1.

The land was all he had ever known. The land, his land, rushing rivers and towering mountains, forests of pine and dew, a vibrant rush of green shot through with ice-white. He felt it in every rock and leaf- home. There were people as well, the people who had first taken him in and given him his name. Sverige, he told them. But they shook their heads and laughed. Sverige was not a name, they said. Sverige was this, these fields and hills he saw in front of him. So they called him something else, something he liked to forget. But that was before. The children of the village grew up and moved away. Their mothers and fathers returned to the dirt, and he felt each and every death like it was his own. He was a freak. An outcast. The child who never aged. And so he ran, from his false friends, back to the forests where he had first come to be.

In the village they gave him food, bread and meat. But now there was no need for food. The trees filled him with life and air, carried him laughing between their branches, and the earth beneath his feet made him feel fuller than ever. Here, Sverige meant something else. It was not only his name, but this place's name; a name they shared. He knew he was different. Yet he and the land were one and the same.

One day, the forest came to a sudden end. A glistening mass of blue spread out before his eyes, perfectly flat...and yet it moved, swaying up and down in a rhythm he could not find. He found himself afraid- an inhuman fear of the unknown. For this was not Sverige. It was something else, a wild, untamed thing that he sensed no bond with. Not mine. The words appeared in his head, unbidden. He opened his mouth, as he had seen the people of the village do to communicate.

'Not mine.' It was like nothing he had ever felt before; like the most wonderful rush of being. A tightness at the back of his throat he had not known was there released suddenly. More words flooded forward, and he longed to say them all, to yell them to his skies and his stars.

'Sverige. Sverige. My land. My forest-'

Another voice cut him off. Hundreds of years from now, after countless wars and battles and deaths, this would still be the moment that frightened him most.

'You're like me.'

The speaker was a young boy, like him. His blond hair was wild and stood up in all directions, as though he had just crawled through a thicket of brambles. His eyes were blue- the same colour as the shining waves that were so strangely frightening. And they saw. They were not innocent and dull like those of the village children. They shone with clarity, understanding.

'Yes. I am like you. Sverige.'

The other boy frowned, mouthing the unfamiliar word.

'Sverige? Yes- you are.' He seemed to know, just as Sverige himself had known. And when he said his own name- whispered 'Danmark' with the same meaning that Sverige held- they both knew this was something different.

'What is this?' said Sverige, waving a hand at the blue waves. His new companion smiled.

'The sea, my people call it.'

'And it is yours?' Yours meant- do you feel it too? The irresistible pull to something that is truly your own.

'Yes. It is mine. And these forests are yours.'

They sat in silence for a while longer, staring at sea and sky. Sverige felt that pull all around him- to the trees, the pine needles scattered everywhere- to Danmark. A new word presented itself in his mind.

'Bror,' he said. It felt right somehow.

'Bror.' They looked at each other; nodded, smiled. And turned back to gaze upon the land that was theirs.

2.

'Sve,' he hissed, twisting round to face his brother. 'Sve, look.'

'My name's not Sve.' came the disgruntled reply from across the campfire. They were staying with a strange band of warriors, the ones who had given him his name, and his new friend was still distrustful of their great axes and braided hair. The leader was the wildest: a tall, broken-nosed man known only as Harald. He came from across the sea- had sailed there in a long painted ship- and referred to his homeland as Kongeriget Denmark.

'I'm-' he had blurted out at Harald's words, before a rough hand clapped across his mouth.

'I know what you are, boy. But the others cannot understand. So you must not tell them. Promise?' He made his promise in mutters and mumbles from behind the hand.

'But how do you know?' he asked when it was taken away. 'How are you different?'

'I am their-' The man hesitated then, looking for the right word. 'King. I am the king. Your king.' And when he said your, he did not mean it as a ruler. He meant it in a way that could not be described, a way that was the bond between the two of them and their land, the same connection that Sweden had described when he was first found. So Denmark did as he was told, and called himself by his strange human name.

'What is it? I'm trying to sleep.' Sweden's voice snapped him out of his reverie.

'Over there! That light!' He pointed up at the woods, from which a soft, greenish glow emitted. Sweden came up at his shoulder, rubbing his eyes between yawns. No sooner had he appeared then Denmark seized his hand, pulling him up and into the forest.

It was a lot darker there, amongst the pines and birches.

