Sweden was making scrambled eggs. He stirred the raw eggs around and around in a metal bowl, his harsh, calculating eyes following the fork's movements carefully. When he deemed them ready he dumped the liquid into the pan and smiled to himself. Some things never change, and morning eggs was one of those things for Sweden. There was a window above the stove that looked out over the forest, and as the early sun crept further up in the sky, clearing the tops of the trees and breaking dawn, he was content. He only wished he could say the same about everything else going on, but life was ever evolving, ever transforming. Sure, Denmark's disappearance wasn't exactly the kind of change that Sweden usually had in mind, but it was something that he had no control over. He had done everything in his power to try and find Denmark and rescue him, but in the end Denmark's soul still ended up in its box, like all of them are destined to end up at some point.

The Swede poked at the solidifying eggs with his fork, breaking them up a bit. He hadn't been able to do anything for Denmark, but he was determined that it would not be the same with Norway. Norway had been a close friend for many, many years, and part of Sweden's heart would always be dedicated to the Norwegian, so whatever it took, he would find Norway.

"Again?" Iceland's voice inquired, the simple word drawing a chuckle from Sweden.

"Don't you like eggs, Iceland?" He countered, never bothering to turn around and give Iceland the satisfaction of eye contact. A smirk crossed his face as he imagined the young Nordic's expression, knowing that he was dealing with a freshly-waken dragon. Iceland was moodier than usual, which was understandable, but this was Sweden's house, and Iceland had to recognize Sweden's authority whether he liked it or not. He understood how Iceland felt. He really did. Everything that Iceland knew about the world was being swept from under his feet, and his biggest obstacle at this point was standing. Sweden had undergone periods of time where he had fought for a bare scrap of sturdy ground, but he was still standing, and didn't plan on falling for as long as he still had legs. Denmark may have been snagged in the maelstrom, but Sweden wasn't about to let anyone else slip away.

Finally the eggs were prepared to his satisfaction. He put the eggs into a pot, placing the corresponding lid over the top once it had been filled. Glittering drops of condensation began to form on the glass lid in the matter of time it took for Sweden to bring the pot to the table. "There you go, now eat up."

"Have any coffee?"

"Ran out yesterday."

"You're a monster."

"I'm aware." God, Iceland was a pain in the ass sometimes. Sweden began shuffling through cabinets, retrieving two mugs and filling them with chocolate milk. After placing both of the mugs in the microwave he set the timer for a minute, watching as the tray began to spin. Since there was no coffee in the house and he couldn't risk leaving to go get some, perhaps hot chocolate would soothe the Icelandic beast at his table that might otherwise begin raging. Besides, Sweden had been wanting some recently.

Soon the warm smell of chocolate invaded the room and the two mugs of hot chocolate emerged from the microwave, one delivered to the silenced young man, the other sipped by Sweden. "Did you sleep well?" Sweden asked eventually, breaking the silence like a twig underfoot.

"Nope."

"Unfortunate. I slept surprisingly well," he retaliated, taking another sip of the hot chocolate. Grabbing two plates from the cabinets, he headed over to the table and finally sat down, handing one of the plates to Iceland. "Bad dreams?"

"Sure." Iceland barely looked at the food that had been provided, choosing instead to study the fine details of the plate that had been set in front of him.

Sweden could deal with silence. He could easily reflect the treatment. In fact, he could present Iceland with a wall of silence using the same amount of effort that it took him to lift a finger. He let the silence sink in as he piled some of the eggs on his own plate. But Sweden knew that to take an eye for an eye was not the proper way to address the situation, and therefore knew it would be best to continue trying to engage in conversation with the little twat.

That's not saying that Sweden wasn't tempted to do the exact opposite, however.

"I had a strange dream last night," he continued after drinking another mouthful of hot chocolate from his mug. Why did hot chocolate make everything better? "It involved a flower and some salt shakers. I don't really want to say anything more than that."

Iceland's eyes bore into Sweden's head. It was almost like they were scanning him, trying to detect any morsel of intellect that could possibly exist in his head. "I worry about you sometimes," was all the younger said before shoveling some of the eggs into his mouth.

