A/N: I realize that Danish may be the most challenging of the (Germanic) Nordic languages, and there is no way a novice Swedish-speaker would be able to understand it as well as Alfred does here, but I'm going to cite some nation mumbo-jumbo and my own headcanon that Alfred is a naturally gifted polyglot, and leave it be, because it helps move the story along!
Also, upon arrival in Stockholm, you can assume that in the story, everyone is speaking Swedish unless otherwise indicated.
Denmark, for surely that was who this giant must be, was not quite what Alfred had been expecting. He was tall, for one. Based purely on his own imagination, Alfred had imagined him to be far shorter than Berwald. Seeing him in the flesh, Alfred estimated that he was very nearly as tall as his northern brother, and his windswept hair might've closed the difference between the two had they been standing side-by-side.
Berwald carried his own height, even folded up here in the carriage, in the same way that he carried the unyielding winters and quiet resolution of the North. Still, cool, and solid, Berwald was like a giant from the myths of old. Denmark, on the other hand, was looser and brighter, with big eyes and an open face. His smile and his stance were casual, but Alfred could see that his feet were spread wide and pointed towards his target. His hands were crossed comfortably under either elbow, but his right was tucked close to his sword. His whole energy reminded Alfred of Arthur, which was a similarity he could not reconcile with the stories that England himself had told him of Denmark, all filled with bloodthirst, cruelty, and malice.
Berwald said something to Denmark, and Alfred understood less than half of it. At the time, he assumed this was because Berwald had spoken too quickly for him to understand. Later in life, he would realize he hadn't understood it because nearly every other word was a profanity. Berwald hadn't taught him any of those.
"Come on, Sverige," Denmark rolled his eyes, "You didn't honestly think you could come here without my knowing. My boys have known you were coming since last week." He gave the other Nord a pointed look. "A passenger boat under Swedish flags? Three coaches crossing the entire Empire without cargo? Do you think I was born yesterday?" Berwald said nothing, and only squinted his eyes to glare harder. Denmark's smile widened. He looked over at Alfred with keen interest, and the young nation felt anchored to the spot.
"This one looks like he was, though," Denmark said, looking Alfred up and down. He looked back at Berwald, eyes sharp and accusative. "Is this who I think it is?"
"Get out of my face," Berwald growled, gesturing with his pistol. Denmark ignored it.
"He's Arthur's brat, isn't he?" Denmark grinned again at Alfred, eyeing him as if he didn't have ears. "'Neutral' my ass. My my, Sverige, what will Ivan say?" It occurred to Alfred that Denmark probably didn't realize that he could (mostly) understand him.
"Who do you think I am?" Alfred asked in Swedish. Denmark turned bodily around to stare, eyes blown wide in surprise.
"Lärling," Berwald warned. He was drowned out by Denmark, who laughed loudly.
"He speaks!" He looked back at Berwald. "You taught him Swedish already, you shameless skiderik!" He turned to Alfred, still smiling. "This is even better. So who are you, Little Swede? I've not heard Sverige's horrible language in your accent before and I think I can guess why."
"I will shoot you," Berwald said through gritted teeth. Denmark didn't pay him any attention, ancient blue eyes focused solely on Alfred.
"Well?" He asked. Alfred didn't want to admit how unnerved he was. He eyed Berwald, but received no guidance. He tipped up his chin and met Denmark's gaze. He'd always had a tendency to say stupid things when he was scared.
"You're the one acting like you already know me, but we've only just met," Alfred said. "Who do you think I am?" Denmark laughed again and Berwald closed his eyes, face the picture of regret.
"Forgive my impoliteness, young master," Said Denmark, "I am Mathias Kohler. As for you, I was confident before, but after hearing such lip from someone so small, now I'm sure: you're Alfred Jones." His eyes were dangerous and delighted. "Welcome to Danmark, mister United States."
Mathias opened the carriage door, presumably to ask Alfred out for a cordial word. The latch had barely left the plate before Berwald erupted from the car, lunging at his brother and slamming the carriage door behind him with Alfred still inside.
And that was the beginning of an honest-to-God argument between the two Nords. It was the kind of argument that made people turn and stare, the sort of thing men had duels about. Alfred had seen plenty such arguments erupt between Arthur and Francis over the years, but Berwald and Mathias were bigger and scarier than either of them, and had much louder voices. Alfred also realized, with a little surprise, that he couldn't understand a word they said.
Berwald was yelling at Mathias in a bizarre new language that Alfred didn't recognize. He was surprised when Mathias returned it in kind. They continued, yelling at each other in this unintelligible language, presumably about Alfred, and all the younger nation could do was wait, watch the two pistols they both held, (Berwald's was still cocked and ready to fire) and hope to God no one was going to wind up dead. That would certainly be a way to celebrate a treaty.
The commotion had brought all other activity to a halt. Alfred peeked outside the window, and could see members of Ambassador Creutz's contingent as well as the dozen or so mounted Danes shuffling around attempting to look composed while their nations screamed at each other. A few of the Swedes had come up beside his carriage, presumably to be his protectors (as if a few humans would stand a chance against a nation) and Alfred was heartened to see his own confusion reflected in their faces.
"What are they saying?" Asked one to his fellow.
"It sounds like jävla Isländsk."
Alfred wasn't sure what jävla Isländsk was, but if it meant angry gibberish, he was inclined to agree.
Eventually, the argument simmered to an impasse. Alfred did not need to be fluent in any spoken language to know that they had not reached a resolution. Neither nation seemed particularly inclined to stop yelling at the other, but eventually Berwald turned on his heel and stormed back to the carriage. He opened the door, but instead of climbing inside, he looked down at Alfred.
Had this happened a few centuries into the future, long after Alfred had learned the nuances of Berwald's broad arsenal of glares, he would've realized that Herr Sverige was embarrassed, cornered, and furious about it. That day in 1783, however, the fledgling United States found himself pinned to his seat by a stare that could petrify entire forests.
"Everything alright?" He squeaked out.
"They will escort us to Odense," Sweden's accent was thick and foreign from whatever language he'd been speaking. "Would you…" He paused. It looked to Alfred like he was trying to eat an under-ripe melon. "Would you like to ride with Danmark for the journey, Mister United States?" Boots crunched over the oyster-shell road and Mathias' face appeared by Berwald's shoulder. In contrast to his brother, he looked positively smug.
"I would be honored to show you the beautiful countryside, even if briefly," Mathias offered.
Alfred's eyes flicked from Berwald's face to Mathias'. The use of his formal name made him think twice about what he was about to say: this was not a personal question, this was a National question. Alfred had only been his own nation for a matter of years, and no one—not even Berwald—had ever asked him to make decisions for himself in that role. His heart pounded in his chest as he tried to recall any of the many, many lessons in diplomacy General Washington had tried to hammer into his skull. Martha had always told him that doodling instead of taking notes would come back to bite him. He hated that she'd been right. He could practically feel Ben Franklin glaring at him all the way from Paris. Maybe, if he imagined Ben giving him orders, it would be easier to say something smart that wouldn't get him into trouble.
Denmark is a neutral nation who's just found out that Sweden has broken neutrality to side with you, Alfred's mental impression of Franklin grumbled at him, in a war against one of the Three Great Powers. He is not your ally. You cannot trust him. Something pithy and mean materialized on Alfred's tongue, and it'd almost found words before Ben's voice hastily added, but for God's sake, boy, don't say anything that'll make him angry.
Alfred wrestled with his mouth, struggling to find something to say. He hoped the older men thought he was struggling with Swedish, and not with the concept of speaking itself.
"I've wanted to see Europe for as long as I can remember," he managed, brows furrowed in concentration. He couldn't look directly at either of them. "I've heard stories about these places for centuries. But…" He dared a glance at Mathias. But I'm not going to let you turn me over to ass-faced Arthur just because you hate Sweden. He bit his lip again. He couldn't say that.
