Disclaimer: The Hetalia characters and their personifications belong to Hidekaz Himaruya. 日丸屋 秀和
A/N - This is a preview for a possible Nordics story to explain how their gang got together. So this whole chronicle would be like a long backstory!
No Heroes Among Thieves
This was his element.
The adrenaline coursing through his veins, the coppery scent of blood mixed with the aroma of sweat and ale, the sound of wooden furniture smashing into a thousand shards as it was thrown savagely against the wall... he relished in the sheer chaos of it all.
Mathias wore that crooked, mischievous smirk he always wore in these situations, because this was what he lived for: this wonderful, rushing feeling of excitement, adventure, glory and action. He was the grandson of a viking warrior and dammit, this was in his blood.
He gripped his ax tighter and his self-satisfied grin morphed into a wide, toothy smile when he saw his fallen enemy rise again before him.
Not a moment later, Mathias once again lost himself in the heat of the brawl.
Like all the most riveting tales, this one starts with a bar fight...
in a small ale house in Gothenburg, nearly 800 years ago.
Now, exactly how this incident began is information we will discuss at a later time.
At present, it is imperative that the reader learns just how this little skirmish ended.
And I will give you a small hint:
it doesn't end well.
The flying table had evidently caught the tall Swede off guard. Without warning, he had been tactlessly knocked to the ground by the airborne slab of wood. Now, back on his feet, the man towered menacingly over the grinning Dane.
Mathias took absolute delight in seeing the extreme fury and indignation cloud over the man's icy-blue eyes. Apparently this stick-in-the-mud Swede was capable of showing emotion; and Mathias had just succeeded in chiseling away that stony, impassible expression which had previously been etched on this behemoth's face. Now the man's features displayed nothing but pure, heedless rage.
That was exactly what Mathias wanted. That cold, calculating stare had vanished, replaced with a look of blind fury.
Mathias, who, mind you, was always less intoxicated than people assumed he was, kept his wits about him and thus had the upper hand in this fight.
He dodged easily when the taller man picked up a chair and flung it.
Really, a fight breaks out in a pub and this guy decides first and foremost to throw a chair? That's probably the most cliché bar-fight move since the dawn of time... or the dawn of... drunken brawls, at least. Regardless, the piece of furniture crashed loudly against the wall, miraculously eluding the other distracted pub guests.
Mathias, with that trade-mark simper never leaving his face, rolled his eyes at the amateur.
Then, brandishing his trusty hand ax, the Dane rushed towards his adversary. He allowed his tongue to hang out the corner of his mouth in savage delight when he successfully slashed the Swedish man's shoulder.
Mathias pulled away and noted that the edge of his blade was now coated with a familiar crimson nectar.
Again, he simply smiled.
This was all too familiar, this crowded fray of anarchy and drunken men. The entire pub was currently engaged in this little fracas, and things were still just heating up.
Mathias cleverly foresaw every move the goliath before him made before he even made it.
Every time the Swede took a step forward, Mathias would glide back, out of his reach.
Every time the man attempted to move to the side, Mathias would mirror his action, blocking him from any possible escape or aid.
On and on the paganistic dance went until:
"HAH! What'd I tell ya, Sve? This is the way to- ACK!"
What Mathias did not account for, was this massive man's positively inhuman strength.
In a split second, when the Dane had been gloating about his success, he suddenly found himself lifted off the ground by the throat.
Alright, to put things into perspective, the Swede was not all that much taller than Mathias. However, power and intimidation literally radiated off this guy, making him seem gargantuan to those around him.
Mathias' lungs were instantly denied access to air and he clawed desperately at the pale, muscular fingers around his gullet.
The icy eyes of the tall man appeared eerily calm and serious as he choked his victim, yet Mathias could sense that the man was still livid.
At that moment, Mathias began to panic. He had provoked the man too much. He had underestimated his foe.
He had poked the bear - the creepy, inexpressive, Swedish bear!
The next moment, his helpless body was SLAMMED onto the wooden table below, cracking the surface upon impact.
Mathias' eyes were shut tightly and he groaned at the throbbing pain spreading through his back.
He cracked his eyes open again and only had a brief second to cry, "SHIT!" before rolling out of the way as the Swede brought down both of his fists upon the now-broken table.
That was Mathias's cue to escape.
In such fights as these, there was no honor to uphold. Valiance and chivalry did not exist among drunkards, and there were no heroes among thieves.
Simply put, there were only those who survived, and those who didn't.
Therefore, when it became obvious that he had lost the upper hand in a fight, Mathias knew the best way to stay alive was to cut his losses and bail out.
So, quickly rolling onto the floor, Mathias army-crawled between the legs of other brawling men until he was sure he had lost the Swedish devil.