"Good. Means you care," the Swede pointed out, smirking in Iceland's direction. There was possibly nothing that Sweden loved more than this brand of teasing.

Scarlet began to overrun the poor Icelandic boy's ears and cheeks, a hue that rapidly creeped over his face.

"If it makes you feel better, I worry about you almost constantly." The older finally tried some of the eggs he had made and deduced that although they weren't the best he'd ever made, they tasted alright. "I worry about you, and Denmark, and Norway… I worry about Finland and Sealand as well, but Denmark and Norway are fighting for their lives. For their existence. From everything I've heard, Norway's government is beginning to slide down the same slippery coast as Denmark's." Once Sweden began it was nearly impossible for him to stop, as though his tongue was a snowball rolling down an eternal hill of mumbling. For once in his life he had to tell himself to shut up, to step out in front of the snowball and break it apart, yet nothing in his body wanted to listen to that inner voice. "Iceland, the past can't be changed, but we can pick our future. We can end this. I know we can."

Iceland seemed indifferent to this outburst of Sweden's thoughts, but as silence returned to the conversation he watched the Icelander rest his elbows on the table and conceal his face in his hands. To Sweden it was obvious that the boy wanted nothing more than to cry his heart out, but something kept him from being able to do so. "What'll happen if we don't?" He whispered, sheer terror locked in Iceland's eyes as he returned his gaze to Sweden.

"If we don't, Jones will." With a shrug, more hot chocolate was consumed.

"Sweden?"

"What?"

"I'm glad you're here."

Sweden ate a forkful of eggs before responding. "I'm glad too," he responded honestly.

"Last night I dreamt that I saw Denmark. Well, I saw Denmark, and Norway, and you, and Finland, and even Sealand. You were surrounding me and…" Iceland shrunk in on himself.

"That's alright. You don't need to tell me any more if you don't want to," Sweden said, knowing what Iceland would have said. He'd had a similar dream several times, and when he turned around he endured insults and beatings from everyone he loved. But it was only a dream, a way for his subconscious to communicate with his conscious mind.

"And when I tried to touch any of you, you fell and became stone cold. Then suddenly I was surrounded by your bodies… and then there was no sign any of you had ever been there." A tear slipped down Iceland's cheek. "It was like none of you had ever existed. And I couldn't do anything to stop it."

And in league with the behavior of a middle-aged person enduring a recent breakup, Iceland directed every ounce of his remaining attention to the food in front of him.

Sweden sat stunned, finding himself barely able to lift his fork. He couldn't even bring himself to say anything. Norway would know what to say. Denmark would already be comforting him. Hell, Finland would be hugging him already. What am I supposed to do?

When the idea of hosting Iceland had been proposed, no questions had even remotely crossed his mind before committing to the idea. Now he was facing a moment when he really needed to be there for Iceland and provide support, and he was failing.

Perhaps words weren't the way this time. Sweden wasn't the best at using them after all, and one slip-up in this situation would be enough to tip Iceland over the edge. Instead, the Swede reached out to the young nation and covered Iceland's smaller hand with his own, concealing it almost entirely.

Iceland's violet eyes met Sweden's carefully, time frozen in place. Then Iceland retracted his hand from Sweden's reach. Nodding, Sweden returned his arm to his side, where it belonged. But then he felt arms wrapping around him, and when he turned to look at who was hugging him it was Iceland. The poor boy's body shook, though no sobs ever escaped his lips. The hug was made slightly awkward by the fact that Iceland was leaning most of his body weight on Sweden at an angle and he had to twist in his seat to return the embrace, but none of the awkwardness could take away from the tenderness of the moment.

"Thank you," was all Iceland said before pulling away and retreating to his room.

There was a certain edge to life now. Sweden sensed it with every step. He felt like a mouse that had seen the shadow of an overhead hawk. The danger had passed, but for how long? He and Iceland might have found shelter, but the hawk would come back. It was all a matter of being prepared for that swoop and attacking at precisely the right moment.

