Chapter 4

Suotkin vettynehet satehista
Even the swamps get soaked from the rain

The raindrops beat down on the red leaves dotting the ground where hundreds of boots hadn't already crushed them into the mud. Naked trees loomed behind the cover of rain, hardly discernible in the grey light, making the world seem like a half-forgotten dream. The building standing before him looked more like a red shadow. Finland brushed aside the wet bangs hanging before his eyes with a tired hand, letting out a weak sigh.

The rain hadn't let up for days, weeks, except for the short periods of threatening stillness and rolling clouds. Little ways forward he could hear coughing; the cold and the rain were getting on the men, just as the cold and the snow had last winter when this war had started. They were losing men fast but Finland was used to it. Cold, hunger and disease were always the first ones to come and take their pickings. And only then would come Surma to tear you apart, quick and violent.

The coughs turned violent and he stopped for a moment beside a guard who was coughing into his hand and hit him in the back firmly.

"Ki-kiitos, herra," the guard rasped out as he straightened and pulled open the door of the vicarage.

Finland gave a returning smile and stepped in, taking off his felt hat and shaking the excess water from his hair. He sensed a presence in the side doorway and looked up, his gaze alighting on an old man in dark clothes. He straightened and offered the man a nod. "God bless."

The vicar returned the gesture. "God bless," he murmured softly, crossing himself. He was an old man, his back bent with age and his hair grey and face lined, but his eyes still shone sharply and serenely as he observed the seemingly young man.

"I hope our presence isn't too much of a burden to you or your parish, Father Törnudd," Finland said softly.

"In times such as these it's important we support one another and put our trust in the Lord," the vicar answered and stepped closer, lowering his voice. "And our Nation."

Finland's eyes widened as he stepped back in surprise. The existence of Nations wasn't exactly a secret but they didn't tend to advertise it to their regular citizens. It was easier that way; they could have at least some privacy when they weren't needed by the officials, the court or the army. Yes, the people were still drawn to them and came to tell their worries and problems but it was more spontaneous and they didn't try to manipulate them into agreeing with them so vehemently. Finland knew from experience that sometimes the more desperate people, if they knew of the Nations, didn't hesitate for a moment to guilt trip them with comments such as 'Do you truly not care for us? Your people? You're simply going to let us die like those high and mighty lords up in their castles?' They didn't necessarily dare to go to the actual decision makers about it – either because of the distance or the general trouble doing it was for an ordinary person or simply because talking about their problems with their own Nation would always be easier than talking about them to someone else because of their very nature.

But even if one ignored the Nation aspect, Finland's friendly face and demeanour went a long way in encouraging them to share their worries.

So having someone call him out on his identity, even if it was a man of faith, was surprising.

"You flatter me, Anders Törnudd," he said with a sad smile, "I'm not nearly great enough for that title."

Törnudd smiled softly in response. "Does it matter? We're talking of faith and I have faith in you."

Finland tilted his head. Thinking of it as a matter of faith was new to him; Nations just were, there was no faith involved.

Religion had always been a bit of a puzzle in how it related to Nations. On one hand, religion was an extremely strong driving force in wars and the balance of power between Nations and in their people's everyday lives but on the other hand, many of the Nations predated Christianity. Many of them professed to be religious to various extents and Finland himself had been a Catholic for about three hundred years before Sweden decided it would be more prudent – for the state treasury – to be Lutheran.

So having faith in Nations felt somehow bizarre. And having faith in him in particular felt extremely weird all things considered. And was that really so surprising? Most Nations wouldn't class him as one at all, he was at most a territory with his own language and culture; which was hardly different compared to the colonies Empires had, scattered around the world. The fact that he was Sweden's territory made him different, while there were differences on how people were treated based on which language they spoke and where they lived, the discrimination wasn't as bad as it could be.

"Fine," Finland sighed wryly. "Faith is better than nothing, right?"

Maybe he was too pessimistic but given how many times – because of faith and the sense of superiority it seemed to breed in people – he had seen the humankind make the same mistakes and how much suffering that lead to every time, he felt it justified.

