A/N: this is (hopefully) the last late update for a while! I meant to update about a week ago but there were unforseen circumstances which meant I couldn't, but I promise I'll try to make updates more regularly! thank you for all the feedback and support it means a lot :) hope you enjoy reading!
Spring 1630, Stockholm
The chilled water of the marshes seeped into Sweden's boots as he stood, high upon a sodden grass ridge, to survey the mustering of what would soon become an army fit to represent an empire. His empire- the empire he had dreamt of for so many centuries- with no bounty to show for all his wishful thinking. But not so any more. Since Poland's surrender, Sweden's every waking moment had been pledged towards the war effort in the Holy Roman Empire, and befitting his country for the shining future that awaited it. There had been endless council meetings, legal papers waved in his face by the more cautious and distrusting members of King Gustavus' court, long wet rides to far-off villages in the north where they might gather a few dozen more soldiers, negotiations that refused to unfold and potential allies who were unwilling to become so. And then there had been the times when he stood before the people of great cities at the side of his king, had heard them roar his country's name, his name, and felt it reverberate deep within his heart. There was a nascent power pooling beneath the surface of Sweden's skin, a giddying rush of strength that only augmented with each passing day, and he welcomed its arrival eagerly. The start of my golden hour. The day when I come into my own, and take all that fate has withheld from me for so long.
This new bright thrill inside him- forged harder and stronger by the amassing of forces and resources- was tempered and controlled by Finland's steady faith in all he did. A smile curled the corners of Sweden's mouth; he shook it off, heat flushing his face crimson. No one could occupy his every thought as wholly as Finland so often did. Yet having his trust was the greatest reassurance after so many years of struggle, and Sweden bore it like a beacon of love and confidence. At last, they could be together without fear or doubt- and they would soon share in all the riches of the Swedish Empire, Sweden's promise to Finland fulfilled and his debt paid a thousand times over. I swore that I would bring us better times. I swore that we would see the dark days pass, if only we stayed together. And soon he would have the satisfaction of knowing that he had kept his solemnly made oath. Even as the thought crossed Sweden's mind, so did another, older shadow of the past. They will be watching. He brushed it aside as one might a fly. Denmark and Norway meant little and less to him these days, diminished and defeated as they were, and Sweden could not even find any spite within himself to wish upon those he had once called brother.
A shout from below returned his attention to the present. Sweden squinted through his fog-clouded glasses, the shapes of several tiny doll-like figures just appearing through the mire. They were heaving on a web of ropes that circled a gold silk pavillion- the king's, he realised- attempting to hoist an oblong of dull blue material above it. The wind howled and gusted, the men below yelled out in surprise, and the blue material unfolded like a flower awakening into spring, its yellow cross bold and brazen amidst the oncoming storm. It flew proud and high in the deafening gale, and likewise did Sweden up on the hill sense a warm clench of pride about his heart.
'Sverige!' came a ragged shout from below. The soldiers bellowed out his name again and again, drowning out the storm, their voices rich with all the hope and glory that a rising empire is accompanied by. 'Sverige! Sverige!' Yes, thought Sweden. For Sverige. And he smiled as the first hint of summer sun began to pierce through the clouds.
The various formalities of war had changed since his first days of a warrior, and decorum dictated that a celebratory feast was held for the departing king and his soldiers on the eve of battle. So the night before they were due to sail for Germany, Sweden found himself seated high upon the dais at the king's right hand, with Finland placed on his other side. Below, countless rows of benches spanned the length of the hall, all of them crammed to bursting with infantrymen and cavalry soldiers and all the other fighters that had been amassed to fortify Sweden's fortunes in the ensuing conflict. The air was heavy with raucous voices and the smoke of several hundred candles. For a while, Sweden gave himself up to the almost tangible joy of the evening, reminiscing long and deep with Finland about previous misadventures over their years together, and toasting this new bright era with every sip of ale he took. We will not fail this time. The notion- no, the revelation- sent a thrill of nervous excitement racing through his veins like boiling water.
'It is good to see you smile again,' murmured Finland, taking the weight from his words with a hearty gulp of wine. A warmth that was far more personal bubbled up in Sweden's chest.