'Why are we going so slowly?' said Sweden. He sounded irritable, just as most people sounded irritable when speaking to Denmark.

'We're hunters,' replied his brother, dropping his voice to a hush. 'We have to sneak up on the light.' He felt as though he had covered his fears quite nicely, if Sweden's affirmative grunt was anything to go by. Silently (or perhaps not so) they crept through the woods, edging closer and closer to the green orb. It floated some way off the ground, casting shadows that resembled monsters and demons as long as their imaginations were in control.

'Sve,' he whispered at last. 'Maybe we should go-' A loud crack cut off his words, sending them both sprawling to the ground in terrified reflex. Denmark took the opportunity to go wild, yelling and waving his tiny dagger for all he was worth.

'Come out, whoever you are! I have a sword!'

'And I have this.' The reply was spoken by an unfamiliar voice- a smooth, distinctly cold voice.

'Den, you idiot,' said Sweden, creating a new nickname whilst his brother was distracted. 'Get back here now.'

The green light paled and dimmed, until they could both see a small hand beneath it. Then an arm was visible, then the other...a pair of legs, a head, a face...

'Who are you? Actually, what are you?' Sweden was tempted to slap Denmark for his stupidity, but refrained so as not to make a bad impression on the newcomer.

'I am Norge. Norway.' Norway's hair was bone-white-blond, his eyes deep and blue as the northern sky.

'Sve, he's like us,' breathed Denmark, awed. His face was slack with wonder- the most mesmerised Sweden had ever seen him.

'I know.' He put out a hand to Norway, and felt it- the pull of a brother. A friend.

3.

Norway had been with them for around a month when they left Sweden. He was shy, and kept to himself more often than not, preferring to practise his strange magic tricks alone in the woods. Denmark remained as entranced as he had been that first day, to the point where Sweden found himself missing his brother's boisterous presence.

'Come on, Den,' he would say. 'Leave Nor alone. He'll send one of his demons after you, or something.' It had been quite a shock when Norway assured him coolly that he could in fact see demons, and was not afraid to use them. The day they were to leave, Norway stood at the prow of the longship, gazing out at the ever-rocking sea. Denmark was several paces behind him, but that distance might have been nothing for the look of complete devotion seared across his face, focused on Norway's pale head. A strange sensation was building up inside of Sweden. His brother had grown taller these past few weeks, with the strength to match and a fiery courage that was prone to idiocy. He held the power in their little trio, it was plain to see. Not even Norway's blank stares could deter him from anything, and he was the one who decided what they should do and when. But Harald is going to make us great. He promised.

Sweden's eyes were fixed on the shore as the boat moved away, wanting to preserve this image of his home for as long as possible. With every oarstroke, he felt his power depleting. The sea was not his home; it was wild and untamed, just like Denmark, and he could not understand it, just as he could not understand the world of strange magics that Norway hid himself in. A harsh laugh scattered his thoughts. He looked up, seeing Harald and Denmark thrashing at each other with a pair of huge, curved battleaxes. Their eyes were alight with a terrifying joy, a pleasure in fighting that Sweden had never felt. Harald's warriors had taught him the ways of the sword, making him slash and cut and parry until every movement was as natural as breathing. He did not not enjoy it; on the contrary, it all seemed rather pointless, with him being almost half the size of some of the men. Watching Denmark now, Sweden could tell that he had abandoned all training and conscious thought. His actions became fuelled by brutality, a desire to win- and that was what set them apart. I could never defeat a warrior better than me, not even with luck. He does not consider losing, so he always wins.

'Well fought.' Den offered Harald a hand, pulling him up from the ship's deck. Sweden was shocked to note that he came nearly to his shoulder, even though at the start of the month he and his brother had been the same height.

'What's the matter, Sve?' A hand mussed his hair, perhaps more roughly than intended. 'You always look so dour. Like a living raincloud.' Denmark laughed, proud of his simile, and for the first time since their meeting, Sweden was tempted to strike him. I can be strong too. He strode to the other end of the boat. Breathing in the cold sea air helped. One day, he knew his country would be great. He would hear the cry of 'Kungariket Sverige' from the throats of ten thousand warriors, Swedish warriors. Sweden smiled at the thought. Although he was leaving his home now, he knew he would return. Stronger, and better.

