to his lips, feeling the strange upturned shape. It soon curved back into a frown. 'Just the harbour. It's working, Nor, it really is.' He turned to face Norway, leaning on one arm. 'We're making money. Not just from taxes- there's new trades happening every day, from everywhere in Europe.'

'I told you it would.'

'I know you did.' He stayed silent for a moment, watching as Norway extinguished the candles with a series of quick pinches. 'Nor?' There was a sigh from the gloom.

'Yes, Den?'

'Do you still think about- about them?' The bed sank slightly as Norway lowered himself onto it.

'Sometimes. Why?'

'Soon it'll be a year.' He did not need to say what happened a year ago. They both had memories of that night. The scars have not yet faded- both mental and physical. 'And I thought- well, I wondered if we should do something. To commemorate it.'

'You want to celebrate the anniversary of our brothers' escape?' Norway's voice was derisive through the darkness, but he slid his arms around Denmark nevertheless.

'Not celebrate. Just remember.' said Denmark quietly. 'You told me I had to, that day in the garden.'

'I know,' mumbled Norway. 'But what would we do? It's in three days, if memory serves.' That is nothing to do with having a good memory. He knew the truth- knew that wounds could still ache after they had faded, that the pain of them demanded to be felt until there was no choice but to remember.

'We'll think of something.' Denmark closed his eyes, concentrating on Norway's warmth beside him. But already old thoughts were beginning to creep in. You couldn't keep them here. You couldn't save yourself, and you couldn't protect the others. Worthless. Weak. No wonder they left. Norway had fallen asleep, so he did not stir when tears soaked into his hair. They left because of you. You. Your fault, no one else's, my fault. And when he finally drifted off, his sleep was plagued by nightmares, bloodied hands smearing faces with guilt, a neverending scream that pierced his ears until he sat bolt upright in bed. Denmark did not dare close his eyes again that night.

'As you can see, Your Grace, trade with the Dutch has brought in a good profit. The grain was sold in Aalborg and Aarhus-'

'Yes, very good. Show me the next.' Denmark shuffled through his papers and brought out the next document. This one detailed the Polish merchants' interest in fur, and how it had benefitted the economies of both countries. It was one of his best memories- studying his account books, only to discover that all expenses had been paid. From that day, profits had only risen. Sweden may be powerful, but we are rich. That at least counts for something. With money, they could rebuild their empire. They could become strong again.

'There have been no threats from the Swedish?' King Frederick's voice was stern, if a little nervous.

'None whatsoever. The harbourmaster of Malmö recognised that we held control over the Øresund, and allowed any changes to be made that Your Grace might wish for.'

'Good.' said the king, nodding. 'Is there anything else?' He used a tone that he no doubt thought was subtle, but Denmark had long been wise to the different voices of rulers. This one meant you've told me we're rich again, now get out.

'One thing. A monk called Hans Tausen has been arrested in Vilborg, for preaching Lutheran ideas to the townspeople.' There was no need to say any more. The Pope reigned supreme from the Vatican, just below him a plethora of bishops and the Holy Roman Emperor. A Protestant preacher could prove dangerous; the common people were easily swayed, caught up on whichever new idea had swept the country. Frederick nodded again, but he did not say anything.

'What would you have done with him, Your Grace?'

'Leave him.' Denmark's eyes widened incredulously.

'You cannot leave him! Converted Lutherans will never accept a Catholic king. Have this preacher driven out, or execute him!' He knew it sounded cruel, but sometimes cruelty was the only way. They used to burn pagans, whip and torture them. And after a while there weren't any pagans. That had been hundreds of years ago; the principle still applied. The king's cold eyes locked onto his own.

'You say money is what we should focus on if Denmark is to be powerful again.'

'And I stand by it, Your Grace.'

'The Church is costing me money. The people pay tithes, and complain about it. Only the so-called holy men see a single øre of those tithes, whilst we haggle like fishwives trying to fill the treasury. And the Protestants- their chapels are plain, stripped of any decoration. No money spent. Do you understand me?'

'Well- yes, Your Grace. I do.' Denmark was left standing idle, a sheaf of papers in his hand and the other clutching his forehead. A headache had begun to throb there as soon as Frederick began his mad talk of admitting Lutherans. And why should I care? I still wear Thor's hammer around my neck, where no one can see it. The constant battles of Christianity meant little and less to a pagan Viking. He abandoned his papers and left the room. Outside, Iceland sat on a chair, legs dangling above the floor.

'What's that you're drawing?'

'Dan!' Denmark was subjected to one of Iceland's death-grip hugs, the piece of paper crushed between them. 'It's boring here. Can we go home?'