'And you,' he said, mouth hanging slightly agape at the angelic sight of Finland bathed in golden light. Finland shot him a small but hopeful grin, and had just opened his mouth to say something more when KIng Gustavus rose to his feet.
'My people,' he began, with that age-old moniker that rulers have ever bestowed upon their subjects. 'Loyal friends and citizens of Sweden. It is my pride and pleasure to stand here before you tonight, knowing that the wealth of a dozen kingdoms awaits us across the sea tomorrow.' A few of the more drunk soldiers at the back cheered at that part, but they were waved into silence by the king's raised hand. 'I have every confidence that God has blessed our journey and the noble work we do for the Protestant cause, yet should this venture prove to end in my death, I have laid the necessary preparations for such an event.' He gestured to Queen Maria beside him. Sweden noticed only then that in her lap she held a girl of no more than three years old, with a shock of sparrow-brown hair and eyes that peered about the room with startling gravitas. 'In the event of my death, this kingdom shall be ruled in the name of Princess Christina until she comes of age and can take up her throne independently.' A low murmur of shock diffused the otherwise jubilant atmosphere in the hall. It was not customary for women to rule in a kingdom such as this one, no matter their level of competence, and not even the successful reign of the Danish Queen Margarethe could do much to sway the minds of the lawmakers. Sweden suppressed a sigh. For all his enmity with the now distant figures of Denmark and Norway, there was no denying that Margarethe had been more of an effective ruler than any of her male counterparts at the time. It made sense, then, to assume that Christina was capable of just as much.
'This decision has the full support of my council, and the approval of all those who are required to give it,' said King Gustavus with a hint of vexation. He turned his head aside minutely; Sweden gave the smallest of nods. I will support her, that gesture said. And he would. There is no higher honour than to uphold the legacy of our greatest king in centuries. The king resumed his place, and soon the ambience of the room returned to its former joyous state. But there was a low rage burning in the pit of Sweden's stomach that quite soured his previous euphoria. These men would follow their king to any end, trusting his ability to lead, yet when faced with the prospect of his daughter becoming queen, they shrank back like frightened animals. And what if I told them the truth? he thought with a bitter smile. That we had women with us on every single one of our raids in the Viking times, and they fought every bit as ferociously as the men. He glanced over at the princess. Again, Sweden could not help but be struck by her birdlike features, her almost haughty bearing and determined jut of chin. Not pretty, not like her storybook counterparts- but spirited without a doubt. And it was spirit that would carry them through this war if not anything else.
Northern Germany, spring 1630
'Loot these three towns along the eastern shore,' said King Gustavus, sweeping a callused finger along the outline of a small islet on his map. The cabin floor rocked and roiled beneath all their feet, but Sweden remained unperturbed along with the others. 'We shall set a fire burning brightly enough that Emperor Ferdinand can see it all the way from Prague.' Sweden nodded, mind already focused upon what the next day would bring- upon battle and blood, wealth and glory. Their voyage from Stockholm had been a tense one, fraught with anticipation and expectation and a hundred other feelings that churned themselves, like some agitated beast of the seas, deep in the pit of his stomach. But now, stood here, he felt only the grim sense of pleasure that the thought of a hard-won victory brought. Finland beside him wore a similar expression of intent. He would be leading his own troop of Finns tomorrow; there could be no higher honour for him after so many years of isolation and alienation under Swedish rule.
'Where do you intend to regroup?' asked Finland now. The king's finger moved down the blue-black line of a river and to a forest-cloaked town, marked in red.
'I do not wish to wait any longer for war and glory,' said Gustavus with venom. 'We have the strength, we have the numbers; let us take the fight to them.' Brave words, even presumptuous- just what they needed after so many years of caution. No one can stand before our armies, not even this so-called mighty empire. We shall soon see how they like the taste of northern steel. 'Denmark and Norway may have fallen, but this lion still has claws. Emperor Ferdinand will learn that quickly enough.'
