Chapter 1

Kun sota laaksoissamme soi

When war sounds in our valleys

He knew it the moment Russia crossed the eastern border.

It was six o'clock in the morning on February 21 in 1808 when the ache strengthened across his left side, the creeping cold fingers of death wrapping slowly around his throat, as a presence, cold like fell-air in winter, trod upon his lands. The sensation had been tickling his body and mind for a while already and last evening and night it had been especially bad, preventing him from sleeping. So instead of letting the dark, cold night pass lying on his bed and staring the ceiling, he had got up and dressed, resolved to walk the feeling away.

When he felt it, he was standing on top of one of the bastions of Viapori, barely even feeling the cold wind blowing from the sea, as he realised that everything was about to change, once again. He shivered, his violet-eyed gaze turning unconsciously towards east, as if he could see the approaching army in the distance, instead of the frozen sea and the islands dotting it.

He had felt Russia's cold presence for a while already, lying in wait just beyond the border and disturbing his sleep for the last few weeks. He may not have been the most knowledgeable of world politics but he was under the impression that Russia's battle with the Ottoman Empire in Bessarabia was much more important than little old him. True, there had been tensions between King Gustav and Emperor Alexander and their respective Nations... The Swedish ambassador's reports from St. Petersburg hadn't been terrible promising either… Really, why must they always fight? He sighed tiredly, his breath turning white, and adjusted his gloves to cover his thin wrists better against the cold, cursing himself mentally for forgetting to bring his scarf. His face was freezing.

"Sir?" an uncertain voice brought him out of his thoughts as he glanced at the young man standing little ways to the left. His small greenish-grey eyes seemed scared as he gazed at the seemingly young blond haired man, standing self-assuredly straight-backed in his high-collared uniform, staring towards the dark eastern horizon. The sun wouldn't rise for hours yet.

The guard trembled both from the cold and nervousness, clutching his musket protectively close to his chest. The Nation offered the boy a strained smile, trying to hide his own unease and calm down the obviously inexperienced soldier. "It's nothing, soldier," he answered in Finnish, catching the flash of surprise in the human's eyes at the lack of accent.

"Just a cold breeze coming in from the neighbour's," he continued softly, turning his eyes back to the horizon.

The boy glanced uneasily in the same direction but nodded, not saying anything.

'Neighbour', that's what they called Russia. Finland and his siblings had done it for centuries and at some point, the humans had started doing the same, even without knowing about the existence of the Nations or their unique positions and abilities.

He offered the soldier one last wave before turning and walking down the stairs, carefully avoiding the frozen patches, not wishing to end up on his back in the snowdrift when the temperature was below -39 degrees Celsius. His day was already proving to be miserable enough without that added to it. He rubbed his side distractedly, trying to ease the ache and cold that seemed to spread there.

Helvetin Venäjä.

Once on the ground he picked up pace and hurried through the dark morning, heading for the bridge to cross over to Vargön island, where the quarters of General af Klercker were located. He needed to inform his commander about the invasion as soon as possible if they wanted to prepare. Within half-an-hour he was invited to the old man's warm office and served coffee which he received eagerly, sighing in relief as the warmth spread through his fingers. Oh, how he adored coffee; the warmth, the taste...

"So?" the General asked after a moment's silence, taking in the man still absorbed in his warm drink.

Finland straightened a bit in his seat, meeting the General's gaze seriously as he lowered his cup. He prided himself in his efficiency and while he would have loved to spend a quiet moment with a pot of coffee, he had more important things to do. "Russia has crossed the border at Kymmene älv."

The General nodded, not looking surprised in the least. "We expected it. How fast are they moving?"

Finland closed his eyes, his brows drawing down into a slight frown of concentration, his hand moving as if unconsciously to grasp his left thigh. "They'll be here in... ten days, if we take our... strategy... into account." He couldn't help a shiver of disgust running through him as he intoned the word 'strategy.' It was more of a tragedy in his opinion, not that that mattered to anyone. Why everyone seemed to believe he didn't understand these things, he didn't know. It wasn't like he was the Nation – the very personification of the land, people and culture – or anything.

The General also grimaced slightly but didn't say anything, apparently agreeing.

Finland liked the wizened old General; he had guts and was ready to even step on other people's toes to get things done if the situation required it. But he was also respectful to Finland – or at least more respectful than high-ranked Swedes usually were – and listened to his opinions and even acted on them at times. He had been especially happy when the General had called the troops in and mobilised them at the first sign of trouble from Russia, without bothering to wait for the orders from Stockholm. The order would probably have been late anyway with all of the King's hemming and hawing and Sweden doing a very good impression of a marble statue.