"It will be enough," Vicar Törnudd said. "We're a strong people from a strong Nation. No matter what, we'll be fine."

But… he had to admit that someone having faith in him did feel heart-warming.

The Nation gave a soft laugh. "As you say, Father Törnudd."

The grey-haired vicar's smile widened a tad, as he raised his hand and Finland's eyes fell closed without any conscious thought on his part, suddenly feeling acutely the metal pressing against his collar bone under his scratchy uniform. "May the Lord bless you and guard you. May the Lord make His face shed light upon you and be gracious unto you. May the Lord lift up His face unto you and give you peace. In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen." The vicar stepped back, his hand falling, "It's been an honour, Suomi."

"Thank you, Father," Finland said softly as he bowed his head. "Same to you."

The vicar disappeared back to his own room, leaving Finland alone in the entrance. He took a moment to gather himself in the dim light, tugging the cross carefully back inside his collar. He was thankful to the old priest for his words of support and trust; normally he was only third in line of things to feel loyal to, after the King and Sweden. Because of this he didn't have very much influence in how things were run and he really couldn't do much to protect his people. And to think, people still believed in him in spite of that...

He took a deep calming breath, gathering all of his sense of self-worth and confidence, before stepping into the room Klingspor had commandeered for himself as an office and a bedroom. "What's the situation, sir?" he asked the man as if he didn't already know the answer. He was curious to hear how the Commander would try to explain things for the better without succeeding in it. Their truce from the spring was all but gone by now, when they were retreating again.

Klingspor's eyebrow twitched dangerously as he frowned. "I really don't need your insolent remarks, Finland, as you very well know." The papers rustled as he made a notation about the provisions, a number far too depressing in Finland's eyes.

The Nation refrained from responding and set his hat on the table as he took a seat in the other chair, tucking his gloves into the pocket of his coat. He settled as comfortably as he could into the hard chair and raised his violet eyes to watch as the Commander worked. The room was quiet but for their breathing and scratching of pen on paper as Klingspor hovered over the table, frowning darkly in the candlelight.

They had every reason to be worried; the rain, lack of provisions and most importantly the lack of fighting spirit were serious problems. And they weren't about to eat the people out of food or drive them from their homes if they could help it. Their lives were hard enough without the army taxing their resources too much. Especially as the current situation strongly indicated that they would need to put up with both armies, one right after the other. As it was, they had already had to it, with how stupid this war plan had been from the start.

They had been fighting and retreating for seven months in total, in what Finland was ready to call one of his most depressing wars in history. It wasn't the most depressing, no – that dubious honour belonged to the Great Northern War – but certainly among the worst ones.

A forever seemed to pass in silence between the two before there was a nervous knock on the door.

"Yes?" Klingspor sighed, pushing his mountains of paperwork away, causing some lonely slips to fall on the floor.

The soldier, who opened the door and gave a nervous bow, his blond hair falling over his eyes. He flicked them away from his face and glanced at Finland uncertainly before addressing Klingspor. "A message from the scouts, Commander," the man said, licking his lips nervously.

Klingspor and Finland exchanged glances, for a moment forgetting their differences as the Commander took the message and Finland bustled the soldier out of the room. A loud thud had him turning around in surprise, seeing that the human had dropped back into his chair beside the table. The Commander stared in disbelief at the missive, eyes rowing over the flowing script – which Finland just barely recognised as French. The man seemed half-exultant, half-suspicious as he reread the letter several times, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

"What is it?" Finland finally asked, unable to handle his curiosity anymore.

Klingspor took a deep breath before answering.

"General von Buxhoevden is proposing a ceasefire."

It was late September as he stood beside a young spruce, taking meagre cover from the slight drizzle under its green branches. His violet-eyed gaze was locked on the dirt road coming up to the vicarage from the main road. The fields around them were temporarily being used as a muddy campground for the men and currently the whole camp exuded silent fear and hesitance as they, too, gazed towards the main road when given the chance.

