It has happened over and over and over again. The cycle of life for nations. They lived, and died, only to wake once more from their lifeless slumber. Whether it be illness, wounds, poisoning, starvation, or any other unspeakable thing, they refused to die. Or at least- stay dead.
They couldn't. Not as long as the land they walked was them. Not as long as their culture thrived strong in their people and certainly not as long as they breathed the air of the skies.
But no matter how or what number of times it happened, it hurt. Not just physically, although that pain was significant. It was also a mental hurt. It was something that cut through the mind and heart, making each death memorable and taxing. It aged them, perhaps. Mentally. Each time their soul was ripped out and returned back to its corpse, they came back older, wiser. A common sentiment between the immortals.
Denmark must be very wise, Norway thought, as he held the bleeding man's body against him. It was awkward, the Dane being as huge and muscular as he was. But in this snow, he looked so small. Blood stained his red Tunic, his fur cape, while his axe lay forgotten beside him, cracked down the center. A blade left embedded in his chest like a skewer ready to cook over the fire. His eyes only half open as he gasped in short, desperate breaths.
"Y-you'll be there—when I wa-ke up?" The Dane asked between laden gulps of air.
"I always am, aren't I?" Norway said quietly. Iceland was hidden away at home, too young to fight for his land yet- not quite ready to be out on his own. What would he tell him…
"G-good…"
"Sleep. When you wake I will be there. And you will be fine." Norway told him sternly, but softly. The blond in his arms attempted a weak smile, a pathetic face for a Viking. Never one that should be made by the mighty king of the north.
His eyes slipped closed and the gust in his lungs left in a wisp of steam to the cold air.
Have some deadmark ;u; b