"We'll need to wait for the official report from the border before we can take action," the General said then, looking over the map of Finland he had spread over the table. "But we can start the preparation for our retreat to Tavastehus and make some plans in the meantime."

Finland nodded in understanding as he leant to study the map. "The exact places where they crossed the border are here and... here," he said, pale finger ghosting over the river, the border marker, in two places. "There's also a slight chill – call it a hunch – here," his finger tapped meaningfully at the border a bit further north. The General nodded and noted the places down with a pen, making hasty notes of the largest roads through the region.

"They're making use of the most effective places to cross," he observed gruffly, frowning darkly the spots he had marked.

Finland had to agree as he stroked his chin thoughtfully, his eyes sweeping over the lines on the map, thinking and trying to sense the voice of his land. He didn't know what else to call it; to him it had always sounded as if the land was singing or humming, telling him things, whispering its secrets. "The battle plan is probably by Sprengtporten," he said finally, his voice soft. "He knows the land, the tactics and has resided in the Russian Court since his resignation."

He took great care to keep his voice expressionless, not wishing to bring up his own conflicted feelings about the man – although helping Russia invade was making that opinion plummet very fast. Now was not the time to bring up that the man had championed for Finland's autonomy or even independence, no matter how much he wished for it in the deepest and darkest crevices of his heart, never daring to speak of it. Neither Sweden nor his officials appreciated such statements and at given time the talks would have been next to useless as well. There wasn't time for such talks during war and the last time he dared to whisper about such things was still too recent even if they had escaped Sweden's notice.

What the other Nation didn't know didn't hurt him.

Af Klercker let out a quiet swear but neither of them let it stop their perusing of the map and making notes about the condition of the roads and checking old reports about the state of their troops and weaponry. Finland's mind was only partly in the task however, as he found himself reaching out to the east mentally, trying to feel how his people and land fared. He could sense the fear that permeated the minds of his people as the news of the invasion spread, but oddly enough, there was no pain.

He frowned lightly and closed his eyes. The civilians had been instructed to avoid fighting so as not to get hurt or killed, but he had still expected the Russians to do something. After all, they always had in the past. But things felt considerably more peaceful than one would expect. It was unlike Russia.

It worried him.

As the day wore on they called other high-ranked officials in under the pretence of ironing out all the kinks if Russia invaded, all the while waiting for the messenger to arrive and inform them officially about it. By Finland's calculations that could take anything from ten to even twenty hours, depending on the inns and fresh horses along the way, along with the additional problem of the weather.

Vice-Admiral Cronstedt seemed rather pessimistic as they went over the plans for Viapori's defence, saying that it was out-dated and pointing out the Archipelago Fleet would be trapped there for months before the ice would clear. Finland also knew this; their plan relied heavily on the Navy coming to support the land forces when the sea melted. They all knew from experience that it could very well be well into summer by the time they would get reinforcements from the mainland. He knew Viapori – or Sveaborg as the Swedish speakers called it – would have absolutely no trouble under siege; it was well stocked and could hold up even to heavier artillery fire. Besides, he doubted Russia had brought anything too heavy, to avoid problems with the transport.

Or if he had brought something heavy, Finland wished he had got stuck into a snowdrift with it. 'To think I can be proud of bad roads…'

At about half past four there was frantic knocking at the door before a flustered messenger stumbled inside, his nose and cheeks red from the cold. He gave a hasty bow and was already speaking before he straightened, stumbling over his words at times. "I – I'm very sorry, sirs," he said, his Swedish awkward. "A Russian Army Division attacked across Kymijok- Ky-Kymmene älv – this morning at around six."

As murmurs broke out around the room, af Klercker appeared completely nonplussed. "Where?" he asked, pulling out a clean map.

"At King's Road, over Ahve– Abborrfors."

It's the spot Finland had pointed out in the morning but the General noted it down dutifully anyway.

"They'll be here in ten days if there is no resistance along the way," one of the officers noted worriedly. "What's the situation at Svartholm?"

"We have six hundred men there," Finland said darkly, "hardly enough to stop a full Division. At most they can tie up some men for a siege."

But not enough, went unsaid.

"And we'll leave about seven thousand here in Sveaborg," af Klercker reminded them sternly. "Your job, Vice-Admiral Cronstedt, is to command the troops here and keep the Russians occupied while the Main Army retreats to Uleåborg and – if necessary – to Torneå."