But that night feelings of guilt began to creep up on him. There was no sound of oars splashing to muffle his thoughts, no howling winds to shield his mind. We could build an empire together. Norway, Denmark and Sweden. A perfect alliance. None of that was achievable without him. He looked over to the other side of the boat, where his brothers slept. Denmark was sprawled across his bench, one arm flung out and the other curled behind his head. Norway lay more sedately, small and still beneath his furred cloak. But he too had one arm outstretched. They had fallen asleep holding hands- Denmark and Norway, as unlike one another as fire and water. A chill crept over Sweden. Suddenly being alone did not seem so good. He needed his brothers, even if they needed each other more than they needed him. Sweden rolled over and willed for sleep to come. Something warm, wet and entirely unwelcome streamed from each eye. He ignored it, tried to push down the pain. And at last fell into a fitful slumber, aboard the ship that carried him, albeit unknowingly, to a land ripe for plunder and conquer- a land called England.

4.

Norway had always thought that he would be alone. No one else could see his spirits, no one believed in his faeries, and they were terrified of his magic. And for a while, that had not mattered. He lived, perfectly happy, in the forests of his home, with no desire to leave and seek new lands. Sometimes a human might approach; man, woman or child- all left soon enough, not wanting to confront the small, pale boy with centuries-deep eyes. He never felt lonely. Not when he had the land, and his magic. But the day came when everything changed- when two other boys stumbled across him practicing his spells, in the dead of night when they should have been asleep. Norway did not need magic to tell that they were like him. They were bound by something ancient and powerful to their people, a tie that in turn drew them to each other. So he had gone with them, much against his better judgement.

This new life unsettled Norway somewhat. He could sit for hours in silence beside Sweden, never feeling uncomfortable, both of them expressing something words could not. A friend- that was what Sweden was. And Denmark...he was loud, boisterous, always smiling- that damned smile- and never left Norway alone. Even Sweden knew not to interfere with Norway's magics. But Denmark pestered him relentlessly, until he found himself wishing that he could show the other his spirits, if only it would make him go away. He wanted to share that world of spellcasting and mystery with Denmark, wanted to take him to the highest peaks of his land and watch the strange lights in the sky there. Denmark was a warrior, a fierce ball of energy, brave and brash and idiotic- everything Norway looked down upon, yet somehow combined to create a person he never thought he would end up liking. But that was what had happened.

'Land.' he said. Sweden beside him nodded, eyes fixed on the strip of green in the distance. The one who called himself king, Harald, had been particularly ambiguous about their destination, preferring to say that it was a place that would bring them greatness. Now it seemed they had arrived. A small rowing boat was let down. Suddenly Norway felt panic rising within him; this was not a place he could understand, a place where the bond of nation went by another name.

'Sve, where are we?' he said, forgetting in his worry to always call him Sweden, never the stupid nickname that Denmark used. Sweden only shook his head. A voice called his name.

'Nor, come on!' He looked down to see Denmark sat in the little boat, Harald and axe in tow as ever. Something inside of Norway twisted uncomfortably. Then he slipped over the side of the longboat and joined the others.

Arthur watched the sunrise through pinched, tired eyes. It was raining, as ever, and his blond hair was plastered to his forehead. But that was the least of his worries. On the horizon he glimpsed sails, painted bold red and white. Another attack; that was the third this month. The Vikings would come in their strange low ships, murder two dozen or so villagers, and if they were lucky, a couple might manage to scale the town's stout stone walls. They left with their bloodlust sated and pockets full of gold- that Arthur could tolerate. As long as his country remained free, he did not complain. The rule of the Romans was still horribly fresh in his mind. And yet, something was different this time. He sensed a strange pull from across the waters, a pull not unlike that between him and his brothers, pagan Allistor and quiet Dylan. This pull did not mean well. It carried strength, fury, the weight of a growing power...Arthur yanked up the hood of his cloak, and wheeled round, shouting for the guardsmen to ready themselves.

The coat of mail came first. It was followed by worn leather armour, rags stuffed between for extra padding, then a dark green tunic over everything. That was the extent of Arthur's protection for this battle. He slung a dented metal cap over his head, and picked up his sword. Let them come. We will never fall. This might be a mere raid; it might be something more. Harald Bluetooth was rumoured to be sailing with the party this time, a warrior feared even here in England. He had his own kingdom- a small thing yet, but he could be looking for more land to add. Arthur's heart hardened. I must not fail. He strode outside and joined his fighters at the battlements. They greeted him with a series of respectful nods. Arthur may have been small, but he had proved himself in war, defending against the attacks of his brother Allistor's barbaric people.