Finland was waiting nervously for the Russian delegation to arrive and discuss the conditions of the armistice. They were to be brought here blindfolded and while Finland would have loved to take part in the process himself, it had been deemed wiser to have him wait at the vicarage instead. Something about him being too important for 'running about.' Hah, as if that had mattered to any of them ever before.

Soon he saw the dark forms drawing closer, in the dark haze of the rain, some of them riding a horse while others were on foot. As he stiffened and his short nails dug into tree bark, the atmosphere in the camp turned instantly alert.

This would be the first time he'd seen Russia since the summer when they met during the battle at Kokkoneva. At the time he had been prepare to kill the other Nation – who had seemed to find the whole ordeal amusing at most – id necessary. Finland didn't know what to expect but he did know there was no way he was going to trust anything Russia was about say at face value. They shared too much history for him not to feel vary of the other. He would be sleeping with one eye open, a puukko under his pack passing itself off as a pillow and a musket and pistol beside his bed for as long as the discussions continued.

Then the taller Nation was already standing beside him, being guarded tightly by six of Finland's soldiers, a slight smile dancing on his lips. Finland's violet eyes took in the immaculate green uniform, its red collar barely peeking out from beneath the other Nation's ever present scarf.

"Venäjä," he said softly in acknowledgement.

"Финля́ндия," the other replied cheerfully, despite the blindfold. Nothing ever seemed to shake Russia. "May I take this pesky blindfold off now?"

For a moment Finland considered denying the request out of spite. "You may," he said finally.

The taller Nation hummed as he raised his hands, untying the slip of cloth on his violet eyes, prompting the other Russian soldiers to do the same. They looked around the bleak copse of woods surrounding a red-painted house in the middle of fields, now filled with tents, horses, carts and tired men around weakly sputtering fires, fighting to stay alight in the humidity.

Russia frowned lightly, causing Finland to tense. What if the enemy forces had followed them and were now waiting to attack at Russia's signal? Had they just made a huge mistake in inviting the armistice talks to their headquarters? What if –?

"It seems your troops are as badly off as mine," Russia observed and Finland's thoughts came to a screeching halt as he stared at the other in shock.

Russia interpreted his look of shock wrong which Finland was secretly thankful for. "The service lines back to my land are rather long and we don't want to tax the locals too much. They wouldn't like us very much then, да?"

Finland gave a weak nod as he cleared his throat. "Indeed," he raised his voice then, addressing the Russian negotiators. "Monsieurs, please follow me."

In the vicarage he pointed the bodyguards to one of the side rooms to be taken care of by the vicar and his wife before leading Russia and the officers to the Klingspor's chamber. The room had been immaculately cleaned since the possibility of armistice had come up and Klingspor was in his best uniform, standing beside the table on which he had carefully placed pens, maps and empty papers, all of their normal plans carefully hidden away.

Greetings were exchanged stiffly in French before both Finland and Russia were gradually pushed aside – one because his opinions were of no consequence and the other because his officials clearly weren't used to working with their Nation. As it was Finland didn't really have the patience to follow the discussion for more than a few hours with his atrocious French – he really had to wonder why these discussion couldn't be had in Latin or even German, he was much better at those – and the pain and annoyance of being bartered over like a piece of meat at the market place.

He felt an ice-cold shiver run down his side as they drew another line across the map. He drew into himself and retreated from the room with a nondescript murmur, unnoticed by the humans. He stepped out into the light drizzle, taking a deep breath of fresh air as he closed his eyes and leant back against the red-painted wall. Unlike in the past, now it was his right side that ached. It was... a weird feeling. His right side was generally left alone from all the border-mangling, thanks to the Baltic Sea lapping at his shores and his symbiotic relationship with Sweden.

"You are not feeling well, да?"

Finland flinched away from the voice in surprise, staring wide-eyed at the taller Nation standing beside him. When had he come outside? And why hadn't he noticed? Was he really that out of touch with the land and his people that he didn't even notice his enemy?

Russia tilted his head but remained otherwise unmoved, standing beneath the eaves only two metres away from Finland.