It was with that mantra ringing in his head that Sweden drew closer and closer to German shores, Finland beside him as ever. They exchanged the smallest of glances, eyes flickering to meet each other, and again a rush of heady excitement surged through his body, flushing his face deep red. For him. After all this time, no matter what, all I do has been for him in one way or another. It would remain like that no matter what, Sweden realised. And his realisation was suffused with a strange sort of relief- he could devote himself wholly to Finland, to their love, and know that never again would he have to doubt himself in such matters. A shiver coursed through him when their knuckles nudged each other, barely. Again the white-hot thrill of power began to bubble beneath his skin. This is meant to be. We are meant to be. This new thrill was overwhelmed by an older, more familiar one- the thrill of battle and the song of swords, no outside circumstances attached- pure joy.
'Guns.' He gave the order in a voice that was low with anticipation. The rasp of a hundred muskets being raised filled the air, accompanied by Finland's more dulcet tones giving the order in his own tongue. Sweden raised his weapon, squinting to where he knew the enemy awaited.
And then it began.
Imperialists in black-and-yellow livery ran out from between the village's clustered houses, wielding bayonets and rifles and all manner of the latest military equipment. But there was no army on earth that could withstand the might of a northern storm. Stepping onto the battlefield was like being born again, into bright, simple clarity. For what could be simpler than this- lifting his weapon, taking aim with an instinct that had been his for centuries, firing- and knowing that his shot had met its mark. Sweden did not delight in death; rather, in ensuring the survival of his own people with every bullet he let loose. Finland was a veritable maelstrom of action, whirling about as though in his own world, firing with uncanny accuracy at every unfortunate soldier to cross his path. There was ash on his face from the burning buildings, and not an inch of him remained unmarred with blood or mud after enough time had passed, yet to Sweden he had never seemed more perfect. He has a heart of gold behind the steel- and when they are unleashed together, no one and nothing would not quail before him.
'Behind you!' The shout broke his reverie like a sledgehammer through glass. Sweden had just enough time to turn before the soldier burst into view before him, dressed in damning yellow and black, gun held close, too close-
A pair of strong arms hurled him to the ground just as the bullet whizzed past his ear.
'Idiot,' muttered Finland, dragging them both upright again. He prodded at the German man with his toe for a moment, before nodding, seemingly satisfied, then wheeling back round to glare at Sweden. The battle still raged on behind them, but Sweden only had eyes for the man in front of him.
'I'd be dead now without you,' he said, deciding that it was better to cut off Finland's inevitable lecture before it had a chance to arrive.
'You'd have died a hundred times before without me,' shot back Finland, though it was not without humour. He gave a brilliant, blinding grin, shouldered his rifle, and was back in the middle of the conflict before Sweden had a chance to say another word. It was then that he knew- Finland was worth a thousand, thousand times more than any empire, sweet as power was. I would give every inch of my land away for him. He only prayed that it would never have to come to that.
It was an easily won battle, more of a skirmish than anything, yet still the king ordered that a night of feasting would be held by the riverbanks of the ruined village. Its people were in turn forced to move on to the next little waterside town, where no doubt tales of this new northern threat would spread and gain notoriety. All in accordance with the king's planning, of course.
'Let them see,' he said, when his commanders protested that the feast would give away their position to the enemy. 'Ferdinand ought to know what he faces by now.' So it was with the warm buzz of victory in their hearts that the Swedish soldiers settled down to celebrate that night, cracking open casks of the finest barley ale, roasting salt pork over their campfires and bellowing out songs of glory and blood and good cheer. Sweden could not remember a time when he had smiled for so long. It was just like the old golden days- except this time he did not have to share his delight with anyone but his own people. And delight he did that night, refusing the quiet courtesy and fine wines of the lords' pavillion for coarse-tongued infantry man and their raucous drunken music. Finland too appeared to be in his element. He added his own voice to the songs, the Finnish lilt lending guttural Swedish a hint of mystery and magic. Not for the first, or even the thousandth time, Sweden's heart leapt into his mouth at the mere sight of Finland. Somehow the day's bloody brutality had only increased his personal shine. His face was flushed a delicate pink from too much ale, eyes wide and sparkling as they drank in the star-spangled night sky. Starlight had brushed silver through the gold of his hair; he is the most precious jewel, like a sharp winter's morning with the sun rising over the hills, beauty and iron and ice all forged into one.