"But I'm still very much at war," he said quickly. "My people have asked me to stay hidden while I'm here, and I'm afraid I have to act according to their wishes. Still," He couldn't help but add, looking up at Mathias' face with what he hoped wasn't too eager an expression, "I should very much like to come back and see it all," he said, fighting to look confident, "after I win." Mathias's disappointment was obvious, but he put on a smile.
"Which I'm sure you'll do in record time," he said, bowing his head slightly. He glanced sidelong at Berwald, and back to Alfred. Mathias' eyes were shockingly blue, but not like the iceberg-blues of his brother, but a dangerous, clear riptide. "I look forward to speaking with you properly, United States. I'd love to hear what your accent does to Danish." Berwald turned and glared at the Dane, but Mathias only laughed. He stood back so Berwald could clamber into the carriage, glaring the entire way. Mathias shut the door behind him and gave it a thump.
"My men and I will escort you from here to Odense. I believe your ship is already waiting for you." He gave one last parting word to Berwald in the mystery language they shared, which made the taller man bristle like a porcupine.
Mathias called his men to attention and drifted away. Alfred deflated with relief, but across from him, Berwald sulked. They did not talk the rest of the way to Odense.
As a (former!) colonist whose entire world hung on the tether of transatlantic travel, Alfred was no stranger to ships both navy and merchant. As they approached the port of Odense, he was excited to see the forest of masts that awaited them at the docks, and leaned close to the window to see the colors waving in the wind. Many of the ships were Danish, but Alfred also spotted Prussian ships, French, English, Russian, Dutch, Spanish, Italian, and, of course, Swedish.
The Danes led them all the way to the dockside, where a troop of Swedish shiphands introduced themselves and began hauling their countrymens' luggage away from the coaches.
Waiting dockside with the rest of Ambassador Creutz' party, Alfred was struck by the sheer variety of sizes of ships. Biased by the remote nature of his home, he was used to seeing nothing but massive vessels with three or four masts at the least, broadsides tall with guns and bellies round with huge cargo holds. Many of these ships, however, were low and close to the water, with one or two masts and such shallow drafts that Alfred wondered how they could possibly be seaworthy. He turned to ask Berwald if the ships were meant for rivers rather than the sea, and jumped when he found Mathias standing in his brother's place.
"It's a pity you can't travel all the way to Copenhagen," Denmark said in English. His accent was heavier than Berwald's and dipped in deeper patterns that made Alfred pause to make sure he'd heard correctly. "Sverige planned to avoid it, of course, but I think you'd like it."
"I'm sure I would," Alfred said, trying to speak as little as he could to avoid saying anything out of turn, "after the war." Mathias smiled, knowing in a way that made Alfred nervous.
"Or perhaps sooner," the taller man said. "Berwald tells me you're bound back home in early June. As it happens, the ship he's sending you on has to stop in Copenhagen to pick up cargo. It should only take a day and a night, but he's agreed to let me detain you for dinner." Alfred's anger flared, and he could not control himself when he blurted:
"When did I agree to that?" Mathias smiled wider.
"Are you going to refuse?" It sounded like a threat. It was a threat. Alfred shuffled his feet. He didn't like this, being caught in the crossfire of international games of chess. He didn't like how words held so much weight on this side of the ocean. He supposed he had better get used to it.
"No," he salvaged, "but I don't appreciate others speaking for me."
"Neither Berwald nor myself mean any offense by it, you understand," Mathias told him. "You're the one at war, Sverige is trying to avoid another one, and I'm only trying to seize an opportunity when I see it. It's not every day that the New World comes knocking at the door of the Old," he gave Alfred a wink. "Neither you nor Sverige will come to any misfortune. Please don't think less of me because of poor Berwald's moods—He and I have too long a history to set aside. My desire for friendship between us is genuine."
"Your people have never asked for it," Alfred said before he could stop himself. Mathias's smile grew tight.
"My government never did, no."
"Berwald's did." Mathias' smiled disappeared entirely. Alfred realized belatedly that this was a very charged thing to say. "Do you think yours ever will?" He asked. Mathias seemed to consider the question.
"I surely hope so," the man said. "And all of Danmark with me."
Alfred found that he didn't want to think less of this man, Berwald or no Berwald. Still, he didn't trust him. He glanced over to where the Swedes were beginning to congregate and travel to their ship. He spotted Berwald at the lead, looking back at him in quiet judgement.
"We'll have to see, then," Alfred wasn't sure what else to say. Mathias gave a soft smile; whether in agreement or amusement at his conversationalists' lack of tact, Alfred could not say.
The Dane glanced over at shoulder towards the Swedish contingent, and gave his brother a distant salue. This seemed to annoy Berwald, and the Swede turned away. Mathias turned back to Alfred. The Danish soldiers had begun to filter away, and three Danish coachmen had arrived to escort the abandoned carriages away from the port. Mathias stepped backwards toward his horse, eyes not leaving Alfred's face.
"June third, a Tuesday, I believe. I'll meet you at the docks. I look forward to speaking of your grand experiment, lidt revolutionerende, and this thing you call a Republic."
Alfred was one of the last to board the ship. It was a sleek and slim galliot—galeas, one of the Swedes had corrected him—three-masted with triangle sails and a handsome paint job that looked new. They enjoyed a sturdy tailwind that whipped their Swedish colors aloft as they pressed away from the Danish islands and through to the Baltic proper. The air was freezing, the sun hot, the water partially frozen, but all in all, gorgeous for sailing.
Berwald had been in a positively grumpy mood since they'd left port, and had been moping at the quarterdeck the whole time. After how he'd narrowly avoided mucking up the encounter with Sweden's rival, Alfred felt it wasn't a good time to mention the arrangement with Denmark regarding Alfred's imminent return to the States, or the fact that no one had consulted Alfred beforehand. After working very hard to swallow his own annoyance on the matter (not a small feat), he joined the angry nation at his post and preoccupied himself with watching the portside leeboard dig into the waves behind them. He wrung his hands awkwardly. Alfred was born tactless—or at least, that's what Arthur always said. Desperate to prove his old mentor wrong, Alfred thought of what Martha Washington would do. He decided to change the subject.
"I've never seen one of these on a ship this big," Alfred broke the silence. "It's ingenious, really. I ought to mention it to the boys in Boston, it sure could solve a lot of problems with coastal shipping. But how does she fare in the open ocean?"
That was how Alfred got Berwald to start talking about shipbuilding, and as it turned out, once you got a Norseman talking about boats, it was very difficult to get him to shut up again. Nevertheless, by the end of the day, Berwald seemed to have forgotten all about his brother and was in high spirits once again. By the time the peaks and curves of the Swedish mainland eclipsed all memory of Jutland, the nation was practically glowing with pride.
That night, Alfred slept in a hammock below deck, bundled against the wintery cold by blankets and his French greatcoat. He dreamed that he'd built a galeas that flew in the stars.
They arrived in Stockholm the following evening. It was a bizarre experience for Alfred, for while he knew he was in Europe, something about it made it feel almost like he was arriving home.
The architecture awaiting him in Sweden was more subdued, more compact, and more colorful than what he'd seen in the continent. From the sea, the local architecture looked a far cry from the stone behemoths he'd seen in Paris. Although touring Francis' home had been fantastic fun, seeing Stockholm made Alfred's lungs freeze—not from the cold sea, but from an emotion close to homesickness. As the sun set lower in the sky, the rows of houses and steeples became silhouetted so that it looked like it could almost—almost—be Philadelphia or Boston.
"Välkommen till mitt hem, Amerika," Berwald said, coming up behind the younger nation as they drifted quietly toward the harbor.
"It's beautiful," Alfred said, too wrapped up in his thoughts to speak anything but English.
"Hon är," Berwald agreed, sounding proud. "Come, let's gather your things. It will be quite dark by the time we dock. It will be easier if we can disembark quickly."
