Part Three

November 1814

Just as a mortal's life is bound by the fickle thread of fate, the nations incarnate surrender their endless existence to the whims and desires of their people and, as each and every one of them learns unerringly, they have but one certainty to cling to - that as decade after decade and century after century goes by, the world will meld into a blur of faces and graves and victories and defeats and ambitions oft unfulfilled, and only their own kind will stand fast like immutable beacons in the sea of time. And, above all enmities and insults thrown for grievances so old that everything but the last remnants of trampled pride remains forgotten, stands the inexorable need to keep their bonds alive, as a final lifeline for their sanity. They hunger to see in each other's eyes that they still endure, so once in a while even the most embittered foes would temper all ill feelings and answer the call to assemble under such peaceful guises as the society allowed. They used to call them feasts, and tournaments, and even pilgrimages, but lately they gave them the more convenient shape of politics.

For, Berwald thought furiously as he prowled the deserted corridors at a late evening hour, what better pretext was there to bring the nations together than an official gathering where they could meet and discuss the state of the world, or rather, as Matthias had once pointed out with a knowing grin, keep track of each other's schemes? Yet such a tradition was not easy to upkeep, for distance, bad weather and oftentimes wars kept many of them from undertaking the long journey to foreign countries, so Berwald could only curse his luck when he learned that an assembly was to be held in spite of the unpredictable autumn rains and he could not invoke remoteness to keep himself away from the prying eyes of his fellow nations. Though neither luck nor fate was to blame, Berwald could stake his soul on it, but yet another wild plot that Matthias had devised, for it was the Dane who had let the world know that he wished to play host, and all nations had agreed readily, glad to be rid of the hassle of providing entertainment and accommodation. Berwald dreaded the approaching day when he would have to step on Matthias' land with a subdued Lukas in tow, and yet he knew he had no other choice if he wanted to keep suspicions at bay for, knowing the Dane, he would never settle for a refusal without stirring secrets better left unrevealed, heedless of the grief he might cause to the very ones he wanted to protect.

For Lukas was suffering, alone in the cage of silence and resentment he had woven for himself, and Berwald could only watch helplessly from outside the bars as the Norwegian's body crumbled. It was nothing but the curse entwined in the fibers of their being, Berwald had told himself again and again, that kept their flesh in thrall to the fate of their countries through downfalls and triumphs alike and had them falter, weak and feverish and in pain, as the shape of their world realigned. Yet rarely had it cut a trail so deep within them and, in defiance of everything they knew about the bodies of nations incarnate, endowed with the power to recover from the most grievous injuries many times faster than even the strongest of mortals, Lukas' bruises never faded away and the wound on his chest never quite closed, even after all that time. And the stubborn nation was wearing the dark marks on his face and wrists like badges of honor, making the mortals whisper and shake their heads whenever he crossed their paths. It was Lukas' not so subtle way of punishing him, Berwald had decided one evening, after the king himself had summoned him to his office to question him awkwardly if he was hurting the smaller nation, warning him that should word go out his behavior would look bad on the stage of foreign affairs. Berwald had gritted his teeth and blamed the state of Lukas' body on the losses of war his country had suffered, and thankfully the king had let it go at that. And he had not lied, not fully, Berwald reassured himself, for he had never meant to harm Lukas so and had not laid a single finger on him ever since that one night that neither of them would speak of willingly.

And it stood between them like an insurmountable wall, that night, for it took but a single glance at one another to remember.

The water had been thick with blood when Berwald had lifted the Norwegian's body in his arms, weak and pale but still breathing, and he had dried the other man's skin slowly, painstakingly, until the last trace of crimson was gone to stain white cloth, but Lukas' damp hair had still trickled dark droplets on both their garments as the Swede brought him to the carriage, cradling his head on his shoulder like a child's. And, as he had watched in painful resignation the other man's chest rise slower and slower, Berwald had believed he would lose the Norwegian to the transitory limbo that served them as death. But Lukas had lived on and when his eyes had opened at last, cold and empty and distant, Berwald had found himself wishing he had truly died, for only an awakening, it seemed then, could have ripped the glacial mask away from the other man's face.

And he had rued that thought a hundred times over but a few hours into their arrival to the capital, when frightened servants had called him to the Norwegian's chambers only to find Lukas lying on his bed, with his delicate features twisted in an ugly grimace of agony as a physician placed stitch after neat stitch along the gaping wound on his chest. He had stepped over the bandages soaked in blood and pus that littered the floor to hold the other man's hand and Lukas had clutched back with a crushing strength unexpected in one so ill, and yet it was not Berwald's name he had called. It had been the first time the Swede had understood that Lukas' wound could not be dismissed as strange but transitory, and the last time Lukas had allowed his touch.

Once again the Norwegian had recovered, to what extent Berwald could not discern, yet enough to take his rightful place in his country's government which he had for so long been denied. And council meetings had become quite excruciating affairs, with Lukas sitting at the table in front of him aloof and silent like a statue, his indigo stare passing right through him as if the Swede had turned to glass, while Berwald's eyes darted everywhere except at Lukas. It was so easy to pretend, pretend, pretend - that he could not see the Norwegian sign documents with those bruised hands, that Lukas never pressed his palm against his chest as if to push back pain and feelings alike, that his obstinate silence was nothing but spoiled petulance. It was easy indeed, but only until Lukas spoke, never much, never to the Swede, but enough for one who knew him so well to hear the sharp edge so skillfully hidden underneath the monotone and to understand that the Norwegian was seething, that he would have gladly ripped Berwald's heart out of his chest but instead he simply willed him out of his life with a self-control honed by centuries of submission.