Cronstedt nodded sourly and Finland hid a grimace of distaste. Ever since the plans in the case of Russian invasion had been finalised he had felt sick to his stomach. The plan would practically force him to leave his entire land and all of his people to Russia's tender mercies.

He grit his teeth and dropped his gaze to the floor. He never seemed to be able to protect them, he was just so weak, seeming to always fall on his own land. One of his greatest moments of weakness had taken place only ninety years earlier, in Russia's hands. It felt too fresh and recent, like wound that had barely scabbed over as it was picked at again and again; it had taken years to recover from the occupation.

The second occupation only twenty years later hadn't helped at all. Nor the unlawful war only forty years after that.

He never seemed to get any peace.

"Ruotsi perkele!"

The foreign, rolling r's, cracking across the room like a whip brought the attention of every nobleman and soldier on him. Their gazes were astonished, as if they couldn't believe someone would dare to use such language in their presence, in the very presence of their King and their Nation. The King looked especially offended but Finland was too upset to feel ashamed. He would apologise later.

He knew what they were thinking; that of course it was that easterner, who only knew how to farm, complain and fight and who spoke an incomprehensible language. But they weren't important, not now, not when the fate of his land and people were on his shoulders, somehow feeling heavier than ever before.

"Calm yourself, Finland," Sweden ordered softly, stepping up to him and placing his large hand on the smaller man's slight shoulder.

The older, taller Nation didn't seem faced by his charge's harsh language but he hardly seemed to be faced by anything ever. Sometimes, when he was at his angriest, Finland actually wondered if the damn Swede even had any emotions. He glared up into the narrowed green eyes, before Sweden turned his gaze away, offering an apologetic bow to their King.

The nobles were murmuring again in distaste and the King positively radiated displeasure as Sweden pulled him out of the war room, through the guard room where the guards scrambled to hide their playing cards, and into the imposing baroque landing of the castle.

Finland wrenched his shoulder out his grip, his glare intensifying. "Don't tell me to calm down, Sweden!" he said sharply, trying to keep his voice low and level in the echoing staircase. "You and your King are telling me to leave my land and people to the Russians!"

When Sweden didn't say anything, Finland's hand clenched into tight fists at his side as he stepped up the taller man whose mere presence would have scared him on a normal day. But today was anything but normal; the country was on the brink of war and now was not the time to be scared of a man he had known and worked closely with for almost six hundred years.

"Don't tell me you already forgot all about isoviha – stora ofreden?" Finland's voice trembled with both anger and pain as he fought to hold in his tears of frustration.

Sweden eyes were pained as he sighed and shook his head, meeting Finland's eyes as he settled his hands heavily back on the smaller man's shoulders, both to restrain and comfort him. "That was a long time ago," he said. "Times change, this is the best tactic given the situation."

Finland grit his teeth as his gaze dropped to the floor. 'Best tactic'... what a laugh. It was the exact same tactic Sweden had been forced to employ before in regards to Finland and it rarely worked because Russia wasn't stupid and because it didn't protect his people worth a damn. He couldn't help feeling betrayed, being forced to abandon his people in this way. And on some level it felt as if Sweden and their King were thinking only of themselves and the mainland in planning to withdraw further and further west to 'protect the troops.' While regarding Finland as something of lesser importance to the Kingdom.

He took a deep breath and stepped back, Sweden's hands dropping back to his sides, now empty. Finland raised his gaze, meeting Sweden's shadowed eyes, now feeling more disappointed and hurt rather than angry. But the anger had been all but forgotten.

They stood quietly for a moment.

"I need to go back home," Finland said softly. "My people need me."

Sweden nodded somewhat reluctantly, not saying anything but; "Go… and good luck."

Sometimes he really wondered what the big Nations' attitude problem was. Sweden, Russia, Denmark, France, England, Prussia, Netherlands... Expand, expand, wars going on left and right... He personally would have preferred being left alone. Sure, a fight every now and then was invigorating and fun but too much was still too much. By now he was almost used to being a battlefield between Sweden and Russia, which wasn't a good thing at all in his opinion. He much preferred the two of them duking it out on the sea or even getting involved with the big wars in Europe rather than messing up his people's lives.

Or better yet, stop the fighting entirely. Getting involved with France and England had led to this invasion in the first place.

"... and the rest of us will prepare to leave for Tavastehus."

As the officers dispersed from the room, Finland glanced at the nervous looking messenger still standing near the door. He didn't seem to know whether to continue on his way immediately or stay until dismissed.

"Have a quick dinner before heading to the next inn down the road," he said softly in Finnish, stepping up to the young man, giving him an encouraging smile.