He rose, dusted himself off, ducked as a mug full of ale went flying over his head and decided that he had had enough fun for one day. It was time to get to work.
Pulling a small, cloth sack out from where it had been tucked in the back of his belt, the young Danish criminal began shoving dropped flasks, fallen coins and other abandoned valuables into his bag.
He strolled leisurely through the chaos as if it were a cakewalk.
He made quick work salvaging scraps of food, jewelry and whatever else he could pluck off the floor and the bodies of unconscious men.
When his pouch began to grow full, Mathias lifted it to his face.
He felt its weight in his hands, shook it once and was pleased by the sound of jingling metal, and decided that today's little stunt had brought in a good haul.
Scanning the interior of the old ale house, Mathias located his accomplices standing guard near the door. They were two gruff fellows he had met down by the docks. He had been on a couple heists with them before, though he didn't know their names and didn't trust them as far as he could throw them.
But, Mathias had needed someone to block the exit... one of the pub goers might have tried to get the authorities otherwise, and they certainly didn't want that.
He made eye-contact with one of his comrades and nodded, affirming that their time here was almost done.
Mathias couldn't help but chuckle to himself, however.
Sucks for you, he thought, 'cause when it's time to give this place the slip, I've got another exit plan in mind.
"Nothing personal, boys," Mathias said aloud, fondling his bag of stolen goods.
Unfortunately, there was no true teamwork among thieves either, and Mathias knew he could either slip away now and be on to the next town before his accomplices could say "korsmønter", or they would gang up on him later and take the loot for themselves.
Mathias ducked into a shadowed corner, away from the violence and anarchy playing out before him.
He kept a wary eye out for that lumbering Swede, while at the same time admiring the sight of men punching, kicking and wrestling each other to the ground.
It was all... just so beautiful.
It was fun.
It was men being men, a game of warriors.
You drank, you fought, you stole and to the victor went the spoils.
"This has to be what Vallhalla's like," Mathias sighed contentedly as he trailed his eyes over the small establishment.
He looked back down, fastening his pouch full of shanghaied goods back to his belt when-
CRASH!
Like a flash of lightning, some unknown assailant knocked into him and sent the bag tumbling to the ground, spilling its contents everywhere.
Mathias turned around rapidly, rage pooling in his azure eyes at whoever the offender might be, but all he saw was a slim figure duck its way through the crowd in retreat.
"HEY!" Mathias shouted angrily. "Get back here! You think you can just-"
"Hey!"
That was right about the time things began going to shit.
Mathias recognized the powerful voice of the manic Swede.
Not even bothering to retrieve his bag or its lost treasures, Mathias cursed and bolted after the figure who nearly knocked him over.
He heard the Swedish man plowing his way through the throng of pub guests, fast in pursuit, but Mathias was confident that he could lose the terrifying stone-man and catch his little assailant at the same time.
Mathias locked his eyes on the fleeing coward in front of him.
The retreating figure glanced back once to see Mathias gaining on him, but the turn of his head was so quick, Mathias couldn't get a good look at the his face. The man was quick and somewhat lanky, Mathias could tell that much. He appeared to have light-blond hair and an odd little curl that bounced as he ran.
He saw the figure slip between to large, bearded, heavily intoxicated men who weren't exactly brawling, but seemed to be angry nonetheless due to the fact that they couldn't keep their balance.
The young man opened a thick wooden door which led to a back room.
Hah! Mathias thought, big mistake, pal! You think you can hide from me? You cost me a whole day's pay! I'll be damned if I'm getting that bag back... and I'm gonna make you regret it.
With a wicked smirk, forgetting that he himself was being followed, Mathias ducked under the arms of several guests and rammed his way through the door.
The wood burst open instantaneously.
The young fugitive in the corner of the back room turned to face him. For a brief instant, his expression reminded Mathias of a cornered rabbit, doomed to become the next meal of some hungry fox.
Mathias slammed the door shut behind him and lowered the board to lock it, trapping both he and his newfound prey inside.
The man with the curl suppressed his fear and his features became collected and serious. He knitted his brows together above deep, indigo eyes. His stance widened and he turned his body slightly to a defensive position.
Dark gloves covered the man's hands and a thick woolen cloak was draped around his upper body. Such garb was not unusual during this time of year. It often became bitterly cold even near the coastline, but this man, no- this teenager, with his frosty skin and hair, purple-blue eyes and wind-burned nose and cheeks, looked like the embodiment of winter itself.
"Get back," the stranger warned, taking a step backwards to add further distance between himself and Mathias.
Mathias barked another laugh and took a powerful step forward, ignoring the command.
"Heh. Buddy, judging by the size of you, you are not the one calling the shots right now."
"Dumb bastard, I said BACK OFF."
Mathias was starting to enjoy this. "Aw, you're almost kinda cute when you're mad." He took another step forward and withdrew his ax.