They did not have to wait long. The Vikings wasted no time, leaping ashore and running into the first houses they saw. Sometimes the thatched roof would set alight, and a man would run out, hands filled with gold. Other times one of the English soldiers stationed there stepped forward, covered in the blood of his dead foeman.

'Archers.' The sound of bowstrings tightening filled the air. 'Nock. Draw. Loose.' Volley after volley of arrows rained down upon the attackers. Some had thought to bring shields, and crouched safe behind them; others resembled oversized geese after a while. Arthur found his eye caught by a band of fighters at the western shore. One wore a cloak dyed brazen red, and handled his huge battleaxe with surprising grace. He was the tallest of the three; his two companions were smaller, almost child-sized. But they too aquitted themselves well, bringing down every Englishman that approached. And then Arthur understood. This was why he had felt the pull of another nation, why he had greeted the Viking boats with far more trepidation than usual.

'The wall is yours,' he told his second-in-command, a grizzled bear of a man who was the veteran of a hundred battles. 'Be sure that you hold it. I'm going down there.' Before he had a chance to reply, Arthur was sprinting down the steps, sword brandished in front of him. Voices called his name, but he ignored them utterly.

He cut down every man before him, made fiendish by the need to know these others, to take their land and make them submit to England. Once, the tides of battle brought Arthur face to face with Harald Bluetooth. It was for a mere second, but that marked his only moment of fear in the whole day.

'Arthur!' He spun about, to see one of his own men in the doorway of a house. 'What are you-' A feathered shaft sprouted from his eye. He crumpled to the floor, dead.

'Who-' Arthur turned yet again, to see the shortest of the three nation-warriors behind him. He was stony-faced and deep-eyed, with a small bow in one hand. The other hand was held aloft, and in it sparks swirled-

'Wait!' yelled Arthur. 'I'm like you-' The sparks struck him in the stomach, making him double at the waist and cough. But through the pain, his mind whirled. His greatest secret, the thing that no one knew, whilst several people knew he was a nation...magic. Spirits and faeries, demons that were kind only to him, powers and spells he had to keep hidden. Now there was someone to share all that with. Someone who was an enemy.

'Nor!' a loud voice called out. It belonged to the tall one with the red cloak, who was in the middle of killing a gate sentry. He spoke some more words in a strange language, now hacking at the gate with his axe.

'What's he saying?' demanded Arthur. 'Nor' turned back to him with an expression of such blankness, that Arthur had never felt more insignificant. He shook his pale head slightly, then spoke.

'I am Norway.' Norway's voice was quiet and accented. 'We have taken your land. You must stay here. Sweden-' He called out over his shoulder in that same language, then ran off to join his tall friend. Sweden was not so tall, and less ethereal, but Arthur was intimidated the most by him. Brothers. They are brothers. As he sat there, waiting at the point of Sweden's sword whilst wild foreigners took his homeland, Arthur felt an inexplicable envy. He was alone: these three helped each other. For the first time since the Romans, he feared that he would soon lose his freedom.

5.

Several decades had passed since that momentous day, when England knelt before them in the hall of his leaders and ceded his stronghold. They had fought and plundered, killed and stolen, grown strong under the leadership of Harald Bluetooth. 'The best years' Denmark would come to call them, when he looked back upon his long and bloody history. Sweden and Norway were less inclined to agree. Their own kings were weaker, preferring to keep to their remote castles and not meddle in foreign affairs, which left them vulnerable to attack. It was quite obvious who held the power. The day Harald died, his only regret not conquering England, Sweden thought now? Should I run now? But then he saw Denmark's face, wretched with grief- and knew he could not leave his brother just yet.

'England!' Denmark's jubilant voice echoed around the room. He jabbed a finger onto the map, pointing at the stretch of sea separating the two countries.

'You're sure?' said Norway. 'They know to expect us now. It won't be an easy battle.'

'Of course I'm sure! The king has asked us to prepare a plan of attack, and he wants it ready by tomorrow.' The king was never spoken of in tones less than reverent, at least where Denmark was concerned. His name was Cnut, and he was a grandson of Harald Bluetooth's, which automatically granted him some form of respect. But Sweden had to agree with that sentiment. Cnut was cunning where Harald had simply been bold, with a blend of youth and genuine skill that made him a formidable foe on the battlefield.