Heat enveloped his body, tightening his throat and letting an uncomfortable moisture cloud his eyes. Sweden muttered some unintelligible excuse and stumbled on alcohol-dazed feet to the safety of his tent. It was cooler and darker in there, so he felt safe to remove his glasses and let his face drop into his palms. All of it- that day's victory, the blood, the ale, the laughter, the songs, him- all of it was too much, too loud and bright. But so beautiful. More than anything. He stumbled upright again, searching for some semblance of his former composure. Sweden's aching eyes flitted from tent wall to ceiling and rested to gaze upon his precious maps. He had been tracking their progress and future path meticulously, adding his own notes and small illustrations until he could almost glimpse this theatre of war in whose wings they yet resided- a theatre of war where, quite soon, the kingdom of Sweden would take centre stage. A smile crept unchecked across his face. All I have ever dreamed of, ever wanted, waited for- it is so, so close now.
His happy musing was shattered by the admittedly devastating form of Finland, gold-washed and silver-skinned, framed by moonlight in the doorway of his tent. He wore his usual soft smile, but there were hints of iron at its edges that Sweden found himself wanting to press his own mouth to. Chasing that thought away, he decided to take advantage of this unexpected but most, most welcome occurence and stepped closer towards the subject of all his current delight.
'I kept to my word.' His voice was somewhat rough- ragged with centuries of unspoken love, it seemed to Sweden. 'I promised you this-'
'I know you kept to it. You always do.' Finland's trust in him was far sweeter than any triumph on the battlefield, as always. And this time it was Finland's turn to decrease the space between them, his quick, light steps echoing almost silently across the carpeted ground. A wave of sudden nerve crashed over Sweden.
'We have proven ourselves to be greater than them, I think,' he said in tones that burned with quiet intensity. 'Denmark and Norway would never-'
'Don't talk about them here, not now,' whispered Finland, cutting him off for the second time that evening. His mouth drew into a curved bow of contemplation; something leapt deep within Sweden. 'Forget them.' And at last Sweden's hands came to rest upon his waist. They cradled each other loosely, closely, paying attention to nothing but the twin fires smouldering in their eyes. Outside the soldiers sang on and on; fires crackled, a bird of prey shrieked high in the sky. But there was nothing but them, nothing but this room, their faces drawing nearer and nearer together, the soft parting of Finland's lips and his eyes fluttering shut with long dark lashes-
He tasted like ale and ash, like honey and wine. But there was hope as well, nervous, flickering exhilaration, a tender, soft love that almost melted Sweden there and then. I love him, he thought, and never had a stronger or truer conviction crossed his mind. He knew then that they were strong enough to weather even the longest and darkest of storms, that any doubts to be held about the bond they shared could be cast aside like feathers on the wind. But what struck a chord most deeply within Sweden was the trust he sensed in Finland's every touch. He broke away, staring into the face of this most beloved, most precious of people, and smiled through the sudden onslaught of tears.
'You're crying.' I know, I know, he would have said, were it not for the tightness claiming his throat again. But if he could not weep at this- the second forging of their love, the hope it brought to the united realms of Sweden and Finland- then there was nothing he could weep at in all the world.
It was just as King Gustavus had predicted. The Holy Roman Emperor, ruing the loss of the northern fishing villages, sent out troops under his most trusted commander to meet the Swedish army. But momentum and preparation were on their side, and they walked away victorious many more times than not. For Sweden, it was like living in a dream; every triumph added fuel to the furious fire in his veins, and soon he found himself looking upon the field of battle with nothing less than pride. His ears rang with bellowing cries of Sverige, and his sleep was suffused with constant images of the golden future that awaited his land. Wealth was important, of course, as was dominion of the northern seas- but the thing he treasured most of all, held in highest esteem, was the newfound security in the bond he shared with Finland. These men fought for religion, for the teachings they believed in. King Gustavus had personally sworn to bring Protestantism to a still largely Catholic Europe. Yet Sweden, when he aimed his rifle and readied his horse to charge, thought of nothing but a frost-feathered night in an isolated forest of the north, and how his life had been turned upside down from then on. With every day that passed, it was almost as though new vitality had been breathed into him. I will see this kingdom become an empire, Sweden vowed to himself. I will see justice done and the debt we are owed by fate paid. And out of all the oaths he had sworn over the years, this one was by far the most solemn.