He seemed relieved as he offered his Nation a quick bow. "Thank you, sir."

"Because of the ice, you'll need to go around the Gulf of Bothnia to get to Stockholm," Finland continued, "so make sure to ask an extra blanket from the storage before you go."

The man grimaced at the news but nodded before leaving. Finland glanced over his shoulder at the General, who was still perusing the maps, compiling the information from different papers onto one. The room was now empty except for the two of them. There was still a lot to do; he would need to contact his siblings; his brothers were already each with their regiments but his sisters needed to know their work load was about to increase momentarily in civil matters.

"You should get some sleep, sir," Finland said finally, not looking at the General as he picked up his hat, turning it in his hands, fluffing the yellow plume distractedly.

The General grunted, apparently not appreciating the unsaid remark about his age. For a seventy years' old he was still very energetic and his mind razor-sharp, the ideal, experienced person to help the country through a war.

As if Finland was one to talk about age, he was older than a good deal of other Nations even if no one acknowledged the fact. Not that he often mentioned it either, for in spite of his age he was rather inexperienced – though not as inexperienced as people seemed to think! – and his earliest memories were rather fuzzy and vague. But it wasn't as if everyone else remembered everything either.

"In a moment, Finland," the General answered as he made another notation on the paper.

The scratch of the quill seemed to echo through the room as the darkness fell behind the windows.

Finland had been in Hämeenlinna, or Tavastehus as the Swedish-speakers insisted on calling it, for almost a week by the time Klingspor - the Commander-in-Chief of the Finnish Army - arrived from Stockholm.

He had been sitting and sewing in his room - the very same room he had slept in hundreds if not thousands of times since the castle had been built in the 13th century - when he had happened to glance out of the window. He could just make out a horse and a sleigh accompanied by an army unit approaching the castle. His hands fell to his lap as he looked expressionlessly down at the bundled up General.

The soft snowfall trailing down from the grey sky seemed to have wrapped the General into a fluffy white blanket. It fell away in clumps as the man stood up from his sleigh, raising his blue eyes to scan the windows lining the castle's inner courtyard. Finland was certain the man wouldn't be able to see him at this distance but he drew away from the window anyway, hoping the frost flowers blooming across the glass hid him from sight.

He carefully set down the undershirt he had been patching, well aware he would be cold as soon as they started marching. He blew out the candle he had been using as light and slipped out of his room, ghosting down the corridor.

He felt rather apprehensive about meeting the Commander, not desiring to see the man's reaction to him. The last time they had seen each other had been at the meeting earlier in February, when he had been dragged out midway through after cussing at Sweden. Oh, they could work together when it came down to it but Klingspor had never particularly liked or respected Finland, in spite of having worked closely with the Nation the past six years. While Finland was somewhat relieved that someone he was familiar with had been chosen to lead the war effort – it saved him the trouble of trying to make some newcomer believe that the eastern half of the Kingdom actually merited its own distinctive personification, something most found hard to believe – he had hoped it would have been someone more… proactive.

However, the bottom line was that Wilhelm Mauritz Klingspor was the most logical choice for the Commander-in-Chief, all things considered.

Even if Finland didn't like it.

"How are the preparations for the retreat progressing?" He heard Klingspor's voice drifting down the corridor from the meeting room and hid a grimace at the words. They still stung and he doubted they would stop doing that anytime soon.

"According to schedule," af Klercker answered gruffly. "The main force of seven thousand men is gathered here in Tavastehus and the townspeople are preparing provisions."

"It's quite a strain to the town," Finland offered without preamble, stepping into the room without knocking and shutting the door properly behind him. It wouldn't do for others to hear their discussion. "My brother tells me the local farmers are having trouble baking enough bread to feed all of them, even with the grain the Crown's provided for it."

Klingspor ignored the comment. "Finland, I expected better manners from you," the Commander frowned disapprovingly, the expression reminding the Nation quite vividly of Sweden. He didn't have any problem catching the double meaning either; Klingspor was anything but pleased with how he had addressed the King last time he had been in Stockholm.

"I could hear you down the corridor, sir," he answered expressionlessly, meeting the man's eyes steadily. "I figured it wouldn't be appropriate for anyone to listen in." Hiding behind a mask of pleasant politeness was the ticket to peace, he had learnt.

Af Klercker cleared his throat. "But Finland does have a point about the strain on the locals," he said, clearly doing his best to mediate and bring the discussion back to the matter at hand. "What else has Tavastland told you?"