The stranger's eyes flickered toward Mathias' weapon before returning, cool and composed, to his eyes. "You started that fight out there." The man stated flatly, trying to buy himself time to figure a way out of the room without being hacked to bits.
"Guilty as charged," the Dane beamed proudly.
"Is this all you Danes are good for? Wreaking havoc upon people you have no quarrel with? Raiding ships and street merchants to make a living?"
"Well usually, but today it's a pub. Mixing it up a bit, I know. But actually..." Mathias leaned back slightly with a cold glint in his eyes. He held the stranger in place with his displeased glare. "...as bad-ass as we Danes are, some jag-off was still clumsy enough to bump into me and made me drop today's haul. Now, that's pretty damn near stealing if you ask me..."
The stranger continued to back away, but never once allowed his face to betray his thoughts. "Doesn't sound like the jag-off is the clumsy one... It was you who dropped the bag." The pale man's voice was rather monotone; it reminded Mathias of that Swedish fellow from before, only this man clearly had an attitude hidden beneath that calm facade.
"Well he could have at least apologized..." Mathias answered ominously, drawing closer and drumming his fingers casually over the handle of his ax.
The calm stranger didn't flinch. He responded boldly, "He probably figured a shit-bag like you deserved it."
Mathias's eyes grew large at the offensive remark. This little punk! He was gonna go easy on him too! Well he could forget that little mercy!
"You know a punishment fitting for thieves, don't you? Whatever hand is the one you pushed me with, that's the hand I'm taking off!"
Mathias raised his ax and advanced towards the man when suddenly, ripping off his cloak, the man revealed a bow and a quiver of arrows carefully concealed behind his back.
In one fluid motion, the stranger gripped the bow, notched an arrow and pointed it directly at Mathias.
That was right about the time shit began hitting the ceiling. Mathias' day was rapidly spiraling from bad to worse.
Things instantly became much more serious; this stranger was no longer just a victim trapped like a defenseless animal, these were suddenly two attackers, closed in a room, weapons drawn.
Worse, it was the stranger's weapon that was currently aimed to kill.
Silence enveloped the two men and made the storage space feel unbearably congested. The grunts and tumbles of men still fighting in the other room could be heard, albeit in muffled tones, through the logs of the wall.
The Danish man stared at the arrow pointing at his chest and began to slowly step back.
"H-hey," he chuckled nervously, "no need for that now..."
The man's unchanging expression remained steady as he challenged the spiky-haired villain with his wintry glare.
Mathias contemplated his options:
He could turn and run for the door. The man would undoubtedly shoot, but Mathias had a shield strapped to his back below his cloak. Perhaps that would be enough to protect him?
He decided it was not in his best interest to charge the man; his arrow was already loaded and that would only result in a faster death. But better to die with an arrow to the chest rather than the back, right?
Finally, he could try to talk his way out of the situation.
.
.
.
Hah! He cracked himself up sometimes. Okay, so options two and three were definitely out.
He decided option one - making a mad dash for the door - was his best chance.
Mathias continued backing away for a few more steps.
"Easy, buddy..." he said gently. "No one has to die here. We both know you don't have the guts to shoot that thing anyway."
Wrong.
Wrong words. Wrong time. Bad choice.
Mathias realized his mistake too late.
The tempted pools of indigo flared and just like that-
FLLLLLCK!
The arrow shot forth.
Mathias had nearly retreated back to the door when the projectile pierced his skin.
He did not even have time to turn around. The speed of the shot was so quick and so precise, no reflex could have evaded its path.
Mathias grunted and winced his eyes shut as the sharp end buried itself into his flesh.
He stumbled back a step due to the force of the impact and instinctively clutched his hands over the area where the arrow stuck out of his body.
Pain seared through him.
This was it.
He had NOT learned his lesson from earlier about underestimating his opponent, and now that mistake had cost him his life.
Good-bye cruel world!
.
Mathias waited.
Again, the room was silent save for the stifled panting of the archer across the room.
The pain was... not as great as Mathias expected.
He hesitantly pried one eye open, and then a second.
He looked down and realized that the arrow had not pierced his chest...
or his neck or his stomach or (thank the Lord) his groin.
"A shot to the shoulder?" he laughed haughtily. "You think a little prick like that is gonna stop me?" He chuckled and easily ripped the arrow from where it was lodged in his shoulder.
The wound was not even deep and the Dane didn't flinch during the split-second extraction. The laceration left behind was smaller than a pebble and it didn't even appear to be bleeding.
But the man who shot the arrow did not appear at all worried at Mathias's quick recovery. He did not look startled when the thief began to come forward once more, ax in hand, and he did not load another arrow.
Instead, he waited with a calm, evil smirk upon his icy lips.