'I suggest we land here,' he said, pointing on the map at that same fishing village they had once wrested from England. 'Then we can come through here-' His finger swept northwards- '-and attack these two towns, which leaves us free to besiege London.' Norway frowned.

'We'll need time to regain our strength before going to London. And they might send out sea power of their own.'

'Then we'll fight them at sea!' cut in Denmark. Norway looked ready to dismiss him entirely, but he kept talking. 'No one builds better boats than us. They know that. All we have to do is take the supplies from those two towns, and wait. They can't stay behind their walls forever.'

There was a sudden silence.

'He's right.' muttered Sweden after a moment. Norway nodded reluctantly.

'Perhaps you do have a brain in there after all.' he said. Denmark's face split into a wide smile, clearly not having enough brain to realise it wasn't a compliment.

'Thanks, Nor!' Sweden cleared his throat, and gestured back at the map.

'Taking London guarantees us the south, but we still have the northerners to deal with. They're like a people of their own.' Denmark's grin widened.

'Don't worry about that, little brother. I've got it sorted.' He stabbed his finger into the small peninsula that was Denmark, moving it to the upper half of England. 'The king has asked me to take a fleet up there, landing at the nearby monastery. You and Nor provide the distraction down south, whilst I secure us the north. We'll conquer England in no time!' Sweden forgot his momentary irritation, and allowed himself to be swept away on the glory of the words. They would soon be great- he, Norway and Denmark, three corners of an empire that ruled as coldly as the North itself.

'All right.' he nodded. 'Let's go.'

Several days later, Sweden found himself at the head of a battle fleet, once more sailing towards the green strip of land that was England. Norway stood silent at his side. Denmark had bidden them farewell with customary cheer, setting off for the north in the company of King Cnut. He was childishly excited about this expedition, Sweden and Norway less so. Their role was that of diversion- the diversion was usually expendable.

'We'll see him again,' said Sweden, unprompted. Norway shot him a look. There were several expressions intertwined there- indignation, wounded pride, but perhaps a little relief too. Sweden knew, beneath his perfectly cold exterior, Norway hid strong emotions he would rather keep concealed. His aloofness had only come after years of practice, years of pretending he did not care. We all must harden our hearts. He had done the same: had staredd unflinching at blood when he wanted to faint, watched countless companions grow old, wither and die, had tried desperately not to feel guilty at his own eternal youth.

The village was different to when they last saw it. Sweden remembered a cluster of small wattle-and-daub houses with thatched roofs, one thin curtain wall hiding the main town, bands of unblooded warriors and the screams of the dying. In all, a pitiful sight. Which could not be said of what faced him now. He counted at least two hundred spear-tips, flashing silver in the sunlight, spread out throughout the town. Though the name town was less of a lie now. The houses were gone, replaced by a harbour where ten warships rested, cruel iron prows pointing mockingly at the approaching Viking ships. He could just glimpse soldiers on those too, like little pin-men. But the wall was the worst part. It was at least twice as tall as last time, undoubtedly thicker as well. Archers lined the top, bows poised ready for enemy flesh. The commander was unmistakeable- a smallish man in the middle, bearing the flag of the English king Aethelred. With a jolt, Sweden wondered if it was him: the boy everyone had called Arthur, to hide his true identity. He is a nation. Just like us. And now his power has grown.

He unsheathed his sword and stepped to the front of the boat, pleased to hear forty warriors behind him do the same. But Norway had not noticed. He was scrambling to the edge, shouting to the neighbouring ship's captain. When the two boats were close enough, he leapt from Sweden's side and onto the deck of the other ship.

'Norway! What are you doing?' No, he couldn't abandon them now- he was being foolish, selfish. Norway's face was blank and unreadable, as ever.

'We'll never take the town like this!' he called over the wind. 'We're turning now, to look like we're fleeing. Then we'll land somewhere further west and bring the attack from behind.' Sweden hesitated. The plan seemed logical- when was Norway ever anything but logical?

'All right,' he said at last. 'I'll see you again!' Norway shouted something, but it was whipped away in the brewing storm. Sweden fixed his eyes on the horizon, and prayed that he would be reunited with his brothers soon.