The rest of the day progressed slowly. Sweden did laundry, folded the clothes, vacuumed the floors, read some of his book. Iceland didn't do much other than sketch in a spare notebook Sweden had given him. They were supposed to wait for a police officer to come should anything new be found, but it had been days since their last visit. This gave them plenty of time to think, and thinking can be a dangerous thing sometimes.

Norway was in danger. Denmark had been in danger. Denmark was gone. Denmark was now more or less an Icelandic territory. There was a glimmer of hope that he might be revived, but only a glimmer.

Norway was in danger. Hell, Norway was in danger's talons. And those same talons were reaching for Iceland and himself. There was no way that Sweden was going to sit back and let something like that happen to anyone else. And on top of that, he was going to save Norway. This time, he would not fail.

Shortly before Denmark's death Sweden had stopped watching the news, and now even the notion of turning on the television made his entire body shudder like a leaf in the wind. He dreaded to think of what might be happening in the nation of Norway. He didn't want to know.

Norway had been one of his first friends. When they had been little it had always been Norway who had helped him up when he fell, and it had always been Norway who had checked up on him, and it had always been Norway who made him feel accepted. Maybe that was why the Norwegian had always controlled some of Sweden's heart. Sweden dreamed that one day Norway would feel the same way, but it was only the dream of a fickle, gullible child. But it was a dream that he couldn't seem to let go of no matter how hard he tried. When he had finally, finally convinced Norway to join him, the flame of hope in his heart had fluttered into a full-grown inferno. Not only had the younger left Denmark behind, but he had agreed to a reasonable alliance with the Swede. Immediately Sweden had set to work, wanting to build more cities in Norway and establish more connections needed for the Norwegian nation's economy to grow, which would, in essence, cause Sweden's economy to grow as well. That's what he told himself at least. The system worked well, and for a few decades the Swede convinced himself that Norway was happy living under his roof, but inside the Norwegian a maelstrom of ideas and revelations swirled, a storm that alienated him from everyone else. There was no one who could understand what he was thinking, and no one who could decipher the emotions the Norwegian handed him. Even after all those years of knowing him, Norway had suddenly become a person Sweden couldn't recognize. The Swede couldn't help but feel devastated after he asked if Norway was happy staying with him.

"Sweden, I'm tired of being a toy that you and Denmark both want to play with. You're a great friend, but I miss my home. I miss being able to do what I want whenever I please. You've been kind to me so far, but I don't want to stay."

After that, it was impossible for Sweden to keep the Norwegian in his home while looking him in the eyes. In Norway's time at Sweden's house, the younger had grown considerably. As much as he wanted to credit himself with this growth he knew that the cultural exploration Norway was experiencing at that time was the true factor behind the fact that Norway was suddenly almost as tall as himself.

With a broken heart, Sweden had watched from the window as the Norwegian slid bag after bag into the trunk of a car. There were only four bags of belongings that Norway was taking, mostly clothes and bedding. But Sweden had slipped a gift into one of the bags that morning, hoping and praying that when Norway got home and began unpacking, he would have something to remember Sweden by.

Norway had never mentioned it to Sweden. Never given him confirmation that he had found the gift, and he had never seen it around the Norwegian's home when he visited. He supposed that it was entirely likely that it had fallen out of Norway's bag, but what he feared most was that the Norwegian's heart had been filled with so much resentment toward him that he had merely thrown the gift away.

Sweden knew it was wrong to love him so much. It was a hopeless endeavor, chasing after the Norwegian, and he had learned that lesson the excruciatingly long way. And yet even in modern times he found himself longing for Norway at times when he was otherwise alone. There was a shadow in Sweden's mind that tricked him into thinking that Norway might be lingering in the corner of his eye, and every time he turned around only to be disappointed.

Despite his admittedly drawn-out love for Norway, Sweden had never been able to hold the Norwegian's attention for very long. There had been a handful of times when he had kissed Norway, and a handful of times when Norway had kissed back, but toward the end of their most recent union it began to feel forced. Dutiful. Fake. Sweden knew that Norway had never intended to be such a heartbreaker, but if Sweden tried to count how many times his heart had been crushed by the Norwegian on his hands, he would run out of fingers. But he wanted Norway to be happy, and if that happiness came at the price of his distance, then Sweden was willing to make that sacrifice.