The night passed in a daze for Alfred. The sun took ages to set, but they hadn't disembarked until it was completely out of the sky. The docks were cold, and Alfred spent much time shivering in his coat while Berwald and Creutz discussed the important things. The ambassador himself and his two chief aides would travel immediately to the palace, where they would deliver their new treaty to the king in the morning. The others would return to their homes to rest up for a busy week at court. Berwald and Alfred, meanwhile, would travel to Berwald's private residence, which, Alfred gathered in some surprise, seemed to be an unknown address to all but Creutz himself.
He asked about this on the carriage ride over. It was pitch black outside, and Alfred could only see Berwald by the reflection made by his glasses as they passed streetlamps.
"I value my privacy," the nation said quietly, almost timidly. "If the humans do not need to know, they do not know. Creutz is one of the ones who needed to know."
It was a simple policy that Alfred was suddenly tempted to adopt for himself. He had a few houses up and down the colonies: Williamsburg, Philadelphia, Boston, New York. All of them were well known amongst his leaders and human friends. He wondered if he would build many more homes in the future. If he did, he resolved to keep them a secret to all but those who needed to know. And those he trusted, of course.
"Thank you for sharing it with me, then," Alfred said, trying to sound not as hoarse and sleepy as he was. "I'm honored."
"My rules for humans do not apply to allies," Berwald said. Alfred could not see a smile through the dark, but he was fairly sure he could hear it in Berwald's voice. "I'm happy to share."
Alfred did not remember arriving at Berwald's house, and he only vaguely remembered going up the stairs, with Berwald's massive hand on his back, guiding him down the hall or perhaps just holding him upright. He must've found a bedroom at some point, because he did remember kicking off his shoes and breeches and falling into a mattress that was divinely soft. It was the first real bed he'd seen in weeks.
He awoke with the sun, which he knew must rise absurdly early this time of year, being so far north. There was a small stove in one corner of his room, and through the grate he could see glowing embers from the previous night. Their warmth did little to help him now, and it took Alfred several moments to muster enough courage to throw off the bedcovers. He found his suitcase and went immediately for his woolen stockings before rushing to the windows to throw open the curtains.
Up close, the city looked far more continental than it had from the sea. Still, something inside him felt bright and pleased upon seeing the seaside view, the colorful rows of houses and storefronts. Gulls screamed over the harbors, and from a distance he could see fishing boats disembarking for the morning's haul. He grinned and turned back to his room.
After he'd moved his clothes into the wardrobe and perused the small row of books set out on the dresser—all written in very old Swedish that he could not parse—he finished dressing himself and quietly, carefully peeked outside.
"My bedroom is just across there," he remembered Berwald saying, as if from a dream. "Down the hall from this one." Looking at the door now, Alfred guessed from the dark threshold below the door that the Swede was probably still abed. Alfred considered going back to his own bed so as not to be a nuisance, but the temptation to explore was too great.
Berwald had no house staff and apparently lived alone, so Alfred roamed the passages in utter silence, accompanied only by the creak of the floorboards under his bare stockings. He soon discovered that the Nord's home held considerably more than its dimensions implied. There were three floors—bedrooms on top, entertaining spaces in the middle, and larder, cellar, and kitchen below. There were no card rooms or parlors, no extra empty spaces that invited the type of assemblies and polite company that dignitaries' houses were designed for. Nevertheless, it was a spacious and comfortable place, the sort of place Alfred could easily curl up on a couch and drift back to sleep.
Instead of the opulent wallpapers and colorful paints he'd seen in Ambassador Creutz' house in Paris, this house was understated. The floors and wood siding were unpainted and largely unadorned, save for a few worn rugs here and there, some that looked older than Alfred the dining room had wallpaper. The rest were plastered and painted in muted natural tones. Upon inspecting the utilitarian rooms that Alfred found—the lavatory, the kitchen—he was surprised to find neither paint nor wallpaper.
"Whitewash?" he heard himself say aloud, astonished. He'd never seen whitewash in respectable homes, only in farms and poor village homes. Everything he'd ever learned about Europeans had led him to believe they were all equally snobbish about decor. "Maybe whitewash is in fashion in Sweden," he murmured to himself He tried to imagine Berwald re-applying the lime every winter. "But I doubt it."
Save for Matthew's lonesome cabin up in Québec, Alfred had never actually been inside another nation's house before. He wandered with no real aim in mind except to explore. Eventually, there was only one unexplored corner left, a room at the back of the house, right underneath where Berwald's bedroom would be. The door was slightly ajar, and Alfred could see hints of sunlight on the other side, so he gently pressed the door and it swung inward.
He stifled a gasp. It was a study. Stuffed bookshelves lined the walls, and under the broad window was a sturdy pine desk, covered in the kind of lived-in mess that bespoke a busy mind. He knew immediately that to go further into the room would be to trespass. This was Berwald's personal study, and was sure to be chock full of things he ought not go poking his nose into. He stepped into the room anyway.
The wall hidden by the door was covered not in bookshelves, but in portraits. Most were small paintings, no bigger than Alfred's spread palm. Some were in oval frames, other in rectangular ones and some even in square frames. None of the frames matched. He drew closer to examine them and was shocked to recognize Francis Bonnefoy; looking younger than he had in recent years and wearing some hideously old fashion. A few portraits away there was a pale-skinned man who could only have been Gilbert Beilschmidt, though his hair was longer in this portrait than Alfred had last seen it. There were over a dozen people that Alfred had never seen before, both men and women. He paced sideways down the wall, eyes glued to the unfamiliar faces. Were they all nations? Who were they? What were their names? Would he ever meet them, face to face? Nose hovering inches away from the paintings, Alfred stopped and gasped when he unexpectedly came across Arthur Kirkland's portrait. The paint was old and cracking, but those green eyes stared out at him with hatred and accusation that felt real.
"It's easy to forget who's who, sometimes," Sweden's voice made Alfred bodily jump and turn. The Nord was not looking at Alfred, but over his head at the wall of paintings. "Especially if you go a while without seeing them. Most nations have a new portrait made every century or two to share them with their allies. It helps with large meetings of state." Alfred had intended to apologize for invading Berwald's study, but was now too taken with this information to remember to do so. He turned back around and examined the wall of paintings.
"These are all your allies?" he asked, amazed.
"Not all of them. Some are enemies. Some are neither friend nor foe. Whatever they are, it's important to know a nation when you see one." There had to have been dozens represented here, and stacks of unhanged paintings sat on a nearby shelf. Alfred scanned his eyes up and down the wall. Francis, Arthur, Gilbert, Mathias… was that Antonio? It could have been, but Alfred had no idea what Spain actually looked like.
"I don't recognize even half a dozen of them," he said bashfully. Bewald stepped over to Alfred's side, arms crossed comfortably. Like Alfred, he was only half dressed, in shirtsleeves, breeches, and cozy woolen stockings pulled up over his calves.
"You will learn. You should have your own portrait made and distributed," he said, compelling Alfred to look up and meet his eyes. Once he had the boy's attention, he added, "after Arthurhas recognized your independence. To do so before would be interpreted as arrogance, and arrogance, like most everything in politics, is something you must be able to pay for in cash."
"How do you mean?" Alfred asked. Berwald's eyes strayed toward Mathias' portrait, and then to a portrait of a broad-shouldered young man with thick pale hair and strange eyes. His gaze lingered there in an unreadable pause. When he spoke again, his voice was suddenly weary.
"Arrogance is an invitation for war. If you do not have cash to fund a war, the price will become your undoing." After a pregnant pause, he glanced back at Alfred. "I imagine your Revolution has left you near bankruptcy." Alfred did not confirm or deny this assumption, but Berwald hadn't expected him to. "You will have time for ambition later. For now, you ought to establish yourself across Europe as you are with me. Quietly, without ruffling any feathers." Alfred thought about this, casting his eyes up and down the wall of portraits.
"But what if someone wants to ruffle my feathers?" he asked.
"Who would try?" Berwald retorted. "You are an attractive trading partner. Antonio could, perhaps, but no one else. Even Arthur will approach you for a treaty before another war. I think he's even more bankrupt than you."
"You think so?"
"I've fought in enough wars to know," Berwald said plainly. "You've driven Storbritannien to the rotting bottom of his coffers." Alfred would have expected such news would bring him joy, but was surprised to feel a weight of sadness on his chest.
