Circa 915 AD

Norway pulled the cloak around himself nervously. No, not nervous. He wasn't nervous. Nope.

It had been several years since he'd actually had to fight for himself. At least four. Not long, for someone like him, but still.

"You ready, Norge?" Denmark asked from somewhere nearby.

"Yes. Leave me alone."

"So grouchy today."

"Yeah. Well, dealing with your incessant chatter doesn't help."

There's a method of dealing with that. Permanently.

Not especially helpful. Thanks, Sigmund, you ass.

Norway ran a quick hand through his hair. The other side of his personality was becoming disturbingly more active. It had, he felt, something to do with battles and fighting. And blood. But he couldn't actually say for sure, because once Sigmund took over, he didn't remember anything.

He wasn't sure how to feel about that. On the one hand, large chunks of the last 150 years were just completely gone. On the other hand, he didn't want to know why his mouth often tasted like blood afterwards. He did have a disturbing feeling that it wasn't his own blood, and he didn't want to find out whose, exactly, it was.

Still, he couldn't fight Sigmund. Not in his own mind. But then, Sigmund wasn't afraid to use backhanded tricks. Norway wasn't exactly afraid, but he did want to have a body to return to. Bodies were where souls belonged, after all.

He found Denmark nearby, sharpening that infuriatingly large ax. That fool.

Yes, quite foolish. And that would cost him. He could pay the price to us. Instead, if we do nothing, he'll pay a far different price.

"Shut up, shut up shut up," Norway muttered under his breath.

"Did you say something?" Denmark stood.

"Nope. Come on, we have raiding to do." Norway stalked away. Idiot.

Denmark surveyed the area around himself. For the moment, it was clear of Britons. Naturally, he ran back into the thickest part of the battle, swinging his ax and knowing that nothing in Midgard could hurt him.

A familiar sight caught his eye: Norway, striding through the very thickest part of the battle, sword in hand. He was not, as Denmark was, covered in blood, mainly because Norway rarely had to engage the enemy in actual combat.

Now that Norway was closer, Denmark could see the faint red aura that surrounded him. That aura was, as far as Denmark was able to tell, the reason Norway rarely drew his sword.

There was a sinister air about him, as one might imagine. Norway had once told the Dane that his magic- at least the most addictive of it- came from blood. Blood magic. And there was certainly plenty of that around. It explained the red irises, the too-pale face, the malevolent grin.

Lightening (from a clear sky) struck a man down who had tried to sneak up behind the Norwegian. Norway casually turned, shrugged, and turned to engage another man, sword versus ax.

There was no contest, and the fight was over quickly. Few people got the better of Norway. None, when he was like this.

Still, Denmark was glad that Norway was unscathed. Ne himself was less lucky; he had a few cuts, but they weren't serious.

"Hey, Norge!"

Instantly, the Norwegian's head whipped around; his eyes locked onto Denmark's. The red irises were actually pretty creepy, but, try as he might, he could not look away.

Norway strode towards the Dane, completely disregarding the remaining warriors.

"Dane."

"Norge." Denmark grinned.

"I have warned you to never catch my attention in battle. And yet, you disregard me." Norway's voice was not really his own; it was far too dark and sinister.

Denmark bumped into something behind him- a tree. Gods above, the little Norwegian could be ferocious sometimes. And kind of scary.

"Why, yes. So you have. But you're alive!" Living was kind of important.

"As you might not be for much longer."

Yikes. "I think there's some fighting going on over there…" Denmark gestured vaguely and attempted to slip away. Norway was faster, though, and grabbed the color of his tunic.

"You're injured," he purred.

Norway? Purring? This was terribly wrong. Norway ran his fingers lightly over the Dane's wounds: first, the black eye, which became less swollen; then the cut on his arm, leaving nothing but a faint scar; and finally, the gash on his leg, which was kind of high up on his thigh. Norway took his sweet-ass time healing that one.

Eventually, reluctantly, he took his hand away. "So, Dane, are you quite finished with this battle?"

"If you are."

"There seems to be an abandoned house of some sort near here…"

Norway pressed himself against the Dane, slim fingers working at the various buckles on his armor. Denmark grinned. "Lead the way."

Norway was only too maliciously happy to comply.