But now he wished for nothing more than for Norway to be with him, at the other end of the couch, buried nose-deep in a book. Norway wouldn't be happy there, but he would be safe. He wished to hold his old friend in his arms one last time. Hell, he just wanted to see Norway once more. Just once.

His voice trembling with rage, Iceland had told Sweden about the night Norway disappeared and furiously described the moment of realization that his brother had enchanted him before tears had dripped onto his cheeks. With tears in his eyes, Iceland had shown Sweden the note that Norway had left behind. In Norway's distinct, scratchy handwriting was written the following;

"Dear Iceland,

Denmark's outside. I know it's not an illusion, it can't be. In case this is a trap, which is very likely considering the situation, know that I love you and always will. You mean the world to me.

Don't feel like any of this is your fault, because none of it is. Stay safe. Stay healthy. Live. If you ever doubt yourself, reread 'The Snow Queen' and think yourself as Little Gerda. I promise you'll see me again.

–Norway"

The last thought that tailed Norway's letter made Sweden's head pound with pondering. The Snow Queen? Sweden was familiar with the tale, but as he thought over the characters he couldn't pick out anything notable about the story that Norway could be referring to. Not only that, but it was a Danish tale. Why wouldn't he have referenced a Norwegian author instead? He would have to ask Norway once they were out of all this mess. Iceland had kept the note to himself, rightfully so, and he was certain that a smart kid like Iceland would figure it out sooner than an old man such as himself.

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts, snapping his attention back to the page he had been reading before his mind had wandered so far off track. The words his eyes had been locked on were "and then he turned," words that he had forgotten to read until just then. Out of context they made no sense, but he shut the book before he could reread the rest of the sentence.

As the Swede stood, his back cracked all over. That was one consequence of getting older that he truly did not appreciate. If only he had appreciated the dexterity of his back when he had been younger!

Alas, another knock at the door pressed him onward, and in a matter of seconds Jones was standing in the entryway. Jones spoke after removing his coat and setting it on a hanger. "Sweden," he began, his voice layered with various emotions; fear, sadness, anger, and a blanket of calm that tried to conceal the other emotions. "When our patrol went out to the common house Norway and Iceland occupied before they moved to the precinct, we found this in the mailbox," Jones continued, his voice like sandpaper as he drew a small box from his bag and offered it to Sweden.

The Swede's hand dwarfed Jones' when he took the box. It was wrapped in a scratchy brown paper that crinkled under his fingers. Turning it over and examining it, he subconsciously moved away from the doorway and toward his living room. The room was a cozy space overall, soft on the eyes and warmly lit. On the wall opposite was the television, a moderately outdated device that did everything the Swede could ever want a television to do.

Sweden ripped away the paper coating of the box and set it down on the coffee table, examining the container carefully. "A DVD," he commented quietly, knowing that Jones had followed him and was near enough to hear.

"I thought that you and Iceland deserved to see it first," the officer responded, his tone gentler than before. "Although the police already took the original wrapping and are trying to find any possible traces of DNA, no one has watched the video yet. Everyone at the precinct agreed that you two deserve to watch it before anyone else."

Sweden turned to look directly at Jones, letting their eyes make contact before speaking. "I'll go get Iceland."

And then he did exactly that. He went down the hall to Iceland's room and knocked on the door before opening it. Inside, Iceland was sprawled on the floor, a pencil in hand, drawing in his sketchbook. Already Iceland's mouth was open, a retort on his tongue, lips twisted in a snarl.

Sweden interrupted that thought with a simple clearing of the throat. Iceland looked up from the drawing─Sweden assumed it was a sketch of a small bird─and immediately his violet eyes rested on the DVD in the Swede's hand. Any color that had once existed in Iceland's face immediately drained.

Together they rushed back to the living room. Iceland was admittedly quicker than Sweden at this, and on their way the DVD was snatched out of Sweden's hand by the younger.

Iceland slid to his knees directly in front of the television and shoved the DVD into the corresponding player. With desperate eyes he stared up at the blank screen, watching as it blinked to life.