Prompts: LJ/nordipalooza March 2012: Sweden/Norway, ragged edges, 1600s
Author's note: SuNor is my favorite. If you've read my writings before you've noticed; if you haven't… spoiler alert, I think you should. :)
Written mostly in theory and chemistry, aw yeah. I tried to do the best justice I could to the Second Northern War without going overboard, and seeing as how that war itself was nothing but countries going overboard, I hope I did it justice. Meanwhile in America at this time we were still napping after the first Thanksgiving but not yet up for that traditional post-dinner family activity, witch hunting in Salem. :|
Seriously, reading about this war was like watching a bad game of Risk where everyone is dead set on holding Europe when they should really take any of the other continents. Five army bonus not worth it, you have too many borders!
Just as surely as here
1658.
The guards stop him very close to their master's tent. "Hey!" the one to his left shouts. "You can't be here!" That's when the right one waves a lit torch past his face; neither man seems to recognize who he is.
One pale, slender hand holds out a letter, short but significant and powerful, his ticket behind enemy lines. For a moment the one on the left seems confused before he sees the signature of their master. The man on the right whispers something in the other's ear before they both look at him.
"You're coming with us," the one on the right announces, the other binding his hands and pulling him gruffly towards the tent. Clearly they had failed at reading the entire note; at least he was being taken to where he wanted to be.
He waits outside with the shorter guard, the taller one having entered the tent. There's a sudden shuffling sound before the tent flaps are thrown open and he's pulled in without care for the pain it causes him, being thrown to the ground.
The man before him is tall, his deep blue uniform jacket from the day's battle removed, his shirt partially untucked, cravat loosened. When the powerful man looks down to see his prisoner, dirty and bloody and in pain, he snaps, yelling in Swedish for the guards to leave, he'd have them punished for this, how can two such idiots be in the Swedish army, he never wanted to see them again. They flee.
Everyone else in the tent leaves in silence including whichever advisors he had been speaking with, Berwald bending down once everyone is gone to help pull him to his feet. "Lukas," he whispers as if he cannot believe his own eyes. The Norwegian's only response is to hold up his bound hands. "Those fucking idiots," the man curses in Swedish, cutting the rope and freeing Lukas's wrists which are now red from how tightly they'd been bound.
Two large hands push back the shorter nation's hood, fingers ghosting down the fabric before playing with the ends. Lukas is indifferent to the action, knows Berwald is wondering what happened that the once-proud Norwegian is wearing a tattered old cloak with ragged edges, his dress beneath just as dirty and ratty. To stop any comments he takes those hands in his, kissing them, his eyes locked with Berwald's. The Sweden reciprocates, kisses his knuckles as well before turning the hands over in his to kiss the tender flesh where he had been tied.
"You look," Berwald whispers in Norwegian, a hand pushing back Lukas's hair that had fallen into his line of vision, "so beautiful." He pulls his hands free of the larger ones to run up Berwald's chest, around his neck, and to pull him down into a kiss that's searing and desperate and more than a hundred years over-due, too long since they've last been together. They both gasp when the kiss is broken, the two men having needed it more than they'd ever tell anyone else.
For a few minutes they stay like that, Lukas pulled to Berwald's chest, a head settled in his hair inhaling deeply. That's when he decides to skip ahead to why he'd come tonight. "What are Sweden's plans for the next battle?" Lukas asks outright. The body holding him stiffens, relaxes, then sighs before releasing him and walking to the table; the Norwegian follows.
"I am letting you see this," Berwald comments as he sits in his chair, his fellow nation taking in the battle plans, maps, and notes scattered across the table, "because I trust that once again Densen no longer listens to you."
"You presume he ever did," Lukas remarks. Berwald nods in resigned agreement at the mistake.
When he finishes circling the table Lukas moves to sit on the Swedish lap, his legs straddling Berwald's as he shifts the skirt of his dress. "What exactly," the taller man asks, "does Densen think he's proving when he dresses you up in women's clothing?"
"He means to degrade me."
"Yet you like the dresses."
"So do you."