"What is it to you?" Finland finally asked tightly, hands clenching into fists at his sides as he squared his shoulders, determined to not show his unease at the decision being made inside.

"I'm worried about you," Russia answered.

A disbelieving snort was his answer. "Älä puhu paskaa, you really think I would believe that?"

Russia pursed his lips. "Knowing you, you just said something incredibly rude... But no matter: you're soon going to be annexed to me. At this point it's only a matter of time until it happens. If you're in a bad way, it will be a problem for me. You know as well as I do that repairs cost money and no one likes making themselves more work for later. Both of us know there's no hope for you and Sweden to win this – he has all but abandoned you already," Russia observed, ignoring Finland's gritted teeth at the last remark. "You are being offered a new home and freedom if – when – you finally give up this useless resistance."

"'Vive la révolution' and all that entails, was it?" Finland asked dryly.

"Preferably not," Russia mused. "I imagine a meeting with a guillotine wouldn't be too pleasant."

"I could arrange you one with an axe," Finland muttered under his breath in Finnish before raising his voice. "Doesn't that go a bit against your goals here? You speak of freedom but wish to annex me – my understanding of French may be poor but not that poor."

"Your resistance against me is to retain status quo, not about having freedom," Russia countered calmly, "Your current existence with Sweden, who has you do all the work, pay all the expenses, fight the wars... that is certainly no freedom. I'm talking about resisting Sweden and having freedom with me."

"But it wouldn't be total freedom," Finland argued sharply, his hand unconsciously sneaking to clutch the cross pendant hanging around his neck. "Stop contradicting yourself; most of your people are hardly better than slaves, serving those better off than themselves... How would I be any different?"

"You have heard my offer; autonomy and freedom under my and my Tsar's rule. Your people have also heard it and the representatives of your Estates have worked on forming the Finnish Deputation to send to St. Petersburg to discuss your future since summer," Russia spoke calmly, before smiling brightly. "And total freedom wouldn't last, as we've seen in the past."

"Been swapping stories with France, have you?" Finland himself hadn't had much contact with the southern Nation but he did distinctly remember the other blond groping him when Sweden and France signed the Treaty of Compiégne to ratify their alliance during the Thirty Years' War. He hadn't even had the chance to discourage such practices (with his pistols and sword or maybe he would've just had Ukko stomp France into mush...) before Sweden had swooped down and told France "to keep your hands to yourself and off of my wife." While Finland didn't appreciate being called anyone's wife (because he wasn't one!), he had to admit Sweden's swordsmanship had looked very threatening and France had wholeheartedly agreed. You don't mess with Empires.

And now they were messing with two.

"What is Europe? Where is it, if not with France and I?" Russia mused with a childish smile. "He has a vision, I have a vision... and they happen to coincide. Seems rather logical for us to work together, да?"

Finland gave a dismissive shrug, not particularly caring about Russia's self-important attitude, and turned his gaze towards the road leading through the camp. He frowned; a dark form was moving through the rain at a high speed.

He straightened as the horseman arrived at the yard, the horse's sides heaving and steaming as it came to stop before the vicarage.

"Where's Commander Klingspor? I have an urgent message from Stockholm," the wet messenger asked as he stumbled off the saddle, patting the horse distractedly at the neck.

"Inside," Finland answered stepping closer. "I'll lead you to him."

The messenger nodded gratefully as he followed Finland inside, both of them ignoring Russia who followed after them curiously.

"What is it?" Klingspor asked impatiently as the messenger and the two Nations stepped back into the meeting room where the Generals were arguing over maps spread haphazardly across the table. The mess was much worse than when the Nations had slipped out and the Russian officials seemed extremely annoyed by the sudden switch to Swedish and the interruption.

"A message from the King, sir," the messenger said nervously, digging the letter from his leather satchel and handing it to the recipient.

Finland slipped closer and peered – with difficulty – over Klingspor's shoulder, his gaze flying over the missive, widening at every sentence. It seemed that the powers that be at Stockholm had finally realised what Finland had months previous; Klingspor was ineffective as a campaign leader.