Finland resisted the urge to roll his eyes at his brother's Swedish name. Häme didn't like it one bit – probably the reason he liked to rebel so much – but none of them really liked their Swedish names but some tolerated them better than others. He himself was mostly desensitised towards the whole thing, as were Varsinais-Suomi, Satakunta, Uusimaa and Pohjanmaa. Their more eastern siblings… not so much. And the multitude of names made it a constant headache to figure out which to name to use in which situation.

"Consulting with me about the situation in town, but mainly he's with the Tavastland Regiment preparing to march, just like I, Savolax, Satakunda and Österbotten are with our respective regiments," Finland answered.

"You're all taking part?" Klingspor frowned, seeming a bit taken aback. "I seem to recall that only you fought during Gustav III's war."

Finland ignored the question; he had no intention whatsoever to tell Klingspor that it had been a staged protest against the war in question. He would have stayed out of it if given the chance but being the main personification he had no such luxury. At least his siblings could always use the excuse that they 'need to keep things running while brother goes off to war.'

This time excuses wouldn't work nor were they interested in making excuses. They were being attacked and they would protect their land and people to the last man, woman and child. Their sisters, being unable to join the army, would keep things running in their absence and Åland would keep wheedling Sweden for reinforcements.

"Weren't we supposed to talk about the… preparations?" he asked instead. "The Russians are approaching."

As the clouds rolled across the grey skies, the grimy salt encrusted window let barely any light into the round stone room. The candle flame flickered in the barest of drafts, throwing dancing shadows at the form standing beside the table.

"Sweden."

The tall blond man looked up from the map spread before him, meeting the intense green-eyed gaze of his colleague standing at the doorway.

"England," he said expressionlessly, straightening and holding out his hand, which the other shook.

"You seem well," the Englishman noted, setting his dark bicorn on the table, his eyes taking in the expressionless face and immaculate uniform of the taller blond.

Sweden shrugged slightly. "Well enough. When did you arrive?"

"Just moments ago, they're probably still tying the ship," England answered, then hesitated, "I... really must thank you for not going along with the frog's scheme," he said softly, bowing his head in gratitude. Unusual for him, Sweden noted.

"You're an important trade partner," Sweden answered noncommittally. With how much timber and tar England bought for his Navy it would have been a serious financial handicap to give up the trade. And there really was no reason to tell England that Gustav's intense dislike for Napoleon played at least as large a part in this arrangement.

He himself was of the opinion it was all a bit ridiculous; leaders came and went and every one of them was accused of something like this at least once during their reign. Napoleon was hardly the first leader to be called the antichrist. But a Nation obeyed their leader, there was no question about it.

And at this point things were getting very troublesome; Sweden and England were the only major powers still fighting against France; Prussia and Russia had both switched sides after being defeated the previous summer and now the latter was knocking his back door and Denmark and Norway were hatching their own plans about his vital regions.

At least he had Finland guarding his back ferociously, still bitter about all the wars that were fought on his land the last century. They would be fine; Finland was good at fighting and hated Russia.

The shorter blond shifted slightly and Sweden realised he had been quiet for too long again. This was why he needed someone talkative around, to avoid awkward silences and even more awkward subject changes. "I hope the ice wasn't much trouble?"

England – apparently too relieved to complain about the choice of the subject – shook his head. "It wasn't too much trouble... although the winter in Gothenburg is rather chilly."

Sweden hmm'ed, amused. As far as he was concerned, Göteborg was one of his warmer cities and he knew the Englishman well enough to tell he was downplaying the 'chilliness'. Southern Nations really had no concept for true cold, not even the British Empire who had seen more of the world than most.

"Have a seat," Sweden offered, pulling out a chair beside the table. As England had seated himself he continued; "Thank you for coming to help. Being caught between Denmark and Russia is rather tricky."

"I'm in war with both of them as it is. It's better for the two of us to stick together," England pointed out.

"True. And let's not forget France."

England groaned, running his hand through his messy hair as he slumped a bit in the chair, an uncommon show of petulance. "Please don't talk about the frog, it makes me want to rip my hair out." He thought for a moment. "Or better yet, his."

"As you wish," Sweden said wryly. Really, these youngsters...

"Anyway," England sighed. "More reinforcements should arrive in a month or two, when the ice has melted properly. We'll just have to hope Denmark doesn't attack in the meantime."

"I doubt he will attack personally," Sweden adjusted his glasses, motioning to the map. "He's more likely to send Norway, as we share a border and there's no risk of your Fleet interfering."

England frowned at the map, his finger trailing over the lines thoughtfully, taking in the placements of the troops and squiggly arrows slithering across the paper. "He's afraid," England mused, a smirk stretching across his lips.