'In a minute.' He flattened out the paper with a hand- and stopped dead. Five stick figures, drawn with a child's erratic style. But they were instantly recogniseable. The tallest was flat-haired, stern. One had wild spikes for hair. Another wore a scribbled cross. One smiled widely. And the smallest- by process of elimination, I'd guess it's Iceland.

'Ice...Ice, what is this?' asked Denmark, trying to keep his voice soft.

'My family.' Iceland pointed to each one with a small finger. 'SvÍ and you, Storebror, and Fin, then me.' His grin was gap-toothed, innocent.

'Ice- Sweden and Finland don't live with us anymore. They're not part of- of the family. It's me, you and Nor. No one else.' He did his best to smile back, but Iceland was not convinced.

'Noregur said they'd just gone away for a while. Even if they've gone, they're still part of the family. Aren't they?' Denmark wanted to give him the truth, he really did. Yet lying was almost worse. He took Iceland's hand, more for his own comfort than anything.

'They left because they wanted to, Emil. They weren't happy anymore.' His voice was thick with unshed tears by the last word.

'But why? We're happy now, aren't we?'

'Yes, of course.' It was only half a lie.

'So when will they come back?' Iceland's eyes were wide with expectance, their splashes of silver more noticeable in the lamplight.

'Never.' The word left his mouth before he could stop it, and Denmark hugged Iceland close in a futile attempt to redeem himself. 'But I swear, I'll never leave you. Norway will never leave you.'

'Promise?'

'Promise.'

It was late when he walked into the library that night, Iceland asleep after his story. Denmark sat down and poured himself a flagon of beer. He took a sip- and heat spread through him, igniting dead nerves until everything felt brighter, better, more alive. Soon the flagon was empty. He refilled it, and was just about to take a gulp when Norway's pale head appeared around the door.

'I know, I shouldn't-' Denmark's voice trailed away as he watched Norway grab another flagon, filling it to the top. He drank half of it and sat down, grimacing a little at the burst of alcohol.

'Wow,' he said softly. 'Who upset you?' Norway shot him a deadpan look.

'I had a meeting with His Grace after you left,' he said, twisting the words 'His Grace' until they were no longer an honour. 'Gustav Vasa wrote to him personally. They want us to sign some treaty for their independence, because apparently humiliating us in battle isn't secure enough.' There was no humour in his laugh.

'Defeating us, Nor?' said Denmark softly. Norway reddened. That was the one thing he could not control- he might maintain his icy facade for days on end, never showing even the cracks of a smile, but he had no power to keep from blushing when Denmark chose the right words.

'Yes, us. We're still in a union-' He broke off, shaking his head. Denmark took the opportunity to refill both their flagons.

'Skål.' they muttered in unison, touching the two cups together and drinking.

'Today's the day,' said Norway. 'Exactly a year ago, five became three.' He toasted an imaginary audience.

'What a day.'

'What a day indeed.' They drank to many things after that- bastard brothers, dark ale, that one fucker Denmark killed on the ice lake.

'To the union of Danmark-Norge!' slurred Norway a few hours after midnight. 'Both literal and figurative!' Denmark was too drunk to make a clever joke, so he took another gulp of beer. At this point quite a lot had slopped onto his tunic, but he was past caring.

'To Cnut, the old bastard. Hope Valhalla's nice.' They drank.

'Good Queen Margaret!' They drank.

'Getting drunk!'

They were woken early the next morning, so early the buzz of intoxication had not completely left Denmark. He dressed with as much care as shaking hands could take, dashing down into the courtyard. Norway was already there, arms folded and face blank.

'Don't talk,' he muttered. 'Don't say a word. My head's about to explode.' The boat journey to Malmö was not a long one, an hour at most. That proved to be enough time for Norway to empty his stomach over the side, however. 'I was a Viking,' he mumbled. 'What have I become, Den?' But their laughter died away when land came into view. An envoy with a grimace stern enough to match Sweden's greeted them, his bow to the king small and perfunctory.

'Follow me, please.' I didn't know all Sve's people were so stoic. Thought he was the unlucky exception. They were given horses after a short walk. The king barely concealed his look of distaste, though he set off with not a word of complaint. Soon Malmö came into view- a small place as of yet, but with the skeletons of buildings under construction just visible through wisps of cloud. Their entry through the gates was not what Denmark had imagined. In his mind he saw a triumphant Sweden, perhaps even smiling, ready to receive his defeated brother. But there was only silence. People stared at them from windows, doorways, children in the street stopped playing to ogle the visitors. A ghost town. They are not used to independence yet. Gustav's royal crest flew from every tower, yet none of the people looked victorious. They were tired, dirty, pale-faced- like all the other common people he knew. Kings come and go, promising that things will be better. But all they really want is a throne.

In the end, King Gustav did not even meet with them. They were hustled into a dark little room, where two Swedish lords waited with the treaty.

