Part Four

Sleep is a rare commodity for one whose soul stands restless.

The moon was still high up behind the dense layer of clouds when Lukas stepped above deck and inhaled slowly the wintry sea air. It filled his chest with countless frozen needles, though a small price to pay for the intense, briny tang that took him back to ages now bittersweet, when the sea was his and the world was his and freedom was his and the spray of waves against his skin while his fingers clutched the unyielding hilt of his sword in anticipation of the sweet danger to come made him feel alive like nothing else could.

And now he stood on wooden planks floating above the same waters, an idle silhouette, solitary and unnoticed as sailors hurried about to fulfill their duties for the approaching arrival.

Lukas wrapped his cloak tighter around his body and made his way deftly across the deck. It was an old-fashioned garment he wore, the sort of keepsake for times past that his kind would hide at the bottom of old coffers, and yet the memories tied to it were not his own. It had been raining hard that day when he had found it neatly folded on a chair carefully placed in his path. The rain had been falling in dense sheets of water, cold and heavy and treacherous, yet so alluring in its threat as Lukas peered out with his body pressed against the closed glass doors that he had been given no other choice but to answer its summons, and he had slipped out into the drowned air to let the raindrops batter on his wounded skin. And as he turned round and round, drunk with pain and with the taste of rain on his lips, his coat shed prey to the mud at his feet, his half-closed eyes had caught sight of the Swede's tall shape through the misted glass. He had not made much of it, not until the heaviness in his trembling limbs banished him back in the room that held Berwald's gift. The fabric looked warm and soft and Lukas was dripping and shivering and the fleeting frenzy that had heated his body had been washed away, so he had reached out for the cloak, creased and somewhat musty from years of disuse, and draped it over his shoulders, lifting the hood to hide his drenched hair. There was no doubt left to whom it had belonged, not after the poignant look the Swede had thrown when he first saw him wearing it, and yet Lukas had grown fond of the garment sewn for another, finding strange solace in the way it fell about his body in familiar folds and in the pale lavender pattern embroidered on the side of the hood that sheltered his face within reassuring shadows.

The small nook concealed at the stern between a lifeboat and a forlorn company of empty, washed-out barrels lay aside from the trodden paths, yet Lukas had discovered it with the tenacity of one whose craving for solitude finds itself thwarted by cramped cabins and stifling walls and had claimed it for himself from the early hours of voyage. Time would meld easily into soothing monotony as the ship glided through fathomless waters and Lukas, curling up in the shelter where nobody needed or dared to disturb him, would empty all thoughts from his mind to the rhythm of waves breaking against the hull. It was the same peace he sought as he moved through the shadows to kneel on an unkempt pile of tarp and coiled rope, resting his brow on the wooden rim that smelled like salt and dampness. The city lights were yet nowhere in sight, with nothing but gloom to fill the horizon, still Lukas drew his hood lower and lower until only the waterline was left to dwell inside his veiled gaze. He could not bear to watch, not with his soul empty and aching for the bliss that would embrace him as journeys came to an end and familiar shores broke free from never-ending waters, while now he sat broken, too long exiled, too many times uprooted, too much of himself torn apart and left behind on lands belonging to another, and his mind struggled to restore lost emotions from memories that seemed nothing more than painted figures slowly fading away from ancient canvas. And, as the waters began to shallow, Lukas forced his eyes closed in silent summons for a sleep that never came and did not stir until the ship stilled and the harbor drowned his thoughts in merciful clamor.

Somehow, in the passage of centuries, Berwald had become prone to contemplation. Just like Matthias laughed and drank and fought, and Lukas hid behind empty eyes a myriad thoughts that swirled and clashed and gnawed, this was how he sought respite from the never-ending flow of strife and bloodshed that kept him bound to his land and fed his immortality. He needed to remember, whenever killing became too easy, how much beauty the human world held in its ephemerality so he could feel again the remorse that kept his own humanity alive. For the world of mortals was truly alluring in the way it pieced together light and darkness alike into a radiant whole, and Berwald's gaze was entranced yet again with the dance of shadows as mortal bodies moved hurriedly through the penumbra of the early dawn, so close and yet so far away as they drifted outside the confines of the gaslight that enclosed the two nations in a shimmering circle.

A gust of chill Danish wind collided against the exposed skin of Berwald's face, waking him up from his reverie, and the sound of a soft gasp made him turn just in time to catch sight of long platinum strands flailing, the air's plaything, before Lukas seized the displaced hood to conceal once again his rogue hair. Holding the dark fabric in place with one gloved hand he peered up challengingly from within the shadowy confines, then moved his gaze back to the steady flow of people and, hissing a curse about Danish punctuality, he shifted his feet on the frozen cobblestones in sullen resignation.