"No need to think of it now," Berwald told him. "You must be hungry. Come, I'll make us some breakfast."
After that first morning, Alfred's life in Stockholm took a considerably more relaxed tone than it had in Paris. Divested of politicians, ambassadors, and the heavy expectations of treaty signings, Alfred was left alone with Berwald for days at a time. If he'd had a moment to think about it he would have been intimidated, but so far Berwald had managed to keep him occupied both in and outside of the house.
Berwald's residence was in the heart of an island, the Staden mellan broarna, the "Town Between the Bridges" which was lively and fun to explore. Berwald led him to not one, two, but three ancient churches. They were far smaller than the ones Alfred had seen in Paris, but he was entranced all the same; if not for their architecture, for their age. Though some of them predated Alfred's earliest memories by many centuries, Berwald slipped a few times and spoke of them as if they were still new.
They travelled to the docks and Alfred got another lesson on shipbuilding—this time without asking for it and not really wanting it—and a quiz on the colors of countries and companies visible one the masts. In the evenings, they would sup together in Berwald's dining room and then retire to his study. The older nation would quiz him on the portraits on the wall, and explain who was who. He instructed Alfred in the etiquette of treaties, and hosting nations and humans as guests, and how to treat each party in mixed company. He taught him what topics ought to be handled between nations in private, and which ought to be dealt with by humans.
Alfred's favorite part of the evening, however, was always when Berwald would tell him stories. He spoke of wars long past, ancient religions, magic, and cruelty. He spoke also of ingenuity, and kindness, and the sorts of humans who'd been equal parts scandal and legend. They always ended the night with one of those good stories. Alfred would laugh and relate tales of his own people. Though they were far shorter and newer, and usually told rather poorly, Berwald always smiled and thanked him anyway. Then, they'd go to their rooms, shut the curtains as tight as they could, and try to sleep despite the encroaching springtime sunlight.
One Saturday, Berwald took his young companion out to the main town square, or Stortorget, as he'd called it. It was absolutely buzzing with activity. Shops, stalls, customers, and criers of all sorts hawked and bartered and laughed and yelled at each other in a cacophony. Berwald strode into the fray and the crowd seemed to part in front of him; Alfred followed in his wake, hurrying to make sure the crowd didn't swallow him whole before he could catch up to his host.
They bought lunch and found a quiet spot by the seaside to eat. Alfred was glad Ben Franklin wasn't around to judge his manners. Their lunch was a horribly messy concoction of flatbread—tunnbröd, Berwald had called it—wrapped around some kind of white fish and a tangy sauce that dripped onto Alfred's fingers as he tried to eat. Berwald, of course, had no such trouble.
"My being here is not keeping you, is it?" Alfred blurted sometime after he'd finished. He'd been wanting to ask for a week. "Surely your King," he regretted the way his voice stuck over the word, "must want you back at court soon." Alfred was surprised when Berwald dismissed the thought with a shrug.
"This is more important than Gustav," he said. For one extremely bizarre moment, Alfred thought that Berwald was talking about lunch, before he realized he meant this, as in, Alfred being in Stockholm, and Berwald getting to know him. "And Gustav knows it. Cruetz introduced the Treaty several days ago, and the King is happy with it. That is all he has to bother himself with, and will leave us both alone for now." The Swede paused to finish off his lunch, sucking a spot of sauce off his thumb and dusting his hands of crumbs.
"Were you not still at war and I not neutral, I would arrange an audience for you, but," Berwald cast a steely glance Alfred's way, and the American had spent enough time around the man to now recognize the humor hidden there, "I hear you're not over-fond of monarchs." This made Alfred laugh out loud. He tried to make himself stop, but couldn't fight the smile completely away.
"Sorry," he said, wrestling with his mouth. "I don't mean to laugh." Berwald said nothing, only rearranged his legs on the dock to let one dangle over towards the water.
"Truth be told, I'm inclined to agree with you." Alfred's head whipped around so fast, had he still had any lunch left in his hands, he would've dropped it. Berwald glanced at him but betrayed no reaction. "I had something like democracy, not even a decade ago," he explained. "A parliament. The Riksdag. Liberty, freedom, human rights… we sought them all here in Sweden, but it's a delicate system. The estates fought so much that hardly anything could be done. I… my empire finished crumbling under their watch. People suffered, especially in the east. And what does a weak democracy want but a king to break it apart?" Berwald took off his glasses and cleaned them with the edge of his sleeve, but Alfred didn't think the other man would need lenses to see how disturbed he was. He could not look at Berwald. His mind was far away, on the other side of the ocean.
"I do not say this to scare you," Berwald said, replacing his glasses. "Your people are doing something utterly unheard of. It is bold and brave, but you must make sure they design it well, or it will falter. When it does, the New World has no shortage of monarchs far greater than mine ready to eat you whole."
"We won't falter," Alfred blurted, feeling it in his bones. "I'll die before I let a king take my lands—my people—from me."
"Good," Berwald replied, sounding genuinely pleased to hear it. Silence reigned. After a while, Berwald stood and began to stroll along the boardwalk by the harbor. Alfred stood and brushed himself off to follow. As they walked, the mood lightened, helped along by the bright and breezy, if slightly overcast weather. After a while, Alfred spoke up to say:
"You know, Stockholm reminds me a bit of Canada."
"The northern lands of America," Berwald said, tracing the map in his mind's eye. "Newfoundland?"
"Yes, around there."
"Mm," Berwald nodded. "We called her Vinland, many centuries ago." Alfred frowned at the mention of "she", but then Berwald said: "I hear Canada is your identical twin. Is that true?" and whatever questions he had were forgotten so that he could become defensive.
"Well, he is, sort of, but we're not really identical anymore," Alfred defended. "Matt's like a baby. I've been growing a lot recently but he's still really little. I don't see him much, these days."
"Would he follow in your footsteps, do you think?" Berwald asked. "To revolution?" Alfred scoffed.
"No," He grumbled, kicking at a barnacle shell on their path. It skittered across the walkway and plopped back into the sea. "I asked him to, but he said no. He'd rather stay with rotten old Arthur than take his chances with me. I think he's just scared." He'd meant it as an insult, but Berwald gave an understanding little nod.
"Your brother knows his own weakness and knows he could never withstand the world on his own. Besides, he knows Arthur will watch him more carefully now that you've fought back. If he is indeed an infant, he is a very wise infant." Guilt blossomed in Alfred's chest. He'd never thought about Matthew as being wise, but he'd also never thought of him as being weak. His twin's rejection hadn't ever registered as anything but a deep and irrational betrayal.
"You are very lucky, Alfred. The strength of your people and their allies is not something most nations find until they are thrice your age, if ever. Have you ever warred with your brother?" Alfred shrugged, looking out at the ships that bobbed in slow rhythms.
"Not exactly," he said. "Just skirmishes. He only did what Arthur told him to do." It'd still stung. Matthew was his closest neighbor, and his only true brother.
"Brothers are forever," Berwald told him solemnly. Alfred wondered if he was talking about Mathias. "If it is within your power to keep peace with him, you must do so. Once you cross the line of Cain, there is no going back." Alfred nodded, sullen and quiet. Berwald let him sulk for a little while longer until they reached a crossroads between the docks and the path back towards the island where Berwald lived.
"Come now. You asked to see the Royal armory yesterday; a friend in the palace has leant me the keys for the afternoon."
That perked Alfred back up again, and his ill mood was quickly forgotten as Berwald led him through decades of history. Still, when Alfred dreamed that night, he dreamed of Matthew. In his dream, they were the same height, and stood arm in arm against the world.
When Thomas Jefferson had packed Alfred's suitcase for him, he'd done so in the temperate hills of Virginia. The linens and silks were meant for Paris, and he'd included only just enough formal outfits to see him through the appropriate state dinners and the treaty signing itself. Jefferson couldn't have possibly known that Alfred would need to dress himself for an opera in Stockholm on a blustery May evening.