The King had decided to finally remove him from the post.

The blond man swirled the wine in his goblet, lounging on the hard chair as if it was the most comfortable divan imported from the Near East. His blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail and his face was adorned by a calculatingly bored expression as he sipped his wine. Russia himself was hiding his annoyance and frustration behind a fixed smile as his own hand clutched at a wine glass, nearly crushing it in his large grip.

"Your dear Alexander seems to be getting along with my Emperor," the other Nation observed smugly, taking a sip from his wine.

Russia's smile widened, his violet eyes flashing dangerously. "It certainly seems so, Фра́нция."

France smiled. "We should get along as well, as the two strongest Empires in Europe," the gaze of his blue eyes was careful as he watched Russia. 'Good,' the Slav thought, 'He has at least enough sense to not dismiss me.' The larger Nation may have lost only recently, forcing him into this treaty, but he was once gain forced to admit that France was extremely charming about it all. And despite his somewhat foppish front, he was extremely intelligent.

"Certainly," he agreed, "What do you suggest?"

The Frenchman reached to the side, bringing up a rolled map, which he spread on the table, revealing the crisscrossing black lines crawling across its surface, forming the map of Europe. Russia raised an eyebrow but didn't say anything. He wanted to see what game France was playing first.

The blond's elegant finger trailed the lines on the map, as if caressing the shores of the British Isles. "You are well aware of the Continental Blockage I've been working on for dear L'Angleterre," he stated, not even waiting for Russia's acknowledgement. "After the treaty has been signed and you have joined the Blockade, his only ally will be..." the finger lingered on western coast of European continent before tapping meaningfully at the northernmost part of Europe, "Sweden."

And considering France's plans, that wasn't about to be allowed for long. Russia's heart skipped a beat as he stared at the map. "You want me to force him to join it, да?" he stated more than asked.

"Exactement," France purred.

Russia had fought with Sweden countless of times and the best way to start a fight had always been – "That means I have to attack Finland," Russia mused softly, staring at the map. "There's not much there... Rather insignificant all things considered," he should know. He had fought the two of them so many times on Finland's land that he knew it as well as they. And while the land itself was beautiful, it didn't have that much value or use to him. Besides, he didn't want a repeat of the Great Northern War.

"True," France agreed, "But more important than Finland is..." his finger moved a bit to the east from Sweden's coast, coming to rest on a cluster of islands in the Baltic Sea, between Sweden and Finland, "Åland. Imagine, those islands are just like a loaded pistol, pointing right at Stockholm, at Sweden's heart..."

He knew all of this already. Peter had made similar plans a century earlier but later dismissed them. Threatening Sweden and forcing him to do his bidding would be so easy if one had a foothold on that Archipelago. They were also in a perfect position to control the whole of the Baltic; Gulf of Bothnia stretching north and support to the closure of the Gulf of Finland... But to control the islands, one had to control Finland first.

And Russia had to admit the thought of Having Finland at his side was rather pleasing. The larger Nation smiled, "It seems I'll have things to do when I return to St. Petersburg."

France chuckled and saluted the eastern Nation with his goblet. "À votre santé, Russie."

"Fucking pretenders the both of you," came a disgusted snarl as an empty glass was slammed on the table and chair legs screeched against the floor.

Russia looked to the side, meeting Prussia's enraged red eyes as the third Nation in the raft entered the discussion, standing tall and breathing heavily. His cheeks were sunken and his skin appeared even more pallid than normally and his dark blue military coat could have used a wash and several patches to fix the more worn parts.

France scoffed. "Do mind your manners, Prusse. I'll get to you the day after tomorrow, oui?"

Prussia's face twisted into an ugly snarl but he held his tongue, which surprised Russia. But maybe he should have expected it, he had read France's demands and they were certainly no smiling matter. Maybe Prussia had finally realised that he really was in no position to argue for it just might make the situation even worse. Although what could be worse than losing half of your landmass?