Eastern Germany, Leipzig, September 1631
Their lives continued in this manner for almost a year and a half, always pushing towards the inevitable breakthrough that would seal Sweden's position as a powerful empire. It came, perhaps a little unfittingly, upon a wet and dismal night in the marshlands of Eastern Germany. Rain beat down with pattering feet on the ceiling of the silk pavillion as they waited for the meeting to begin.
'Now,' said King Gustavus, when all the councillors were assembled. Sweden was seated at his right hand, Finland on the left. 'We set out into this conflict with a singular aim- to establish the kingdom of Sweden as the first northern empire of this era. I can now announce that this objective may soon be achieved.' His words were meticulous, carefully chosen, but they served their purpose well enough. Soon I will represent an empire. The thought set a spark in Sweden's tired and war-fogged brain. Around the table the other commanders whispered amongst themselves, eyes locked upon the king as he smoothed out a folded sheet of parchment in front of him. 'Our scouts report that the Count of Tilly rides east with an army of thirty-five thousand, making for the city of Leipzig.' There was a collective drawing in of breaths; their own camp was situated not five miles from the walls of Leipzig. But the true danger of that statement did not lie in location and direction. The Count of Tilly was Emperor Ferdinand's most trusted leader, Imperial Commander of his armies and kingpin of all the Catholic forces in this war. To have his attention could mean only one thing- they were finally being viewed as a serious threat to the Holy Roman Empire, and so Tilly would seek to drive the lot of them all the way back to Sweden. But that was of course just what Gustavus wanted.
'The final piece of the plan has fallen into place,' he said, and Sweden smiled to himself. It felt good to always be a step ahead for once. 'They may have the numbers, but we have better weaponry, better tactics- and courage. Courage always counts for something.'
'When do we ride?' asked someone from down the table. The king's mouth twisted in a wry grin.
'We are situated upon high ground, overlooking several acres of land. If Tilly is as brash as they say, then he will ride right up to us and bring the fight here.' It was beautifully, terrifyingly simple, so simple that Sweden knew victory was the only option here. And they would not fail. It seemed to him as true as the sun's dawning each day, as certain that the moon would stay in the sky or that it would rain in England. All he had to do was see it through.
Yet his sleep was restless that night, plagued by old ghosts of the past and the dark memories they unearthed. He dreamt of Kalmar, of the Stockholm Bloodbath, of countless little fights with Finland that had been the very root of his previous insecurity. This is the moment I have been waiting for all my life. But what will my life be worth if I should not succeed? Then you must not fail, Finland would have said, but in that moment he was shrouded in the deep slumber that so rarely comes the night before battle. Sweden let his fingers trail through sleep-tousled golden hair, traced the perfect bow shape of Finland's lips as though it was glass he touched. This- this was a good memory. He enshrined it within those darkest parts of his mind in the hope of casting some light there. With him by my side, anything is possible. These past few months had certainly proven that. So Sweden sighed, discarded any thought of snatching a few hours' rest, and settled down to wait with Finland's hand in his and an uneasy candle of hope flickering in his heart.
His candle was bobbing and wavering as morning finally roused the Swedish troops from their stupor. Sweden dressed in silence, cursing fate that doubt should come to him here and now, when it was least wanted. He stiffened as a pair of warm hands crept over the lines of his back.
'You're nervous.' Finland's voice had a rough edge to it that he neither liked nor understood. 'It'll pass,' he grunted, reaching for his boots. The leather was cold and strong-smelling; he focused on that, on what he could hear and touch. But when Sweden turned to begin the arduous process of donning his armour, he found a steely-eyed Finland stood in his path with folded arms and a pursed mouth.
'You doubt yourself,' he said in smooth tones, dropping a heavy chainmail shirt over Sweden's head. He forced himself to ignore the admittedly very distracting (and very satisfying) sensation of Finland's hands brushing over his shoulders, but found that stepping away was much harder than it seemed.