6.

He was sure he had done the right thing. He had to be sure. Norway's fingers drummed out an anxious beat on the ship's side, eyes fixed straight ahead. He appeared calm- but to anyone who knew him well, they would have noticed the grim set of his face, the rigid way in which he held himself, and would immediately deduce that there was something wrong. This was my idea. It will be my fault if everything goes wrong. Their journey was not a long one, a few miles at best, and then he would be reunited with Sweden, hopefully having crushed England's first line of defence.

'Faster,' he muttered to the drummer. The man hesitated, but began to beat more quickly upon his instrument. The rowers complied, propelling their arms back and forward until sweat broke out upon their faces. They would be tired after this- too tired to fight? A sick feeling churned its way around Norway's stomach. He felt dizzy, feverish, despite the brisk winds blowing across his face.

'Land!' There was a booming crash as twenty pairs of oars dropped, followed by the loud exhilaration and relief of forty Vikings. But Norway could not share in their joy. Had he brought too few men? Would Sweden be waiting for him on the other side of the wall, only to discover that he had died for nothing? Or were there too many- which meant his brother further downshore was doomed? Doubt after doubt circled about his mind, and he only nodded distractedly when one of the warriors told him they were beginning to approach the shore. Please. If there's any gods out there, please. Let this work. Let us live. He asked Odin, the old god of his people, asked the new Christian god, asked every other god he could think of until Norway was entirely sure he could get into any heaven he chose.

The seawater seeped into his boots. He ignored it; simply unsheathed his sword, and looked to the north. I will see him again. His men talked quietly amongst themselves, laughed and compared axes, cursed and mocked one another, did anything but acknowledge the bowed head of their leader, shoulders weighed down with responsibility. At last, the towering wall of the village came into view. Just as Norway had suspected, it was heavily unguarded, with only four sentries present. A few well-placed arrows were enough to get rid of them. Then it was onwards, on to the wooden gate, which fell to the axes of his men. He could feel himself shaking. There was a strange heat to his blood, a frenzy which made him want to run screaming into the town and carve everything to pieces with his sword. Battle fever. Those two words made Norway smile. He had always been cold- now it appeared he had some warmth in him. All his doubts fell away suddenly.

'For Cnut.' he said, turning to the band of warriors. Some repeated it, others took up the cry- then it spread through the crowd, rumbling and rising until Norway could feel the glorious rhythm of victory racing through him.

'For Cnut! For the king!' They came forwards, breaking into a run. Norway saw the petrified faces of villagers, heads poking from windows as they heard the alien shouts, and rejoiced in the harsh words of his language, words that only made sense to him and these people beside him- these people that would kill and die and live today.

The wall was a scene of utter carnage. He raced into it blindly, carving the first soldier he saw in half, dancing about the Englishmen and cutting them down as easily as though they were posts of wood stuck in mud.

'Nor! Norway! Norge!' Sweden waved to him from high up on the wall, sword dripping ruby-red. His brother was terrifying, a great tall demon bathed in the blood of his enemies, a smile that somehow fitted plastered across his face- and yet Norway loved him all the more for his barbaric look. He was up the steps in an instant, as though wings had carried him there. Never had battle been so beautiful. The two of them fought back-to-back, moving to music that no others could hear, showing the English what it truly meant to be a warrior. Man after man fell before their swords. The stink of the bodies did not exist, nor their tortured screams- only this existed, this fury and glory and wonder.

'England! There!' Norway looked past where Sweden pointed his sword, to see the pale head of their enemy whipping round the corner. He knew England was taller, faster, more spite-fuelled and battle-hardened. And he also knew that he could catch him. Norway's legs set off at the same furious pace that had brought him running into the town. It was so easy- to just sprint after England and seize him by the shoulder. His magic bubbled up from within, spewing out in a crackle of red light.

'Your land is mine. Ours.' Sweden came up beside him, and laid the tip of his sword against England's neck.

'Surrender.' England's eyes flashed upwards. They were green, the colour of summer leaves. Too warm for this fight. His throat worked furiously as he swallowed, coughing before he gave his answer. His country had withstood the might of Rome, the wild Picts and barbarian Gauls. But nothing could overcome the cold of the North.

'I surrender.'