Sweden chuckled. "And he should be."

The wind was like ice, cold and hard, throwing the powder-like snow into his eyes, stabbing at his face like thousand of little needles and turning the landscape surrounding them into a white wasteland. The trees in the forests around them rose towards the grey sky like frozen corpses, bringing to his mind the old tales of Tuonela and the spirits of the dead.

Finland's head ached, making him feel nauseous and think his head was about to split in half. Fear and anger rose in turns in his heart, turning his stomach. His people were scared and uncertain, more than they had been in a long time and he knew it. Russia was on his lands and Sweden was withdrawing. Finland was withdrawing, he was leaving them.

Their fear was his fear, their doubt was his doubt.

It tasted like defeat and giving up.

Finland felt like crying.

The physical ache had spread from his left side, all across his legs and lower stomach, settling down into pangs of pain that could be tolerated, even ignored completely when necessary. He knew he would have been a moaning, feverish mess if the Russians had actually gone around killing, raping and burning villages and towns like they had in the past. But that was a small comfort because every day the pain was creeping closer and closer to his heart.

He adjusted his scarf tiredly, his gaze sweeping over the marching men, the plumes of their hats swaying in the wind. He felt somewhat guilty at not being forced to march but he doubted he would have kept sufficient pace up, not with the bizarre mix of pain and numbness overtaking his legs.

Lempi neighed a bit beneath him and he shushed her gently, patting the side of her neck distractedly. If he had been able to walk, his loyal mare would have been able to carry a bit more supplies for his hungry and cold men, making this at least a tiny bit easier for them. He never wanted to feel like a burden.

Suddenly, a cold wind seemed to pierce through his heart. He let out an involuntary gasp as he almost fell from the saddle. His hand grasped tightly at his chest as he hunched over, trying to ride out the pain, barely hearing the shouts and calls of the soldiers around him. Oh gods...

He knew this feeling, one of the most horrible feelings in existence.

They had Turku. They had his heart.

He whimpered weakly, trying to hold in his tears, already more from grief than pain.

"What's happening?" a sharp voice demanded, causing Finland to raise his head weakly. Klingspor, his Commander, was before him, perched atop of his own, taller horse, frowning at Finland. The man's eyes were hard and cold, bringing it home to Finland once again that he did not like this man and that he had come to despise him even more since the tactical meeting in Hämeenlinna.

"Å-Åbo," he cleared his throat weakly, suddenly having trouble twisting his tongue around the Swedish words, "they have Åbo."

Panicked and worried murmurs spread through the soldiers, causing the almost forgotten ache in his head to worsen, just as the pain in his heart lessened. After a moment he sat up slowly, steeling himself for another bout of pain. It didn't come.

Finland raised his gloved hand, pressing it hesitantly against his chest. Where was the pain? Why wasn't he hurting, like all the previous times his heart had been taken by Russia?

Then he realised it; they weren't fighting.

His people weren't fighting back, they weren't getting killed, they were okay.

So Varsinais-Suomi was okay too. Hopefully. His sister was tough and crafty, she would stay safe and keep their people safe too.

Unconsciously, his hand reached up to clutch at the cross necklace hanging around his neck, hidden beneath layers of cloth.

Despite his sudden relief at the realisation, it wasn't much of a comfort. The lack of fighting and the horrible, horrible headache told him a much more bitter story. They didn't have hope of them, of Sweden, winning.

And he didn't blame them for that. How could he, when he himself was starting to be plagued by the very same doubts. The army was only retreating, they weren't defending the land and people from the Russians. To the people it would seem that even the King didn't have any hope of winning or that he didn't care. They were losing their belief.

And because they were losing it, Finland knew he would lose it too, slowly but surely.

He knew sending effective reinforcements was impossible until the ice melted and on top of that Denmark had declared war on Sweden. Supported by France and located – comparatively – closer to the capital, he was considered the bigger threat to the national security and so the bulk of Sweden's Army had been ordered to Götaland, bordering Norway and the Öresund strait, where they were expecting England's Navy to help them out. The King's intense dislike for Napoleon more than explained his preference in placing troops there as well.

After all, Finland was there to take care of the east border and Russia.

Even if he doubted there would be much 'taking care of' going on. Klingspor seemed intent on avoiding conflict by any means necessary, pulling their men further and further back. The men who were leaving behind their villages, friends and families grew restless during the long march. Dissonance and uncertainty was growing among the ranks.

And the commanders remained ignorant of it. Finland was there to hear all the whispers and rumours – partake in the men's fear and unease. At the beginning he tried to bring their unease up with the commanders, in vain.