' 'M not.' A light laugh escaped from those devastatingly red lips. Five strong fingers grasped his chin in a hold that was purposeful, but not entirely malicious. Fervent violet eyes met his own fatigue-dulled ones.
'I don't doubt you,' said Finland, as if that made it any easier. 'I never have.' Sweden shook his head in derision and tried to pull away. Finland darted forward and grasped both of his arms again- stronger than he looks, how could I forget? 'You were meant for this,' he continued, slipping leather bracers onto Sweden's forearms whilst his attention was diverted. 'You and me- the empire we always dreamed of, the empire we waited so long to have.'
'But what if it all goes wrong?' whispered Sweden, all too aware of how childish he sounded. 'They've taken so much from us, Fin, and we wasted decades of blood and pain trying to get it back. What if it's not worth it?' Finland heaved a long sigh, but his smile was fond. The only smile I can trust, after so long spent living in fear.
'There will be books written about the Golden Age of Sweden, about the great empire of the north and its indomitable power. You will have a legacy to last the centuries, a legacy even greater than that of our dear diminished brothers.'
'What are you saying?'
'I'm saying, most beloved and chiefest of idiots, that you deserve this. That we deserve this. And that if there's something we want-' Finland gestured with a wide sweep of his hand to the land below- '-then we take it. We take it all, the rest of the world be damned, and we don't wait for the gods to decide who's owed what.' Sweden released a breath that he did not realise he had been holding (there was something especially beautiful in Finland's face when he became animated) and managed the tiniest of nods.
'You've always been the wise one,' he stuttered, not sure if it was a question or a statement or a fact. Finland appeared to agree with the latter. He looked up from where he was putting on his own armour, a slow and secretive smile spreading across his face. Sweden's heart performed one of those lurching leaps that it had been so proficient in lately.
'I suppose I can only be thankful that you realised that today of all days,' Finland replied with a shrug. He climbed heavily to his feet, intricately engraved armour ringing from the movement. Some strange instinct gripped Sweden, and he cupped Finland's face in his gloved hands, forcing their eyes to meet.
'No more doubts,' he murmured.
'Is that a promise?'
'It is the truth.' The moment was perfect- twin gazes of passion and fiery adoration interlocking them, faces close enough to kiss, (a good idea, thought Sweden) love and patience and trust finally coming together to form this flawless scene- and then the low groan of a warhorn echoed in from outside.
'To arms!' someone was calling. 'All men to arms!' Sweden turned away, securing his daggers in their scabbards and slinging a belt of ammunition over his shoulder. The musket rifle and bayonet were strapped to the armour on his back. Yet just as he was leaving the tent, a hand caught his shoulder.
'You idiot,' murmured Finland, and then he pressed his lips to Sweden's own.
A faint tingling still teased his mouth as the now assembled army made its way to the battlefield, cavalry trotting behind the endless lines of footsoldiers. The herald called halt in his booming voice so that they stopped just at the edge of the field. For a few weighted seconds there was no noise but for the chatter of birds and wind caressing the trees, no voices except for the nervous banter of new soldiers and gruff admonishments from their older counterparts. Sweden's eyes fixed upon the standard held aloft in front of him. Blue and bright gold, the colours of his country, the colours of glory. Never again would he have to ride behind a flag that was not his own. No more red. This will not begin with blood. Instead it began with a clear autumn sky, pale and cloud-speckled, and arife with the rising cacophony of an army on the march. It was a noise he was all too familiar with, and one he would never forget as long as he lived. He forced himself to remember Finland's words: we deserve this. We will take what we want. And Sweden wanted this, wanted some absolution for the years of doubt and suffering that he had endured. So it was with a cold intent in his heart that he first laid eyes upon the infamous army of Ferdinand II, Holy Roman Emperor.
He could feel their need to get this over and done with even now, watching the Germans rise over the hill like a troop of marching ants. They will be hasty, even careless. Perfect. And indeed it was the enemy line that surged forwards first, their commander's cry of Aufladen! echoing harshly through the wind-whipped air.