"It will be warm once we're inside," Berwald encouraged as Alfred fought off shivers in the coach. Alfred didn't want to admit that he wasn't shivering because he was cold. He was shivering from excitement.
The Swedish Opera house was gorgeous, and reminded Alfred of the architecture of Paris. But where Paris was all buttresses and columns and grand scrolling, this opera house had strong angles and sturdy shapes that made Alfred think it could be struck by lightning and still not budge. The inside was rich and dressed in stark white and expensive blue, all dripping in gilded chandeliers and decor.
"For all that I might say about him, His Majesty's taste in art has been a boon to my city," Berwald had whispered to Alfred as he stood agog in the foyer before the performance. "It opened just last year; the King funds it himself."
The opera that night was Alonso e Cora. (A century or so later, Alfred would learn that Berwald had waited for the Opera's schedule to change so he could take him to Alonso e Cora rather than the English-penned Dido and Aeneas.)It was an Italian story, and Alfred's century-old Latin lessons let him understand only about a third of it. Even so, the singing was divine, and the backdrops were gorgeous, and some of the set pieces were so elaborate that Alfred missed several pivotal plot points while he tried to figure out how they worked.
"I haven't seen a play in years, let alone an opera," Alfred gushed on their carriage ride back.
"Because of the war?"
"Yeah," Alfred sighed. "General Washington lovesopera, you know, but a lot of people think it's immoral. I don't know why—did you hear her singing? She sounded like an angel." Berwald smiled. "I can't wait to tell him about it."
"Perhaps you'll convince him to fund an opera house of your own," Berwald suggested. "After your war, of course." Alfred smiled, wistful and determined. There was so much he was going to do, after this war. It was so close, he could practically taste it.
"Yeah," he said. "I think I will."
The next day, he spent nearly half a page bloviating about Alonso e Cora to Joseph Jones as he wrote to the Virginian, as he said he would, with details of when he would leave Stockholm (June third) and when he expected to arrive back in America (near the end of July). He used up so much of the page that there was hardly any space with which to sign it. As soon as he wrote the swooping capital "A" of his name, he remembered his promise to Ben that he'd use an assumed name. Cursing under his breath, he bit the feathered end of his quill in thought, and then quickly added a period after the "A" and substituted the first name that came to mind.
With warmest regards,
A. Franklin Jones.
Alfred wasn't sure where the time had gone. One day he was falling into bed in an unfamiliar house, and then suddenly he was in Berwald's study, sitting on the edge of his desk and swinging his heels as Berwald copied out out Alfred's description of a chair that Thomas Jefferson had invented, set on casters so that the seat swivelled without needing to move the legs.
Suddenly, he was drinking hot chocolate while Berwald had brännvin and quizzed Alfred on all of the nations' names and where they lived. Suddenly, he could recite them all without looking. Suddenly, he felt so comfortable in Berwald's home that he could not look at a calendar without feeling a sharp pang of sadness. Suddenly, it was May 24th, and Berwald was rapping lightly on the frame of his bedroom door. Alfred looked up from his writing and back at the Swede.
"I don't mean to interrupt," said the taller man, "but there's someone downstairs that I'd like you to meet." Alfred followed, and the moment his feet touched the main floor, the stranger turned to him and Alfred froze. The shy smile on this man's face was just the same as it had been some hundred-and-fifty years ago.
"Tino," the teen said in surprise. "You're Finland."
Tino Väinämöinen stood just inside the front door, dressed in a grey coat and cap both dusted with rain. He exchanged looks with Berwald, who looked just as surprised as Tino.
"How did you know that?" Berwald asked his young companion, peering down at him with intensity. Finland was not a sovereign state, and his portrait was not on the wall of Berwald's study. Alfred's face colored under the attention.
"Monsieur Bonnefoy told me you were with Herr Sverige in the New World, many years ago," Alfred told Tino "I don't… I don't really remember it, exactly, but I… I recognize you." Truth was, Alfred had recognized him by his smell: woodsmoke, sweet pastries, and spruce. But the young nation didn't feel comfortable explaining this. He closed his eyes and shook his head, trying to dispel the embarrassment. "I apologize for my poor manners," he said, reaching out a hand. "I was surprised, I've done this all backwards. I'm Alfred Jones," he said. Tino laughed, and it was a very nice laugh.
"No need for apologies, master Jones," he said, swiping a hand over his head to remove the rain-speckled cap and reveal a layer of flat white-blond hair. He reached out and took Alfred's hand. Tino's hand was smaller and softer than Berwald's, but his grip was twice as strong. His ancient brown eyes wrinkled around the edges in patterns of sadness but also great cheer. Alfred immediately wanted to be his friend.
"It's good to meet you, United States," Tino said.
The day Tino arrived began in rain and ended in more rain, so the young Republic got to know the Swedish province indoors. Though Tino offered to cook, Berwald insisted on preparing supper himself. While he busied himself in the kitchen, Tino and Alfred sat by the fire and exchanged smalltalk. Alfred told Tino about his crossing from the New World, and his surprise upon seeing the smaller, sleeker vessels that navigated the Baltic. Tino in turn told him about his first excursion to the New World, and bragged that he was the first one to spot Alfred when he was small, and how at first he'd been terrified the boy was a human orphaned or abandoned in the woods.
"I don't think I've ever been so happy to be wrong," Tino told him, smiling. "And look at you now—you've grown so! You make old men like me feel like ancient relics." Alfred did not like being reminded of his relative youth, but for whatever reason, with Tino he wanted to puff out his chest with pride.
"I'm grateful to learn from other nations like you," Alfred told him earnestly. "I know I have a lot of catching up to do." This seemed to catch Tino off guard, and he was suddenly flustered, looking toward the hallway as if someone were going to walk in and scold them.
"Learn from me," he sputtered, setting aside his drink so he would not spill it. "Oh, dear. What a thought."
Alfred was excited to have a new member around the table for supper, but somehow the conversation was more stilted than it had ever been when it was just Berwald and himself—hell, it was worse than when it was just him and Tino in the sitting room. The talk was painfully small, and the clock in the other room was absurdly loud. Berwald was making an effort to facilitate conversation, relating to Tino how he was teaching Alfred the names of all the nations, of how he'd been learning Swedish since they'd left France. Tino smiled and nodded along, but kept his attention mostly on his food.
It was easier when Alfred was talking. He was animated and enthusiastic, and Tino seemed to gravitate toward this over Berwald's stiff attempts.
"—by the time he got back, we were stacking up their guns and white flags," Alfred was saying "So he comes up and asks if he's missed the battle, and Knox looks right at him and goes," He screwed up his face and lowered his voice in his best Henry Knox impersonation. 'Battle? My God, boy, you've missed the whole damn war!'"
This earned a laugh from both of the other nations, and Alfred laughed with them. Tino's laugh quickly turned into a cough, however, which in turn escalated into a chest-rattling hack that left tears in his eyes. He braced himself on the table and hit his plate on accident, sending his flatware clattering onto the table.
"Tino? Are you alright?" Alfred wasn't sure what to do.
Berwald said nothing, but stood so quickly his chair nearly fell back. He left the room and came back with a glass of water, which he offered to Tino.
"Easy," he said. Tino took the glass, but tried to wave Berwald away.
"I'm alright, Sve, it'll pass," he choked out, coughing into his napkin.
"Tino—" Berwald moved to put a hand on Tino's back, but the smaller man slapped his hand away with an audible smack.
"Voin hyvin," he snapped with unexpected venom, and Berwald retreated, scorned.
Struck dumb by the feeling that he was an outsider caught in a personal dispute, Alfred turned his attention to the remains of his dinner. Unfortunately, he was a fast eater, and there were only a few bits of potato to push around and make it look like he hadn't noticed the cold-shouldering happening across the table.
Alfred's ship home was leaving in one week, and while he was sad to be leaving Stockholm, he had to admit that it would be a relief to escape the tension Berwald and Tino created. Although the pair were clearly trying to save face in front of their American visitor, the discomfort between them was palpable on even the best of days.