They had their strategy and they would stick to it, for better or worse.

There were times he yearned to join the men in their talks, tell them he was worried as well and cared what was happening to them, to this land. But he didn't dare, for he knew they would start asking him why they were doing nothing and he knew that any answer he gave would be insufficient, both for them and him.

He hated it.

The uncertainty.

The cold.

Then, not even a week later, on March 28 1808 Emperor Alexander I declared that Finland would become one with Russia.

"Here."

As he turned to look at the other Nation in confusion, he saw a silver cross lying innocently in Sweden's hand, which he was holding out to Finland. The shorter Nation blinked in surprise as he looked up at the other, whose sharp-eyed gaze was locked down to the hall below them and the man standing before the gathered crowd,

"W-why?" Finland asked uncertainly. Why was Sweden giving him a gift? He never did that, not when there was nothing to be gained from it, Sweden always had a reason for doing what he did even if it was something as seemingly simple as giving a small gift. Hesitantly, he took the necklace, holding it up to the light filtering through the high windows of the chapel. The cross was plain and simple with no fancy carvings like crosses usually had, hanging from a thin chain and swaying lightly as it dangled from the minute movements of his hand.

Sweden shrugged slightly. "Gustav wanted me to give it to you," he muttered.

Finland's gaze flickered to the well-groomed man below. "Why would the King want me to have a cross?"

"We are Protestant from now on," Sweden answered, "Church is a matter of state."

"I know that," Finland huffed, clutching the cross in his hand. The first changes into this direction had started soon after Gustav became the King – refusing to obey the Pope and cutting all contact three years ago among other things. Not that he himself really had noticed much of a difference but he heard things. He doubted these changes would affect him much, the finer points of religion were irrelevant in everyday life and he hadn't been a particularly devout or knowledgeable Catholic in the first place anyway. Things were just fine as long as he knew when the harvest and sowing were. "What does the cross have to do with it?"

He hadn't had one even as a Catholic so getting one now felt a bit of a waste. Catholicism had seemed to put much stock into symbolism and opulence and he had been pagan before so the change had been greater. By all logic he should have gotten a cross then – not that he had ever fully converted per say – but it was still weird.

Sweden turned to regard the shorter Nation thoughtfully, before taking a deep breath. From his expression Finland would tell he was trying to be subtle again, which he thought was a waste of time. Why couldn't the other just be direct instead of avoiding the actual point? "Gustav thinks it's time to reorganize and stuff."

What 'reorganizing and stuff' had to do with a cross necklace he didn't know but he did know from experience that trying to get anything else out of Sweden was an exercise in futility. Finland liked to think himself as close-mouthed but Sweden had him beat any day of the week without really trying. He frowned up at the taller Nation and fingered the cross, letting the tips of his calloused fingers run over its smooth plains and just barely rounded corners. It was well-made as far as he could tell and weighted just right for that amount of silver – although he wouldn't have been surprised if small amounts of copper had been mixed in. Gustav and Sweden both had a thing for money and Finland wasn't important enough to warrant pure silver.

Sweden seemed to sense his uncertainty and sighed, digging his own hand down the gold-embroidered jacket, pulling out a larger cross, this one seemingly made of gold. "I got one too," his tone was defensive. His cross wasn't particularly ornamental either but it did have something Finland's didn't – a carving of three crowns in the middle of the cross. "It symbolises the union of the state and church," Sweden explained, "How church's coming closer to people, Swedish church services and stuff," the taller Nation shrugged his shoulders, seeming uncomfortable and excited at the same time which looked decidedly terrifying on his face.

Finland knew the New Testament had been published in Swedish the previous year and while it would probably go a long way in making Swedish church services possible, it wouldn't help him nearly as much. He bit his lower lip uncertainly, his fingers lingering upon the empty middle section of the cross.

"Sweden…" he started and the other Nation hmm'ed inquiringly, "…could I get someone to translate the Bible into Finnish?" he asked softly.

For a moment they stood in silence. It had been so long since Finland had the chance to honour a God – any god – in his own language...

"We'll look for someone," Sweden finally said with a sigh and Finland felt an ecstatic grin break out on his face as he impulsively grasped the other Nation's hand.

"Thank you, so much."

Sweden's cheeks seemed to flush as he coughed uncomfortably. "Aren't you going to put it on?"

Finland returned to earth with a jump. "Oh, right," he muttered, flustered as he fumbled with the necklace.

Sweden gave an amused sigh. "Let me help."