'March,' muttered Gustavus. The herald repeated his command in a snapping shout of Swedish. Clockwork-like, the first line of infantry began to march, steel-shod boots announcing their arrival for all to hear. They appeared efficient, unruffled; the German army were rushing in comparison. The two armies met with an audible clash of armour, and Sweden could not help the tiny wince that escaped him. He watched with bated breath to see if Gustavus' long laboured-over plan would succeed, to see if the dots and lines and painted wooden figures on the maps would translate into real life and begin the first phase of their victory. Just as the king had said, their infantry's lighter weapons gave them an advantage over the heavier rifles of the enemy. Dying groans punctured the air, but few of them were in Swedish. Sweden found himself unable to tear away his eyes from the scene; he had been raised in blood and battle, and it was blood and battle that would ever be able to capture his attention henceforth. The world was sharp and clear as it had not been since the day his sight was stolen from him. He saw a bullet being fired two hundred yards away as though it was happening in front of his eyes, heard some wounded man's moans closer to him than he would have preferred- every sense was heightened, tuned more finely somehow.
He could feel the nervous thrill of the men behind him, could almost touch the tension thrumming through the air like windborne adrenaline. Give the order, Sweden wanted to yell. Let me seize my destiny with both hands and hold on tight. King Gustavus was murmuring something to Finland beside him. Finland nodded, bright eyes focused and determined, then wheeled his horse back round and levelled his bayonet ready to charge.
'We shall ride on my count,' the king was muttering into Sweden's ear. He nodded, disorientated by the endless crashes and shots and yells that made up the music of war. Three, signalled the king with his hand, (Finland's hair had never appeared more like spun gold than it did right then) two, (an eagle was soaring through the sky, a Prussian eagle with eyes of yellow flame, but a stray arrow pierced its throat and it fell-) one (he was ready).
And then they charged.
A roar was building within Sweden as his horse's hooves churned up the soft ground, putting yards and yards of ground behind him, a roar loud and proud enough to befit this reborn lion of the north. The German cavalry spurred to meet them- but he was Sweden, and he was strong, never stronger than when Finland stood by his side- so of course they had no chance. He rode into the fray with fire in his eyes and a shout upon his lips, fierce and wildly, wickedly exhilarated as any Viking. The first soldier that fell to his bayonet died almost too easily. For this was easy, this joyous rampage and destruction, ripping out old and withered parts to usher in the new. He fired and stabbed and shot in a familiar rhythm, charging on and on as the Imperial army shattered beneath them like glass. The king was to his left, Finland to the right, and together they were the three architects of triumph, carving out the empire of Sweden that would surely be born on this very day. Sweden's every desire, brought to life here and now. He moved as though in a dream, light and fluid, manifesting destiny with every enemy that he felled. And if I am dreaming, then at least it is a good dream. It did not matter that the armour upon his back was heavy and dented, that congealing blood and sweat dripped into his eyes, that his every muscle screamed out for relief from this constant death-edged dance. All that mattered was the beauty of the moment.
It was beautiful indeed when, after six long hours, Count Tilly's army lay crushed and broken beneath the claws of the Swedish army. The Lion of North, they call him now, thought Sweden, staggering on weak legs to where King Gustavus surveyed the aftermath of the day, and it is a title well earned. Finland stood in silence at the king's side. He alone was seemingly without exhaustion, and not even the mud and blood splattering his face could take the sheen off his breathtaking aura of peace and enchantment. We did it. We did it. The sunset streaked the sky with slashes of pink and dusky gold, fading from blue to a soft, gentle glow.
'The sun will never set on this empire,' breathed Finland, so quietly that Sweden almost thought he had said nothing at all. He turned his head, quick and birdlike. Sunlight wove and danced about the golden crown of his hair. 'Our sun has only just begun to rise.' Yes, yes, thought Sweden, delirious with exertion and giddy with joy. He slid his arm around Finland's shoulders, still hardly daring to believe that the warmth beneath his fingers was his to caress, and watched as the final inch of blue sky was turned to pure, bright gold.
(agonises over bad ending) thanks for reading! (I've been wanting to write this battle for ages, it's an important one in history terms, but I didn't want to overdo it too much)