From the tidbits of history that he'd gleaned over the last few months, Alfred knew that Sweden had been involved in an incredibly costly war with Russia not too long ago, and that Finland had borne the brunt of the fighting. Finland had even been occupied by Russia for a few years, and was still suffering the aftereffects. Alfred certainly couldn't blame Tino for his bitter attitude towards Sweden. However, Alfred could also see real concern in Berwald's face whenever he saw Tino cough or sigh or turn in early for bed. Alfred recalled Berwald's disillusioned words about his own king, and his advice about waging war. Somehow, he doubted Berwald had ever entrusted those thoughts to Tino. It was a gloomy reminder of the complicated lives that nations too often led alongside each other.
Alfred was not fond of so much abstraction, and was much gladdened, therefore, when Berwald approached him with an unexpected distraction.
"A trip?" Alfred repeated, surprised. "To where?"
Berwald glanced at Tino, and a surprisingly amicable look passed between them. A tiny dimple appeared at the corner of Tino's mouth, as if he was trying to keep from smiling.
"It's a surprise," Berwald said. "A parting gift, before you go. Just one night—pack warmly."
Their surprise destination was far enough away that Berwald roused Alfred before dawn to board a carriage, but was close enough, Berwald assured, that they would arrive well before sunset. Alfred sat across from Tino, and the two spent much of the carriage ride discussing Scandinavian geography and wildlife while Berwald read quietly to one side.
Sweden was the first to sense that they had arrived, and the first to step out of the carriage. He waited for Alfred's feet to touch the cobbled street before he gestured to the brightly painted building ahead.
"We'll be staying here," Berwald said. It was an odd looking building, Alfred thought. The main structure looked old and boxy, with stone-brick corners and a plaster facade painted a cheery yellow. On top, however, the roof was rimmed in iron rails. Atop the center, there was a bizarre square tower that looked newer and slightly out of place.
"It is nearly summer, but we should get a few hours of darkness tonight, so long as we don't look North."
"What?" Alfred was frowning. Tino came up behind him and placed a hand on his shoulder. He pointed up at the crest of the small hut atop the building where a brass armillary stood tall.
"Sverige says you admire the stars," he said, and Alfred could hear him smiling. "He studies them, too." Alfred's eyes went wide, and he turned to Sweden in disbelief. Berwald was caught someplace between amusement and pride.
"Herr Wargentin owed me a favor," he shrugged. "It's ours for tonight. Welcome to Uppsala Astronomical Observatory, herr Jones."
Alfred Jones was in heaven. Not literal heaven, of course, but as close to heaven as he could hope to ever be. Alfred did not know if nations could reach the same blissful afterlife that humans pined for, but he figured a night in an actual observatorywas his best shot.
"This is incredible! Look at this! It's brand new—I've never seen a lens like this, where is it made? Is this silver? I've only read about these!" He'd reverted to English in his excitement, and while Berwald and Tino were both perfectly fluent, Alfred was talking too fast and his teenaged voice cracking too wildly for either of them to fully understand him.
"Hän muistuttaa minua Vinland," Tino remarked quietly in Finnish, for Berwald's ears only. "Ja miten hän haaveili." Berwald smiled, and hummed a gentle agreement.
"How long until sunset?" Alfred asked in English, smile broad and eyes wide enough to show off their striking blue color. He looked a bit like the wild child he'd been, years ago. Berwald chuckled at his impatience.
"Surely you'd like supper first," He said. "And perhaps instructions on how to use the instruments."
"Oh," Alfred had forgotten about food entirely, and realized somewhat belatedly that he ought to be acting more composed in front of an ally. He straightened his waistcoat with a belatedly dignified cough. "Of course, um, yes."
The night sky over Uppsala would not reach the full darkness of night due to the time of year, an incontrovertible fact of nature for which Berwald profusely apologized. "You'll have to come visit again when it is darker," he'd said. This did not deflate Alfred's spirits one iota, and as soon as the stars began to peak out from behind the haze of fading sun, Alfred was at the southern window with a telescope, carefully tuning the lens to behold the burning sphere of Saturn, the pinpricks of Libra surrounding it, the tall arch of Ophiuchus next to it. For the rest of the night, he did not move from his perch except to switch to a different telescope or a different window.
Berwald explained to him the discoveries his scientists had made, and pointed out newly observed constellations when they became visible. Tino brought up warm glogg when the night grew cold, and told Alfred ancient stories of how the world rested on the branches of a great tree. The apex of the tree pressed up against the North Star, or so they said, and the vast cloud of stars that split the sky was the bridge between gods and men.
Alfred absorbed it all and hungered for more, so he sat at the scope even as the night began to grow light once more, the promise of an early spring sunrise.
Berwald had begun to yawn, and used the excuse of taking down their tray of empty glasses to turn in for the night. A cot and warm blankets awaited him downstairs, Alfred knew, but he was afraid to close his eyes, for fear he might miss something worthwhile. Tino stayed with him.
"You've met Mathias, I hear," Tino said.
"I have."
"You look at the sky as Mathias once did." This gave Alfred pause. He turned his head to look at Tino.
"Really?"
"Mmm," Finland nodded, moving his stool up beside Alfred's to peer up through the thin observatory window. "He used to say that he could sail a ship anywhere in the world, so long as he had a clear night sky to guide him." Tino's dark eyes caught the starlight as he traced the constellations. "You've travelled further than most nations do for similar treaties. I imagine you will travel the whole world, some day," he told Alfred.
"Well, maybe," the teen looked back up to the sky. "But I'd rather travel there," he pointed. This made Tino laugh.
"Perhaps you will," he said, not really believing it. "We ought to get some sleep. It's going to be light soon, but the hour can't be past three past midnight." Alfred sat back in his seat and sighed.
"I want to stay," he said quietly, "I don't want it to be over."
"You can ask Sverige if you may stay another night," Tino offered sympathetically.
"No, that's alright," Alfred said. "I meant the night, but… my visit here, as well. I've enjoyed visiting Berwald, meeting you," he glanced bashfully at Tino. "Once I leave, I know the war will be real again, the rest of the world will be real again, knocking at my door."
"Is that not exciting?" Tino asked.
"It is," Alfred answered quickly. "Of course it is. It's just… terrifying," he said. "I'd rather see more of Sweden—and Finland, too! Your capital is Turku, isn't it? I'd love for you to show me around sometime."
Tino gave a strangled scoff, and turned to look towards the door to make sure Berwald wasn't in the room. "The Swedish renamed it Åbo. And I could not possibly—" he laughed nervously, but as it became clear that Alfred did not understand the absurdity of the request, his smile faltered. "I am not sovereign, Yhdysvallat," he said quietly, gravely. "Sverige is your ally, and when you visit, he will host you in his own home. Turk-Åbo," he caught himself, "is no place for you. I am only a territory, if that. I have no right to entertain Sverige's allies." Alfred was frowning at him. Tino's self-deprecation bristled his own fledgling sense of self-esteem.
"A few years ago, I was only a colony, and so what? Arthur was happy enough to visit New York," Tino was clearly uncomfortable.
"Alfred, that's fairly different,"
"Maybe in a few years you'll be able to become indepen—"
"Alfred stop," Tino burst. Alfred did, looking up with a little surprise into Tino's fearful face. The older man bit his lip and took a deep breath before speaking again. "I'm not like you, Alfred, I can't possibly be like you. I'm… I'm like your brother," he said. "Like Canada." Alfred deflated in understanding. "And you can't speak such things; Sverige is your ally. You mustn't cast him in the mold of England."
"But you could—"
"No," Tino insisted firmly. "Just… no. Peace, Alfred, please."
After that, They were quiet for a long time. Embarrassed, Alfred turned back to the telescope and peered out into the brightening sky. Many long minutes passed in silence. The wind whipped around the tower's corners, bringing in the scent of cool air and the sound of rustling trees.
"Six hundred years." Tino said. Alfred looked up from the telescope.