They made him say it again later, twice- once in the hall of the village- the other kneeling by his defeated king, Edmund Ironside, in the siege-battered city of London. Norway had never felt so full, full of victory and glory and greatness. That was the most he had seen Sweden smile for decades. But the best day was the day their king came home. He rode at the head of a great Viking horde, laden with English gold, English treasure, and the smell of English blood about him. Norway heard the hooves of the horses first. He assembled the welcoming party at the gates of London, he and Sweden and their commanders stood proud, with England on his knees before them in the dirt. When Cnut came galloping through the smashed gates, he took his crown from the hands of the defeated nation himself. And right behind him, riding over the ruined wood with his crimson cloak streaming behind him, and his great battleaxe stained the same colour, was Denmark. He vaulted carelessly off his horse and threw himself at Sweden and Norway.

Cnut was crowned on what the English called Christmas Day, in their own capital of London. Norway could not keep the grin off his face as the new monarch was hailed- and as Denmark took his hand, vowing that they would always be together.

7.

As the years went by, the dynamics of their little group changed. Rising kingdoms and empires meant that their rulers needed them more, so there was less time to see each other. They were not brothers anymore so much as allies, not friends like they were confidantes and advisors. Freedom became a thing of the past. But through it all, Denmark had managed to keep his promise to Norway- that they would always be together. They spilt the months between each other's kingdoms, spending half a year in Oslo and half a year in Copenhagen, leaving only when it was absolutely necessary. Time passed strangely. A ruler might live for five years, ten years, half a century. To them it was nothing. They remained young on the outside, aging one year for every hundred that passed. But it left its mark on the inside. Denmark felt as though he knew Norway utterly, completely, as well as he knew himself. The colour of the sky at night was his eyes- deep velvet blue, silver-speckled- the way the sun came up on a winter's morning was pale and touched with gold, just like his hair. He knew his light, quick walk, knew how he liked to be left alone every full moon to practice his magic, how when he smiled, it began slowly- then happened all at once, face splitting into a grin that rivalled the glory of a summer's day. They had each other memorised- and only memory like that could come from countless decades' worth of companionship.

Yet Denmark felt as though he hardly knew Sweden at all. The tall, awkward child had grown into a man who was taciturn and cold by turns, with a warmth underneath that he never quite revealed. He served his king quietly but well, fought only when it was necessary, acted as an envoy to both Denmark and Norway- but never acknowledged those he had once called brother with more than a respectful nod.

'What's wrong with him?' Denmark burst to Norway out one day, after Sweden had answered every one of his questions with either a single word or a blank stare. They were in Stockholm to discuss a renewal of the alliance between their countries, an event that should have been a joyful reunion. Norway rolled his eyes.

'He's jealous. Envious. We-' He broke off abruptly, staring at his lap.

'Jealous of what, Nor? Things have never been better! We're powerful, rich, we can invade anyone we want, withstand any war-'

'He's jealous of us.' The words came out quickly, so quickly that Denmark had to replay them several times in his head to be sure.

'What do you mean?' They stared at each other for a long moment- sky-blue eyes facing deep navy, a fight between light and dark. To both their surprises, Norway broke away first.

'How we're close.' he muttered. 'For every week we spend with him, we spend six months with each other. We're always together- think about it. When was the last time one of us saw him alone, not as a pair?' Denmark felt sudden guilt building up inside of him.

'I don't know.' he mumbled at last.

'Exactly. We know each other better than anyone, and yet we don't know him. Our brother.' Denmark did not reply. He clasped his hands together; unclasped them, buried his head in his hands and let out a long breath.

'Norge-'

'Oh, Den, can't you see? He's lonely.' And suddenly, as though a light had flickered in his head, he could see. How Sweden looked at them both- intensely, with no clear emotion. How he made excuses and begged off from catching up, preferring to spend long hours signing parchments and discussing politics with his king. Everything Denmark found hideously boring- but now he saw that his brother buried himself in work to hide his pain. To forget.

'Nor,' he said, reaching out his arms. Norway sat down next to him- and they held each other tight, embracing with something more than the bond between two friends. 'I'll talk to him,' he whispered into Norway's hair. 'I don't want him to drift away.' As he resolved to bring back his brother, so did something else surface. A tie between him and Norway. A tie that ran deeper than anything they had felt before.