The pale Nation dropped heavily back to his chair, still scowling.

France smiled, refilling Prussia's glass. "Bon, trés bon, mon ami..."

Prussia's eyes flashed darkly and fast as lightning his hand swept across the table, hitting the glass and the bottle in France's hands, spilling the red wine all over the victorious Nation.

To Russia, the other Empire seemed to be covered in blood.

"Ich bin nicht dein Freund," Prussia snarled, his eyes promising revenge.

The relations between him and Finland weren't particularly friendly ether, Russia mused as he leant his back against a beaten pine tree, its bark already littered with bullet holes. Some of them were probably from the spring battle in this very same village, there hadn't been nearly enough shooting today for all of them to be fresh.

A three-bound cannon ball hit the ground two feet before the nearest company, sending earth and early snow flying into the air and throwing the men on their backs with painful crunches. One of them didn't raise again as others scrambled to their feet, shaking their heads. Russia's own ears rang as he brushed muck from his shoulders, his eyes sweeping across the all but abandoned village.

In spite of the determined resistance of the Finns, Russia and his men were almost ready to cross the river. Part of their troops had already done so by detouring further upstream, away from the concentrated artillery attack; it wouldn't take them long to arrive here and cut of the escaping Finns and disrupt their fire enough for the main force to cross.

Shouts rang out on the other side of the river, accompanied by cries of pain, and Russia smiled. Finally, he would have been displeased if they had dallied.

As Kulnev ordered the advance, Russia crossed the river among the first, looking around the seemingly empty village, if one discounted the corpses dotting the roads. The advance troops were already pulling their fallen resistance aside, out of the way. The civilians had probably hidden nearby in the forests and fields, not daring to stay behind as their homestead was turned into a battlefield.

Rather wise of them, Russia thought.

Little ways down the road shots rang out and the advancing soldiers ducked behind the walls and forgotten carts to avoid the fire. Even the cannon rang out again, apparently still in Finnish possession, and a cannon ball crashed through the roof of one of the houses. So the position hadn't been completely abandoned just yet. As the battle broke out anew, Russia stayed hidden observing their opponents. The soldiers appeared to be above the middle age, tired and some of them even injured, but they fought ferociously, like a bear protecting her cubs. They had clearly been left behind only to buy the retreating forces some time to draw further north and closer to the mainland, closer to Sweden and the invisible border that separated his land from Finland's.

Sometimes Russia wondered how such a border even existed. Finland had served Sweden for almost as long as he could remember, shouldn't they have become completely unified by now? As far as he understood it, if two Nations lived together for a long time, they would become more and more similar to each other, until one of them faded away, unneeded as the other could now personify both of their peoples. He had thought Finland and Sweden to be one such duo, with Finland fated to fade away at some point in time. As far as he knew, the only ways the two of them differed from each other were their outwards looks and language. But Finland didn't seem to have any intention of fading so maybe, somehow, he was unique and different enough to explain his continued existence. Russia supposed it was similar to him and all of the губе́рнияs living in his house, sharing his territory, not that they amounted to much.

But even the less significant Nations and sub-Nations can sometimes put up an impressive effort; from what he could tell, over a hundred men were hidden among the scarce buildings and trees lining the dirt road. All the snow had been trampled and was useless in trying to locate the soldiers by footprints. Finland and his people had always been uncommonly good at being sneaky, which Russia found himself envying sometimes.

By luck he noticed a musket pointing out from a snowdrift between a cart and a tree little ways down the road, aiming at one of his younger Cossacks about to cut down an old Finnish soldier. He couldn't see much of the shooter, not even the black hat they favoured but the Nation found himself adjusting his grip of his own weapon nonetheless, shooting at the hidden figure.

The bullet seemed to fly unnaturally slow before it hit the figure, causing the Finn's musket to drop, hopefully wetting the gunpowder and turning it useless. The figure disappeared even more completely behind the snowdrift, unmoving, as the Finns started pulling back further and further, out of the village entirely.