"What?" he asked. Tino was looking resolutely at the ground.
"I've been with Sverige for six hundred years. Longer than you've been alive, I expect." When Alfred did not say anything in response, Tino continued, "It's not that he hasn't been good to me. Berwald is a thoughtful man. But…" He breathed out, and it became a wheeze, and a cough. "His kings wage war with madmen. My people always pay the price—always. A few years ago, I had hope… they took away much of the king's power, for a time, but now…" a huge sigh, tired and angry. "Another war is inevitable. Gustav wants to reclaim our former glory, but I've barely recovered from the last war. Humans do not understand. I don't think Berwald understands, either, and the fact that he tries to only makes it worse."
Tino looked up at Alfred. In the predawn light that leaked inside the observation tower, Alfred could see the age lines of Tino's face, more apparent than when they were in the full sun. He was surprised when the older nation reached out to take hold of his hand.
"You will prevail, Yhdysvallat," he said. "You must prevail. You have taught Englanti a lesson he will never forget, but you cannot let it end here. You must grow, you must fight, you must show the world how even Empires may crumble under the weight of will." His eyes were watery and hungry with centuries' worth of burdens. "The hope of many rides on your success, herra Jones. You may yet teach the world what Enlightenment truly means."
Alfred was gobsmacked by the speech, and was unsure how to respond. Saturn was quickly disappearing into the daylight, but Alfred was busy looking into the coal-brown eyes of a nation eons older than him, who now looked to him—him, a rustic colonial bumpkin—for hope. Hope for what? For throwing off the shackles of Sweden, his newest and first independent ally? Alfred had nothing but good will for Berwald or his people. Tino was just a territory.
"Sweden has no colonies; he might've," Francis had said, "if Arthur hadn't whisked you away first." How would his life have turned out differently if Sweden had been able to stay on the Chesapeake? Would he see Berwald as he now saw Arthur? What of Tino? Would Tino fill the role of Matthew? The universe offered up a million possible histories that would never exist, but Alfred felt the weight of what could have been all around him.
Over the last weeks and months, Alfred had begun to realize that the world was a complicated place. Nations moved in an intricate and convoluted dance around each other, changing yet remaining ever the same, like constellations rotating across the sky in their seasons. Which stars fell into what constellations was, at its base, a matter of perspective. The astronomer, then, was responsible for drawing a reliable map. Alfred felt comfortable adding to the complexity of the world by loving his ally, but loving his ideals more.
"One day," he told Tino, "I don't know when, but one day, I'm going to visit you in Turku—not Åbo—and you're going to be my host, and you're going to show me your city. Ally to ally," he said. Tino gripped Alfred's hand tighter.
"I hope you are right," he said softly. He held Alfred's hand a bit longer, before giving it a pat. "But first," he sighed and looked up. "You must go home and finish this thing you've started. Now come. We both need sleep."
The second of June was a grim and rainy day. What followed was one of the warmest, sunniest, most pleasant days Stockholm had seen the entire year. Naturally, it was on this gorgeous day of Tuesday, June the third, in the year seventeen hundred and eighty-three, that Alfred Jones bid Europe goodbye for the first time in his life.
Alfred had never been good at saying goodbye. For as long as he could remember, goodbye had been the beginning of loneliness, often for decades at a time. He knew it did not have to be that way, certainly not anymore, and yet his hands shook with the immanence of it. He looked on awkwardly as Berwald and Tino finished handing off his luggage to the deckhands. It was not just Sweden and Finland he was leaving behind, but France, Denmark, and Prussia as well, a whole world he'd only just been growing to know. A lump was forming in his throat, and he did all he could to avoid talking.
The luggage was taken away, and the carriage double-checked for anything he might've dropped. Then, the only package left was himself. He knew he ought to say something. He had to say something. He was a nation, and nations could not act like children who cried each time they were sent away.
"I," he had to clear his throat, and it made his voice crack a little. "Thank you for your hospitality, Sverige," Alfred said respectfully. "I've enjoyed seeing your beautiful city, and meeting your people. I cannot possibly repay you for all you've done for me." He looked to Tino and made himself smile, even if his lips were beginning to waver. "And thank you, Mr. Väinämöinen, for your stories and your kindness." He really did waver, now, and had to blink and look at something that wasn't either of their faces. He fixated on a bit of earth between the two men. "You've both been so kind to me during my stay here, I find it…" the lump was back in his throat, painful and thick. "...difficult to leave," he said, voice shaking.
Berwald stepped forward to rescue him, face trained with a careful stoicism that Alfred latched on to like an anchor.
"The pleasure has been all mine, United States," Sweden bowed just slightly. "It has been an honor to have you here, and I look forward to your next visit. Perhaps someday soon, I may visit you in the New World." This made Alfred smile.
"I'd like that very much," He said. Unexpectedly, Berwald produced a wrapped parcel from beneath his coat. It was flat and heavy, wrapped in plain paper and tied up with colorful twine.
"Ambassador Franklin tells me that you've begun celebrating your birthday on the day when your people celebrate their independence," Berwald said. "I expect you'll still be at sea on the fourth. On the day, open this and know you and your victory are in my thoughts."
Alfred gripped the gift, eyes growing misty without his permission. Acting on impulse and knowing he would have no other opportunity, he lunged forward and seized Berwald in a hug. The taller man let out a surprised breath, but then relaxed and put a warm hand on Alfred's back.
"Thank you," Alfred said quietly, "for everything."
"There is nothing to thank, my friend," Berwald said softly, giving him a quick but sturdy squeeze before pulling away. "Godspeed."
His own lack of control embarrassed Alfred terribly, but after that, Tino insisted on giving him a hug, too.
"I wish you all the luck my land can offer," the smaller man said into Alfred's ear, and ruffled his hair when he pulled away. "Fair winds, and since I won't be there to say it," he winked, "happy birthday."
They waved their last goodbyes, Alfred boarded the ship, and suddenly the world was real once more. As the shores of Stockholm faded into the wide blue horizon, a small and shaky part of Alfred felt that he was finally ready to face it.
"Ideas are dangerous things, Forenede Stater," Mathias had said. They'd squeezed themselves into the dark corner of a seaside pub, hidden away from prying eyes. It was not the sort of meeting Alfred had expected at Copenhagen. "Personal liberties? Freedom of the press? Humans fight wars over less. Kings draw and quarter over less—any Dane could tell you. But starting a brand new nation?"
"I'm not new," Alfred had said. "Only young; but not for long."
Denmark had met his gaze, and Alfred had realized with some surprise that his eyes held the same hope-hunger as Finland's had. "I hope not," Mathias had said. "The world is watching."
It was well into summer now, but the Atlantic was often frigid at night. Alfred paused in his writing to pull his candle closer and draw the blanket tighter around his shoulders. He carefully dipped his quill into the inkwell as the ship rolled left and right, and continued his letter to George Washington.
I feel certain that our alliance with the Kingdom of Sweden will be a strong first step out into the world, he wrote, and felt immediately too much like a diplomat. Truth be told, he continued, falling into a more personable tone, the whole ordeal has only made me want to travel more, meet more people, to see the world and show them what I have to offer. All of Europe is transfixed by our struggle for independence, and in all regions seems equal parts doubtful and hopeful for our success. If the struggle of the coming years must make me into the world's spectacle, then I shall put on such a spectacle as to define the histories they will write about us. He looked up at the map he'd pinned up inside his tiny cabin; all of Europe, Africa, and Asia to the right, and the Eastern coast of the Americas across the Atlantic. West of the Great Lakes, the continent faded into unknowns and possibilities. I must tell you, General, that I look forward to every second.
"What sort of government do you think you will have?" Denmark had asked as he walked Alfred back toward the docks. The Dane had set a leisurely pace, not ready to lose Alfred's company too soon.
"There are better minds than mine to figure that out. I've heard James Madison has some ideas." Alfred had replied. "Something balanced. Something sturdy." He'd thought of all that Sweden had said at the docks of Stockholm. He'd thought of Antonio, Francis, and Arthur: the three great powers who surrounded him on all sides. Even Francis would be waiting, watching as the ink dried. Alfred would be ready. "Something stronger than a European crown," he'd said.