'Your Grace,' they greeted the king. Norway and Denmark did not get so much as a not. 'His Majesty has agreed to cede the lands of Scania, Gotland, and Blekinge, if the independence of the Kingdom of Sweden will be acknowledged by the Danish government.' His Majesty, is it now? No doubt Gustav, who was no more entitled to the throne than the next landowner, believed that such a title would somehow grant him more nobility.

'Very well,' said Frederick. 'And I understand that there is to be no interference in my control over the Øresund Sound?'

'That is correct.' Denmark was surprised, though he hid it. Those terms were good- too good. Any fool could see they had ulterior motives. The hard part was working out just what those ulterior motives were.

'Then- then may I see the treaty?' It was passed over, and the three of them read it with well-trained eyes.

'Something's not right,' muttered Norway in Old Norse. The king shot him an irritated look, but let it slide.

'I know.' Yet things were rarely as suspicious as they seemed. This Gustav had been one step above a commoner; now, with immense power, he was most likely trying to exert his kingly generosity to his former rulers. 'But there's nothing we can do, unless you want another war.' Norway stared at him for one long moment- then nodded. They wrote their names just below Frederick's own sweeping signature. Never mind. It's only forever. They observed the necessary etiquette of a meeting, shaking hands with the Swedes and thanking them for the terms.

'King Gustav invites you to his feast tonight,' said one of them cordially. 'He hopes this can be the start of a new, peaceful era between our two kingdoms.' Frederick nodded. We gave you peace, thought Denmark coldly. We gave you a union, stronger than anything Scandinavia's likely to see again. And you tossed it back in our faces. But he made himself smile, tried not to recoil when they exchanged handshakes. This was far from over.

The feast was a merry affair, with His Apparent Majesty Gustav Vasa, King of Sweden, presiding over the festivites. He laughed loudest and longest, made the best jokes, but never looked a fool from his high seat. That was a talent Denmark had to admire. He laughs with the people, but he is never one of them. Always regal. Always a king. He found himself staring into the empty recess of his golden goblet. Norway nudged him.

'Drink, until it feels like you did the right thing.'

'Have you adopted that philosophy yourself?' It appeared that Norway had; his face was flushed, breath tinged with a peculiar blend of beer and wine. I may try it. Denmark poured in a fine-looking red until the cup was half-full, then topped it off with the pale ale favoured by nobles. The result was a watery-looking pinkish liquid. Norway wrinkled his nose.

'You're going to drink that?'

'Why not? You've been doing the same, just from different glasses.' He raised his goblet to the rafters, then drained it in one. All it did was numb his mind a little further, and leave a strange taste on his tongue.

'Interesting.' But Norway did not hear. He was staring at something in the distance, eyes squinting through the haze of the hall.

'Den...Den, look.' He pointed with a shaking hand. Denmark's eyes trailed down rows of drunkards at the lower tables, his own people sat sourly beside their guffawing Swedish counterparts- to two people in a corner. They stood in a thin beam of light from the only window, hair silvered and faces glowing. One was much taller than the other, with a pair of seeing glasses balanced on his nose. The other smiled up at him adoringly. I know that smile. I know that look, that golden hair, that tall bastard.

'Lillebror,' he murmured. And there, blatantly, as though nothing in the world could touch them, their faces met. It was tender. Loving. Sweet. A sudden lump rose in Denmark's throat. He turned to his Norge, a thousand words clamouring at his lips. They all fell away when he saw Norway's smile. I remember the first time I saw it. A winter's night somewhere under the stars, before we had cities with names and kings with crowns. Beautiful.

'Had to happen, didn't it?' said Norway softly. Denmark reached for his hand under the table. He squeezed it tight, glad that this etheral being was his, this creature of ice and magic.

'I suppose it did.' Norway pulled him closer, a hand in his hair.

'I'm going to say something,' he whispered. 'Jeg elsker deg.' Denmark froze. This was different. Not like the 'Jeg glad i deg' they told each other every morning and night, the constant reminder of a constant. 'Jeg elsker deg' meant I am yours, you are mine, meant all of their centuries together, every memory treasured and saved- meant I am in love with you. Deeper. More serious.

'And I you,' breathed Denmark, closing his eyes to hold back tears. They seeped out anyway. 'Do you want-' Cool fingers pressed against his lips.

'We should leave them, for tonight.' said Norway. 'It's not our place.' Yet once it would have been. Kongeriget Danmark, the great North Sea Empire, powerful enough to decide the fates of entire countries. No longer.

'I suppose I've lost the right to decide who controls who.' he replied ruefully.

'That you have. But-' Norway leaned even closer- '-I will always be here.'

And, like a flower unfurling its petals, like the rays of a golden dawn, Denmark felt the first prickles of true happiness rise within him.