" Игнорируйте их!" Kulnev called sharply as the troops were about to give chase. "Check the bodies!"

Russia ignored the troops hurrying to comply and instead ambled over to the figure he had felled, lying face down in the snow. He stared curiously down at the short form, his blond hair and the snow around it stained with blood. His shot had hit the man in the head and he could see more blood slowly trickling from the hole in his temple, mixing with the sweat and dirt already streaking the form.

Russia nudged the man's side with his boot before kicking him over, curious to see the man's face. As the slowly fading daylight fell on the pale face, Russia's eyebrows rose in surprise before a smile broke out on his face.

For before him on the ground laid his lovely western neighbour.

"Looks like it's the time for you to become one with me, да? Лапушка..."

A/N:

Chapter title: from a line from J. L. Runeberg's poem Molnets broder/Pilven veikko (Swe./Fin. Cloud's brother)
Surma: the beastly embodiment of a quick and violent death in Finnish mythology. One Finnish euphemism for death is "joutua surman suuhun", to end up in Surma's mouth. It's also one of the words that mean "a kill/killing" etc.
Kiitos, herra (Fin.): Thank you, sir (lit. mister).
Father Törnudd was the actual vicar at that time period. Thank you Finnish family-history researchers and your lists.
Finland has been mainly Evangelical Lutheran since the Protestant Reformation started in 1520s so that's the model I'm trying to write here. Just for the record, I'm just about as religious as your average mushroom and if my conjectures or views offend anyone, I apologise.

Finland sucking at French is a personal headcanon based on Finnish orthography compared to French (read: they don't coincide, at all).
Finland knows German because during the Middle Ages Baltic Sea trade was largely in the hands of the Hanseatic League (started by traders from Hamburg and Lübeck) and there were quite a few German burghers living in Turku and Vyborg.
And Finland is the only country in the world that regularly broadcasts news (internationally) in Latin (Nuntii Latini).
Älä puhu paskaa (Fin.): Don't talk shit (:lie).
Vive la révolution (Fra.): Long live the Revolution. (I know I'm being pedantic.)
Guillotine-Axe discussion: in Finland beheadings were generally done with an axe. If you were nobility you might get a sword.
Treaty of Compiégne: 1635 when France officially joins the 30 Years' War on the Protestant side (!) because HRE was really scary in his opinion. Funny Hetalia plus! The Swedish first minister who signed the Treaty was named Axel Oxenstierna. Funny Three Musketeers plus! One of the French signers was Cardinal Richeliu.
Lohtaja (Lochteå) Convention was signed on September 29 1808 and Klingspor did indeed receive letter about his sacking during the negotiations.
Фра́нция /Frantsiya (Rus.): France.
France molesting the map was an accident. Honest. He just seems the type to run his finger along the text when reading and -– I'll stop now.
L'Angleterre (Fra.): England (as if you didn't already know that...)
Exactment (Fra.): Exactly.
Åland's strategical importance is pretty obvious if you look at the map; they are demilitarized for a reason in the present, after all. And Peter the Great really had nefarious plans for them in the early 18th century. More about the islands later!
À votre santé, Russie. (Fra.): To your health, Russia; a French toast.
Prusse (Fra.): Prussia.
Bon, trés bon, mon ami (Fra.): Good, very good, my friend.
Ich bin nicht dein Freund (Ger.): I'm not your friend.
War of the Fourth Coalition came to an end when the Treaties of Tilsit between France and Russia (July 7 1807) and France and Prussia (July 9 1807) were signed. Russia came out in a considerably better condition than Prussia. And I admit that part of the (okay, the) reason I wrote this scene was because I wanted to write some Prussia (but there is foreshadowing! So it's totally okay!)
губе́рния / Guberniya (Rus.): a governorate, an administrative subdivision in Imperial Russia.
Игнорируйте их /Ignoriruyte ikh (Rus.): Ignore them.
Battle of Yppäri, November 11 1808. 150 Turku Regiment members stayed behind to stall the Russians and a total of 22 soldiers were captured during the confrontations that day.