And Berwald wanted nothing more than to give him time, time to heal, time to forget, to accept his existence long enough for the Swede to ask his forgiveness, but the hour of going out into the world had come too soon and he could only hope that Lukas would have the sense not to let his hatred show to the other nations, always hungry for weaknesses and new conquests.

Lukas had chosen his sanctuary in a secluded wing, far away from the noise and bustle of the court, and while many had questioned Berwald's wisdom of allowing his not-quite-prisoner to carry out his will, the Swede had shrugged off all concerns. He knew how it felt to be cornered, to have his life laid bare for fear of plots and treason, and if Lukas could find some measure of consolation in solitude he would not deny him, safe in the knowledge that the sight of palace guards crossing his path and the odd footfall outside his door should be enough warning for the Norwegian, less prone to reckless acts of defiance than his Danish companion.

The passage leading to the Norwegian's rooms lay in darkness, too distant from the customary paths to allow illumination to go to waste, but it was not the gloom that made Berwald's steps falter as he paced along the familiar slabs of stone and his hand pause before rapping lightly on the door. No answer came but he turned the doorknob open nevertheless, for as surely as Lukas had sensed his approach so did the Swede feel the other nation's presence, waiting and already on his guard.

Lukas was sitting on his bed, carefully wrapping a long bandage around his torso, and his gaze did not shift from his task to meet the other man's, but Berwald had not come in expecting easy recognition and without a single word he turned his back to the Norwegian and allowed his eyes to drift across the room. Regardless of the lavish carpet and rich furniture, it felt as cold and forbidding as a hermit's cell, bare of anything Lukas might call his own save for a neat row of ointments and clean dressings on the bedside table. Berwald frowned and removed a chair from its place against the wall and, turning it to face the other man, he sat down with his hands resting on his knees.

"Care to tell me what the hell is wrong with you, Lukas?" he asked in as level a voice as he could muster.

Lukas secured his bandage with a knot, then picked up the shirt he had carelessly discarded to the floor and slipped it on. His eyes did not meet the Swede's as he pressed his fingers into the edge of the bed, with his shoulders strained, and then turned his head to stare grimly at an empty corner.

Back in the ancient days, Berwald remembered, when the belief in the old gods was still strong, it was rumored that Lukas could bend magic to his will and the Norwegian had done nothing to deny it, not one to let go of an edge over his enemies. And, though he knew there had been nothing to fuel such a belief but Lukas' sharp intuition that helped him turn the tide of a conflict in his favor with only a few chosen words or deeds, and a certain feyness that clung to the graceful angles of his face even now and had been all the more astounding in those times when men were coarse and rowdy creatures, and the way in which his unforgiving gaze seemed to scour mortals and nations alike, taking the measure of their virtues and sins and finding them wanting, Berwald could not help but wonder if a seed of truth was nevertheless hidden behind the stories as he took in the Norwegian's tense figure. A sole lamp was lit to disperse the darkness and Lukas had set it alongside on the floor to make the most of the feeble glow, but the light never reached his eyes and as he sat there, his face half-hidden from the Swede's sight, shadows fell on his branded skin and his bruises unfolded and reeled back in nauseating patterns. Shadows spread everywhere, it seemed, flowing along walls and uncoiling from dark corners as if Lukas' frozen gaze were summoning them to life, surrounding the Swede and reaching out for him like a tangible curse, but Berwald dismissed the shiver that tried to run along his spine and stood up. Taking hold of the abandoned lamp, he placed it on the mantelpiece and turned up the wick and as the flame burned brighter the gloom drew back, banished.

Lukas sighed and pushed his hair back in an exasperated gesture.

"Berwald," he said, pausing to bite his lip as if the other man's name were poison on his tongue, "why do you bother to ask questions for which you already have the answer?"

The Swede shook his head even though Lukas could not see him. "Tell me then, how much longer do you think you'll still last before you shatter from decay and isolation? Let me help you, Lukas. If you cannot forgive me, then at least accept me and believe I never meant to cause you such harm."

Lukas' eyes darkened even more and he tilted his head just enough to meet the other man's gaze. "Have you ever asked yourself why we cannot die, never lastingly? We're hell bound, Berwald, and have always been from the moment we came into being, and death has no meaning for us when we find our demons amongst our own kind."

Berwald gritted his teeth and approached the Norwegian in disbelief, all pity forgotten. "If you truly hate me so, then I will ask nothing more of you other than the respect you owe me. Ever since I brought you into my home you've done nothing but either mock me or shun me and I'm long tired of your charades. You know very well what the entire court has been whispering behind my back these past months. We signed a treaty binding me to offer you and your people protection and yet everyone believes I'm hurting you behind closed doors. Starting today you will cease shaming me." With sure fingers he wrested the golden cross from the Norwegian's hair and as the long strands fell free to veil bruised skin, Berwald slammed the pin on the bedside table hard enough to make the other man wince. "You will keep your forehead covered, wear gloves at all times and keep doing so until you figure out what went wrong with your body."

Lukas jumped to his feet, took a step back and bowed deeply. "What else should I do for you, my liege?" he sneered. "Clean your boots, feed your dogs and warm your bed at night?"

Lord, give me patience, Berwald prayed, then answered in an equally proud voice as he pushed the door open. "Just remember what I've asked of you when we leave for Copenhagen the day after tomorrow."

And as he turned on his heel and made his way back with steady steps, his thoughts were torn between bitterness and triumph, for Lukas' eyes had opened impossibly wide and the final traces of color had drained from his face as his mind had made sense of the Swede's words.