Finland handed the necklace over with a pout and let the other hang it on his neck. The chain was cold against his skin and he suppressed a shiver.

The taller Nation nodded approvingly as he stepped back, taking in the necklace, shining brightly against Finland's off-white shirt. "A good Christian needs a cross."

Finland frowned up at the other. "It's risti for me, Sweden," he admonished the other.

Sweden snorted. "As you wish."

A/N:

Chapter title: a line from Vårt Land/Maamme (Swe./Fin. Our Land) poem by J. L. Runeberg and our national anthem.
Sveaborg (Swe.): Viapori (lit. Castle of Sweden), (re-named Suomenlinna in 1918), a sea fortress and UNESCO world heritage site in Helsinki
-39°C: -38.2°F
Vargön (Swe.): Susisaari, the largest island of Suomenlinna fortress.
Helvetin Venäjä (Fin.): Damn Russia (lit. Hell's Russia)
Kymmene älv (Swe.): Kymijoki was Sweden's (Finland's) east border between 1743-1809.
Finland wanting independence: Anjala Conspiracy tried to work with Russia for Finland's independence during Russo-Swedish War 1788-1790 and Walhalla-orden (secret society) complained about the King's power.
Tavastehus (Swe.): Hämeenlinna
Abborrfors (Swe.): Ahvenkoski, a rapid in Kymijoki where there was a border control (26 men) back in 1808 when Russians crossed the border.
Svartholm: a smaller sea fortress in the town of Loviisa.
Uleåborg (Swe.): Oulu
Torneå (Swe.): Tornio
Occupations: 1713-1721 (isoviha/stora ofreden; Fin./Swe. for "Greater Wrath") during the Great Northern War (thousands of people were killed and taken to Russia as slaves) and 1742-1743 (pikkuviha/lilla ofreden; "Lesser Wrath") during another Russo-Swedish War; sometimes called the War of the Hats.
Ruotsi perkele! (Fin.): Sweden perkele! Christianity gave perkele the meaning "devil," it was most likely originally the name of one of the Finnish pagan gods. As far as most Finns are concerned today, perkele is a strong curse word with no particular religious connotations. Ruotsi is derived from the ancient Swedish word for rowing or the Roslagen area. Or the other way around, no one is really sure :/
Gustav IV Adolf, the King of Sweden at the time, actually learned Finnish as a child and probably knew what Finland just said. Or he could at least guess.
The flashback takes place on February 2 1808 in Stockholm, when King Gustav IV Adolf instructs Commander-in-Chief Klingspor on how to act in case Finland is attacked.
Finland's age (in 21st century): at least 2 400, most likely a bit older (in my opinion, which is based on the history of the language, the timing of loan words, general history, climate and immigration).
Sweden calls England "youngster" because I think he's mainly Anglo-Saxon, as in "born" somewhere around 5th century, while the mainland Nordics have been gallivanting around since at least 500 BC (Iceland only since 874 AD).
Göteborg (Swe.): Gothenburg
Several British Fleets helped out in the Baltic Sea, against both Denmark and Russia and they also put up naval blockades of Prussia and Norway.
Sweden's vital regions: Skåne/Scania, very important agricultural area and the focal point of many of the Dano-Swedish Wars (when that focal point wasn't Norway).
Tuonela: the land of the dead in Finnish mythology.
Lempi (Fin.): love, affection, favourite etc. also in the old days its meaning spoke of burning, flames and hotness. For reference, her full name is Tuomion Lentävä Lempi (Doom's Flying Love (or Flame, could be both)).
Turku/Åbo (Fin./Swe.): the Finnish "capital" until 1812. The Russians occupied it on March 22 1808 with no violence (of note) on either side.
Swedish history is full of royal Gustavs but this one is Gustav (I) Vasa, who was the King of Sweden between 1523-1560. The year is about 1539 in that flashback.
For reference: Finland's wearing the Åbo läns regemente/Turun rykmentti (Swe./Fin. Turku Regiment) uniform because of the capital thing (the main colours are grey and deep blue, the model from year 1802 or 1798 because Swedish uniforms faced reforms a few times.)
For the duration of this war Finland was for the most part with the main army.
Finland's siblings, most whom I've namedropped in this chapter, are the Provinces. They somewhat represent the Finnish system of counties/provinces/regions/whathaveyou. They've changed a lot through history and I simplified and fell back to the old "tribe" stereotypes; this gives me a relatively small set of characters, it fits with the oldest whathaveyou system and makes kinda sense even in today's context. They don't play a particularly big part but if Japan has Prefectures then Finland definitely had Provinces.