Berwald smiled inwardly when the other man moved aside just enough to use the shelter of his bulkier body as a shield against the wind. "Perhaps the road was blocked with ware wagons," the Swede pointed with a pacifying shrug at the seemingly unending row of dock workers pushing wheeled platforms laden with crates.

"Yes, or maybe the horses stumbled, a wheel broke off and the carriage toppled over that halfwit Dane," Lukas muttered darkly. "But," he added, as an obviously intact carriage revealed itself from the shadows, "once again, we have no such luck."

The first snow had fallen days before, and then a second followed, flakes larger and softer and thick with water, and hurried feet had trampled everything into a cold, grey muck that oozed around the rolling wheels, claiming and releasing them in a spurt of grimy droplets. Lukas trailed his gaze on the deep, weeping tracks left behind as the carriage trundled along the driveway, watching the edges collapse into themselves until all traces melted back inside the murky mass. As the air cleared slowly with the light of dawn he knelt on his seat in defiance of the Swede facing him so properly settled and, with his back turned to his companion, he pressed his brow against the rear window that framed a landscape of barren branches with their load of melting snow dripping like the wax of candles lit in the honor of a somber, unappeased god. The cold glass was taking the edge off the painful pulse throbbing along his temples and he raised his head grudgingly as the carriage came to a halt and rocked under Berwald's weight as the Swede stood up with his shoulders bent against the confining hood and climbed out through the open door. Outside, another door creaked and Lukas cringed at the sound of the loud Danish voice calling out a greeting, yet he pushed himself up and paused with one hand on the doorframe as he studied reluctantly the thick layer of half-frozen mud that stretched under his feet. When Lukas took a step sludge shot up and closed around his boots, and he appraised the dirt with a look of uttermost disgust which remained unchanged as his gaze moved to the Dane watching him from the top of the small flight of stairs.

"Damn it, Matthias, have you people forgotten where you keep your shovels?" he growled.

The taller man stretched his arms lazily over his head. "God Norge, can't you see it showered sleet half the night? You can clean up once I've showed you to your...room..."

The Dane paused, his last words falling into empty air as Lukas shoved him aside and strode in, slamming the door behind him with a resolute crash. Matthias blinked and stared at the silent wood, then turned to face his Swedish guest and for a moment their eyes met to mirror the same look of exasperated resignation.

"Well then," Matthias combed a hand through his hair as both nations looked away and coughed awkwardly, not yet willing to tread on common ground, "we'd better head in as well before it begins to snow again."

Berwald joined him on the topmost stair and covered the doorknob with his large hand, pausing to scowl down at the other nation.

"Is there anything you need to tell me before we go in, Køhler?"

Matthias narrowed his eyes. He towered over most and yet the Swede stood even taller, not by much but irkingly so, all the more when Berwald tried to make use of his giant stature in an intimidation game. "Other than that even after all these centuries you still have the charm of a half-dead troll, nothing else comes to mind, Oxenstierna."

Berwald clenched his fist but shrugged off the insult. "You seem to forget how well I know you, Dane, and I can tell that you're behaving too friendly, too early. There's something brewing in that thick skull of yours and I warn you now to give up on whatever you're planning."

Matthias' lips stretched in a taunting grin. "Or maybe I reached the wisdom of old age and all I desire is to forgive and forget."

Berwald frowned. "Do you truly expect me to believe that? You have twenty-four hours to prove your worth, Dane. Our ship back leaves tomorrow morning."

Matthias' grin did not fade. "Your trust brings me such joy," he declared as the Swede pushed the door open and he followed the other man silently across the narrow corridor, eyeing longingly the old-fashioned swords fastened here and there on the stone walls and which, blunt as they were, in the right hand could still dispatch a satisfactory set of bruises.