Mathias noticed this. He stopped, his arrogant look of confidence evaporated and was replaced by an expression that greatly resembled a confused puppy.
"What?"
Almost on cue, searing pain ripped through Mathias's shoulder. It spread down his arm, up his neck and deep within his chest. It felt as if lava was now oozing painfully through his veins.
"Argh!" he clutched his chest and stumbled back against the wall next to the door.
He fell roughly against the wood and felt himself slide down until he was in a sitting position on the floor, propped against the wall.
His limbs felt heavy and weak. His body ached and burned with unbearable, indescribable agony.
His face morphed into a pained snarl.
"Wh-what the...?"
"It's poison," said the other voice in the room. The man's tone still sounded flat and controlled, but Mathias could sense the self-satisfaction in seeing his enemy's defeat. "Don't need to pierce the heart to kill an enemy... especially a stupid enemy... when you have poison-tipped arrows."
Mathias's eyes burned with hatred as he glared up at his foe who remained a safe distance across the room.
Yet, even now, as Mathias tried to think his way out of this dire situation, he was in a way accepting of it.
After all, this was the game.
Man against man, warrior against warrior. He had been outfoxed. He had made a mistake and now, if he was not cunning enough to save himself, he would lose. Die. And that's just how the game went.
And on some level, despite his obvious urge to live, he still loved this.
Because this was still his element. This was battle, and battle - confusing, thrilling, adrenaline-fueled battle - was life.
It was men being men, a game of warriors.
You drank, you fought, you stole and to the victor went the spoils.
Mathias wasn't a sore loser. He knew the rules: only the strongest, fastest, and most cunning men survived.
And then, something pounded against the door.
Both men nearly jumped at the intruding sound.
After a second's pause, an enormous slam caused the door to bulge forward.
Even in his moment of doom, Mathias practically rolled his eyes.
It was probably that dumb Swedish bastard finally found him.
And then, a beautiful, maniacal idea entered his mind.
A wide, devilish grin spread over the Dane's face, revealing his sharp canine teeth.
He looked up at the pallid man across the room through the dark shadow of his bangs.
With a flick of his wrist, Mathias lifted the board locking the door, and the man who had been pounding on the other side came bursting through the threshold.
Mathias saw the feet practically stumble into the room, and before anyone could move or speak, he STABBED the bloodied poison-arrow into the intruder's leg.
Mathias immediately looked at the man with the indigo eyes.
He had him now. Mathias had this mysterious 'man with the curl' pegged; he knew his type.
This man had originally run from Mathias. He avoided violence if possible and was clearly not the aggressive type. He could remain calm even when locked in a room with a man threatening to chop his hand off with an ax. Finally, he'd berated Mathias on his villainous actions - condemned pillaging and stealing - and he had only fired his weapon as a last-resort defense method (a moment later and Mathias might have used his ax to remove one of the archer's hands).
In other words, this man was soft. He had one of those annoying things called a conscience and that would be his downfall.
For, could this indigo-eyed man really allow an innocent bystander to be poisoned by one of his own arrows? No! Of course not. He would have to-
"Aaahh!" yelped a childish voice.
Mathias' head snapped up at the noise. Then, upon seeing the intruder's face, Mathias paled. The grin disappeared from his lips and his blood ran cold.
Because this person he had just stabbed in the leg was NOT the Swedish man. In fact, that was not any man at all. That was-
"B-brother...?"
"Emil!" cried the archer.
...a child.
The man's calm and collected attitude dissipated and he darted across the room, clutched the boy in his arms and held him fiercely.
"Emil, Emil..." he repeated breathlessly, eyes wide with primal fear.
Mathias only gawked at the scene. He instantly felt stick to his stomach.
That was a kid. An innocent child.
Women and children didn't play this game... EVERYONE KNEW THAT!
SO WHAT THE HECK WAS A GOD-DAMNED TEN-YEAR-OLD DOING HERE?!
And, dear God...
what had he just done?
Historical Notes
* Gothenburg, or Göteborg, is currently a city in Sweden. Although the city was not officially founded until the 17th century, there are churches in Göteborg dating back to the 1100s, when it was an independent petty kingdom. During this period, the Danish controlled the area to the south, while the Norwegians controlled the area to the north. Therefore, it wouldn't have been uncommon to have the mingling of Swedish, Danish, and Norwegian men at costal pit-stops such as this ale-house.
* The history of pubs can be traced back to Roman taverns. Formally called a public house (a house "open to the public"), or ale house, these drinking establishment have been popular in Northern European countries for centuries.
* The oldest Danish coins are the so-called korsmønter or "cross coins" minted by Harald Bluetooth in the late 10th century.
A/N
* One final note: the two 'gruff men from down by the docks' are not aph characters. They are simply background characters who do not play much of a role in this story.