Alfred spent the fourth of July a thousand miles from home, but he did not spend it entirely alone. There was a lively contingent of Americans—most of them returning home after visiting family or conducting business in the Baltic—and in the utter absence of British passengers, they'd taken to the deck with bottles of rum and a very old fiddle. It had to have been nearly midnight, but the skies were clear and the stars bright, so they set up a pool of lanterns in the middle of the deck and eked out a dance hall. Some of the sailors even joined them.
Alfred sat a ways away and laughed at his countrymens' antics as they coaxed a few French women and a stray Spaniard into dancing with them. He held Berwald's gift in his lap, and tried to guess what it would be. The Americans started singing Yankee Doodle, and Alfred carefully tore into the package.
It was a book, tall as well as long, handbound with a soft leather cover. There was no title on the front, so Alfred flipped through the pages. His eyes grew wide. It was a book full of celestial maps. Every constellation, every star, every orbit, moon, and sun was accounted for. He flipped through the pages with a growing smile, so happy he almost fell over where he sat. At the back, there were several sections of blank pages. Out of one of them, a note fell into his lap. It was written in crisp Swedish.
I've included all the maps I know. Next I see you, I expect to learn some new ones, and hope you'll tell me how you made them.
Alfred was beaming wider than the crescent moon above. The Americans whooped and hollered and sang at the top of their lungs, teaching a giggly French woman the words.
And there was Cap'n Washington
And gentle folks about him;
They say he's grown so 'tarnal proud
He will not ride without 'em.
Alfred lay back against the deck, feeling the sway of the ocean as he stared up into the endless stars, hugging his book to his chest.
"I hope you won't hold it against me for kidnapping you like this," Mathias had said once they'd made it back to the ship, where the crew was just finishing loading the Danish cargo. "I would have liked it better if we met in Paris, signing papers." Alfred had looked to the taller man in some surprise, but Mathias had kept his gaze up and away. "Berwald beat me to it, the bastard. My government isn't so fond of the whole 'personal liberties' talk at the moment." He'd eyed Alfred. "But my people are. They can censor the newspapers, they can censor me, if they like. But there's no keeping you or your ideas out of Europe now," he'd teased. "And when you win your war, there isn't a censor alive who will be able to cover up such a story." They'd come to a stop right at the gangway, and Mathias had finally turned to regard the much shorter Alfred with a look that bordered on respect.
"Expect to hear from me," he'd extended his hand. "My king may be out of his mind, but his ministers aren't. As soon as they hear Sverige has already signed a treaty, they'll be falling over themselves to draft one for us."
"You two fight a lot," Alfred had observed, taking his hand.
"Only over what's important," the Dane winked, giving Alfred's hand a firm shake. "Farvel så længe, Amerika," he'd said.
"It was good to meet you, Mathias." Alfred climbed the gangway back up the ship. The sailors were drawing up the anchor and letting down the sails when Mathias had waved from the dock.
"Oh, and Alfred!" Alfred had leaned over the ship's railing to see him.
"Yes?"
"I may not be the first one to sign a piece of paper," the Dane had shouted back, "but let me be the first to say, congratulations!"
December in Virginia was far milder than in New York or Boston, but the wind was cold with the promise of a harsh January to come. Advent had started nearly two weeks ago, and Alfred was settling in to spend the season in Yorktown. Families here were still rebuilding their homesteads after the battle two years ago, and he knew they'd need help preparing their struggling farms before the winter settled in.
"Don't worry, Mrs. Anderson," Alfred assured, carrying a full-sized log over one shoulder while a worried, wide-eyed woman followed him in case the weight flattened him to the ground. "I've got it, really!"
The basic frame of the barn was finished by sundown, and in the waning hours of light, he, Mr. Evans, Mr. Anderson, and Mr. Anderson's two sons sat straddled on the roof, nailing down the last shingles. The women and children of both families had built a fire not too far from the new barn, and gathered around it to cook and sing Christmas carols to keep the mens' spirits high.
The Evans' eldest daughter was the one who spotted the horseman first. The singing died away and she shouted up at the men before pointing at the road.
"What'n the hell," Mr. Anderson used the edge of his scarf to swab sweat out of his eyes. "He's sure in a rush."
"Is that an army uniform?" the younger son asked.
They all watched the horseman hurtle down the road and wondered where he could possibly be going. To everyone's surprise, he pulled his horse to a stop when he reached the Anderson homestead and dismounted gracelessly. He was indeed dressed in army blues, and had begun to run headlong towards the barn-raisers.
"Master Jones! Master Jones, quickly!" his shouts echoed across the field. All eyes turned to Alfred, who glanced at them all, nonplussed. Not sure what to expect, Alfred hurried down the ladder and jogged out to meet the man. He could hear the Andersons and Evans following him, straining their ears to eavesdrop.
"Master Jones," the man huffed, winded from riding, running, and trying to speak quickly. "Sir," he saluted erratically. "Private Daniel Fletcher, sir."
"Pleased to meet you," Alfred replied, sounding confused. "What's this about, Private?" Daniel dug into his pocket and produced a letter.
"News, sir," he said, handing a battered envelope to Alfred. "From Mister Franklin." Alfred took the letter and opened it.
He read it.
Dumbstruck, he looked up at Daniel, who was beaming.
"What's all this, then?" Asked Mrs. Anderson, who'd come over with her husband to investigate. Daniel only beamed wider, and looked from the couple to Alfred, who was staring back at the letter open-mouthed.
"Well, lad, what's it say?" asked Mr. Anderson. The children had come over too, now, and were peering around their mothers' aprons at the Army Private and his shiny brass buttons.
"Well?" Mr. Evans appeared next, standing with his wife and daughter. Alfred looked up at them all. Although they knew he was close with George Washington, none of them knew exactly who he was, what he was, so none of them could understand the depth of the expression on his face, the full extent of his elation when he said:
"I'm- we're- they've- England's signed the Treaty," he told them, an awestruck smile coming through in fits and starts as he looked back down at the letter to make sure it was real. "The United States is independent. The War's over. We won."
"What?" Mr. Evans lunged for the letter.
"The war is over," Alfred repeated, breaking into elated laughter as the man took the letter to read for himself. "We won independence!"
"September," Private Fletcher told them, also smiling, "they signed it in September. We've been free this whole time, and we didn't even know it!"
All at once, the men were cheering and the women were squealing and everyone laughed themselves into a frenzy. Before he knew quite what was happening, Alfred was being lifted off the ground in a hug, and someone slapped him on the shoulder, and they were all falling over themselves to gather around the fire. The Andersons and Evans dragged Daniel over to join, and they all started dancing and singing. The children hopped along and the girls sing-songed about the end of the war while the boys spun them around until everyone was dizzy. The fire grew brighter as the sky grew darker, and they all belted out Christmas carols into the night.
Joy to the earth, the Savior reigns!
Let men their songs employ;
While fields and floods, rocks, hills and plains
Repeat the sounding joy,
Repeat the sounding joy,
Repeat, repeat the sounding joy
Finis
Translations:
jävla Isländsk = fucking Icelandic
Voin hyvin = I'm fine
Hän muistuttaa minua Vinland = He reminds me of Vinland
Ja miten hän haaveili = and how she dreamed.
Yhdysvallat = Finnish term for the United States
Forenede Stater = Danish term for the United States
Farvel så længe = Farewell, so long.
A/N: That's right, you heard me. Tino has brown eyes. Fight me.
Also, here's a very mini epilogue, for those who are interested:
On the seventh of May, 1919, almost exactly one hundred and thirty-six years after he left, Alfred returned to the Baltic. This time, he did not make port in Stockholm, but in Helsinki. There, he met with an old friend, who showed off his new capital city with pride. On his last day in Finland, Tino drove Alfred to Turku—never again to be called Åbo—where they fulfilled their promise to each other and walked the streets as allies.