Lukas rushed in as if a horde of demons were at his heels, hurrying blindly through smothering dimness until the white expanse of the entrance hall opened up before him in all its marbled glory, and his steps faltered on the polished tiles, all sense of purpose scattered as his surroundings seared his eyes with their harrowing familiarity. Too many things that decades of habit had melted into an insignificant background stood out with unthinkable clarity and Lukas' vision swayed as countless images assaulted him in a tidal wave of memories. Nothing was changed, from the uneven tilt of a painting overlooked by all to the luminous pattern of lines and angles sketched across the floor as the windows brightened with the morning light, and only the grimy footprints that Lukas' steps had marked stood out like scars against a pristine landscape. The fastenings of his cloak now twisted in a strangling coil around his neck and Lukas fumbled at them with trembling fingers, wresting the restraining fabric from his shoulders and throwing it over the back of a nearby chair. And, as air filled back his lungs in convulsive breaths, so did a different sense of unease slither inside his mind and Lukas stood straight and recomposed his features in a semblance of indifference as he turned to face the new intrusion.

The muted sound of footsteps on marble stairs reached the Norwegian only seconds before Arthur Kirkland came into sight, impeccably dressed in a brown tailcoat and holding a steaming cup of tea in his hand, and the Englishman's scornful sneer grew larger as his eyes moved up and down Lukas' body, lingering on every mud stain and crease on his travel-worn clothes.

"Had I known that lesser nations would be allowed to mingle with their betters," he scoffed as he approached the Norwegian, "I would not have bothered to make an appearance."

Lukas raised an eyebrow and met the Englishman's green glare with an unperturbed look.

"Then you need to train your spies better, my dear Arthur, for everyone here has been long aware that Matthias slipped an invitation to one embittered nation who had his sorry behind kicked one too many times in his youth."

A loud laugh echoed across the hall and both men looked in silent confusion at the newcomers standing in the doorway, one smirking, the other scowling, yet with the same look of focused vigilance in their eyes.

Arthur deemed himself a gentleman through and through and he would have undoubtedly acted the part at all times, had it not been for France and the Viking invasions that still stuck like thorns in his otherwise not so sensitive side. Thus, when he found himself alone with the three former Vikings, once again the end point of their mockery, it brought up dire memories indeed, for all his well-studied composure disappeared without a trace and, with a quick flick of his hand, he threw the cupful of tea in Lukas' face.

Lukas hissed when the hot liquid hit against his skin but did not flinch and, licking his lips, he offered the other nation an almost perfect replica of the Dane's wolfish grin. "I see your taste in drinks has not improved over the years. Next we meet I will let you sample my coffee."

Matthias' laughter died away as he moved to stand behind the Norwegian, while Berwald took a menacing step towards the English nation.

"Don't you have some place else to be, Arthur?" Matthias asked sweetly.

The Englishman slammed his now empty cup on its saucer and straightened his back. "Someday," he declared before turning on his heel, "all of you shall fall and I will be there to bear witness and rejoice."

Lukas threw one last look at the retreating nation and shrugged. "We used to fight with steel, he and I," he murmured and raised his arm to brush back his drenched hair, but when his eyes caught a warning glance from the Swede he checked himself and let his hand fall back to rest on his discarded cloak.

Matthias' voice broke through the heavy silence. "You needed to change clothes anyway, Norge…"

Lukas stifled a sigh and spoke, without turning to look at the Dane. "Matthias, please stop talking, my brain is wilting."

"But, Norge!" Matthias exclaimed in a hurt tone.

"On second thought, tell us where our rooms are, and then keep that mouth of yours shut."

"I was about to show you there, Norge…"

Lukas' head snapped around as his eyes pierced the taller man with a frozen glare. "I lived here for how long, Dane? Unless you built a whole new wing during the past year I don't believe I need you to find my way around."

"Second floor, the two rooms next to the small library, but…"

Lukas felt his last reserve of patience dwindle and die out. "See, it wasn't that difficult. Now do something useful with yourself and have somebody bring in our luggage. Thanks to the two most insufferable idiots in the entire Europe I find myself in need of spare clothes." With one last warning look at the Danish nation, he snatched his cloak and headed for the staircase, the abused fabric trailing behind him on the floor, and Berwald followed suit, the glint of mirth in his eyes barely hidden behind the thin frame of his glasses.

Halfway up the stairs, a sudden, uneasy feeling urged the Swede to pause and turn his head and his gaze fell on Matthias, who still lingered behind to stare at the empty space where the Norwegian had stood, with his lips drawn in a thin line and a sterner look on his face than Berwald had seen in a long, long while.

A/N I should have posted this quite a while ago but, ugh, I'll just blame it on the past couple of weeks that have been hectic at best and ate through most of my brain power.

Hugs and thank you's to all of you who read and added this story to their favorites and generally put up with my weird prose.

Also, if anyone who reads this is following my other story as well, my apologies for not updating it for so long - it's not abandoned, far from it, I just got caught in this other AU for a while.