Lips lock once more in defiance of the war being waged outside. Lukas had paid spies to inform him of Berwald's whereabouts in Europe, coming to see him when they reported he was outside the Danish forces with his army. For the longest time Berwald had been with a cousin in the German city of Thorn where the mortal Oxenstierna had won over the people before winning favorable terms for the town. Finally Berwald had returned to be with his king's army here in Denmark to aid with the assault, taking back what the Swedes felt was theirs. And while Denmark-Norway had some of the strongest allies in Europe, Sweden was now the strongest of the northern countries.
Dominium maris baltici, it had been a dream for so long for both Denmark and Sweden, to have complete dominion over the Baltic Sea. Lukas found the idea both futile and stupid, as if one of the nations would ever defer complete control to the other. But does anyone ever listen to the immortal Norwegian? No, of course not.
Well, Berwald does.
They're breathing deeply, trying to catch their breaths, when Lukas takes the opportunity to sit a little taller, to hold his companion's face in his hands. "Do you still love me?" he whispers quietly. It was the one question he could never ask the spies, the one answer he had come to hear from the only one who could answer him.
Wide sea-green eyes watch him before smiling a smile few have ever seen in Swedish history. "Lukas," he says softly, their faces close, bodies touching, "I-"
Someone enters the tent. "My Lord," the man says obediently, and turning his head quickly Lukas can see that the man's eyes are cast down.
An arm, too strong for its own good, wraps around his waist and pulls him to Berwald's chest. This is for show, he knows, because the men must believe their nation incarnate to be powerful and flawless, always in control of everything. It's something Lukas understands and Christen flies in the face of.
"What is it?" the Swede demands gruffly, and the soldier stands up at that to answer.
"My Lord, the Finnish boy would like to speak with you." Lukas's whole body goes rigid at that; he'd nearly forgotten about the smallest Nordic boy, the one he despises solely because Berwald cares for him and whoever takes Berwald's attention from Lukas must surely be the devil. "What shall I tell him?"
The response is almost too low for him to catch. "Tell him I said no."
"Yes my Lord," and the man leaves the tent, Lukas turning to the tall man incredulously, silently asking why. Berwald is already watching him.
Hands take those pale cheeks for their own, Swedish face leaning in close to the Norwegian one, before he grins knowingly. "I have only ever, and will only ever, love you Lukas; never doubt it."
There's a third question though, one perhaps even more pressing than the first about the military and the second about love, one that combines the two. Though Lukas has had moments of doubt in his life he knows they are his own doing, or the work of Christen's constant complaints, over whether Berwald loves him. But Lukas belongs to Christen, and Timo to Berwald. "Will you try to take me back from him?" They both understand what is unspoken in that question: breaking up Denmark-Norway to take Norway for Sweden.
Berwald shakes his head. "I love you," he whispers, "but we are not meant to be. Together, here-" a larger hand takes one of Lukas's to place it on Berwald's heart "-will forever be yours, just as surely as here-" Swedish hand over the Norwegian heart "-will always be mine."
In war there are few things Lukas retains and much he must forfeit: a comfortable place to sleep for Christen's military tent; nights spent alone for nights spent ignored by military advisors; nice, proper clothing for the old fashion garments with frayed and ragged edges; Danish love for Danish anger.
Yet in Berwald's arms that night, the former Viking sound asleep as he holds the Norwegian close, none of it matters. The bed is comfortable with Berwald for a pillow, Lukas given all the attention he demands, made to feel beautiful in his old clothing before they are discarded in favor of more pleasurable pursuits.
Danish love is replaced with Swedish love.
"I love you," Lukas whispers, sitting. Arms fall from his torso as he stands, dressing to leave before the morning light becomes too strong. Berwald moves a little; he can feel sleepy eyes taking him in, eyes that knew this moment would come. Finished dressing he pulls the Swede's cravat from his pile of clothing, tying it about his neck, and picks up the note that had allowed him entry from the table. He ties his cloak around his neck.
"Goodbye," a voice almost whispers in an old language as he leaves the tent but Lukas does not look back.
The air outside is crisp, the day still cool as the sun rises. Men stir but don't take too much notice as the Norwegian passes them, pulling his hood over his head and leaving for the distant Danish army.
This letter is to certify that its bearer, Lukas Bondevik, is to be treated as my honored guest and brought to me upon presentation of this paper. -Berwald Oxenstierna