Sweden trudged over fallen branches, careless of the snow that was piling up in his hair. How long he had walked for, he did not know- and he did not care. There was a pain inside him that hurt more than the cold, an aching wound that could not repair itself. It had plagued him for so many years. Denmark was his true brother, bound in blood as well as friendship, a steadfast companion through so many years of war and toil. They had fought together, laughed together, bled together...and now they were hardly together at all. Norway. His other brother was not really that at all- a brother made through cautious conversation, through alliances and a shared pleasure in silence. A brother of similarity, rather than blood. Three. Always three, unbreakable, unmoveable, undefeated. Now that three was falling apart. He saw it- the open affection with which Denmark looked at Norway, something strange and soft in his eyes. And how Norway returned those gazes when Denmark turned away, only darker and more fiery in their passion. Soon it went further than mere staring. They lived in each other's castles, sharing meals and counsel- and for all he knew, a bed. Sweden had no doubt, that, if he asked, he would be welcome to join them in their constant companionship. But he would always be something of an outsider, kept away from the secret jokes that only the other two understood, alienated by his silence. A stranger.

So Sweden gave it up. He worked harder than ever before, so much so that even his king told him to take a break, trained daily with the sword to release the tightness inside him, did everything but meet with Denmark and Norway. And now he was further away from them than ever- but not so far that it did not still hurt. Sweden stopped his walking for a second, breathing in deeply. This was no longer his land. He felt certain of it. He had gone east, starting from the fringe of Stockholm and continuing from dawn until dusk. This was wild country, the forests empty of sentries and the border left unguarded. Only the sky above was familiar- but dark, too dark to be outside at night. I have to find somewhere to stay. Briefly he wondered if his brothers had noticed his absence, if they would send someone to find him. Somehow Sweden doubted it. If I just died, here and now, would they care? Would they remember? So long he stood there, wrapped in his bleak reverie, that he did not notice a pair of eyes staring at him from out of the gloom.

'Ruotsi.' The voice startled him, and he gave a shout, reaching for a sword that was not there.

'Who are you? Show yourself!'

'Ruotsi.' The speaker stepped forward. He was young, sixteen at most, dressed in pale blue. His hair was not unlike Norway's, but softer, more golden, fringe just touching above a pair of strange violet eyes. They seemed to glow in the darkness, a beacon of hope and light that Sweden was still disinclined to trust. The boy seemed harmless enough- but he had made that mistake before during wars, and paid the price in blood. 'Ruotsi.' Something stirred inside of Sweden. He felt- though it could not be, it was madness- that 'Ruotsi' was his name, just as he was Sverige in his own tongue.

'Is that my name?' The boy did not appear to understand. He gazed up at Sweden, a puzzled smile on his face, and pressed two fingers to his lips. I do not speak your language. Sweden understood his meaning perfectly. It disturbed him. 'What...what is your name?'

'Suomi.' Suomi. Images flashed through his head- images of clear, glassy lakes, forests of pine and birch, a cold snow that settled over everything. And a darkness to the east, a darkness that made Sweden feel absurdly protective. He followed when the boy began to walk, much against his better judgement. The forest seemed warmer somehow. They travelled in silence, though a hundred questions burst up in Sweden's usually quiet mind. Who are you? Where are we? What is this place? He had other suspicions too- suspicions that could only be satisfied by careful observation.

His companion was utterly at home in the forest, skipping over every broken branch, feet hardly seeming to sink into the snow. In comparison Sweden was dull, tired, plodding. He nearly cried out in relief when a light came into view, illuminating the walls of a wooden house. It stood in a clearing, long and low, nothing like the royal castles that Sweden had become accustomed to. But he followed the boy in anyway. Where there was light there was warmth, and he wanted nothing more than to be warm just then. Inside, the wooden house was a hive of activity, countless people crammed in that made it seem much bigger than it was. Children chased after each other, screeching in words that made no sense to Sweden, five or six men sat round a barrel in various stages of intoxication, and there were several women on the other side of the room laughing and pointing at them. A sudden heat blossomed through Sweden, a heat that was not the heat of fires. A heat that meant more to him.

His strange new friend was speaking to an older-looking woman sat by the fire, who nodded along with his words. At last she rose to her feet.

'You are Ruotsi.' she said, in the halting tones of a foreigner.

'Yes.' It seemed to be the right thing to say.

'Then you are welcome here, for tonight. But tomorrow you must leave, with- with-' She cast her eyes about the room, as though searching for the right word. 'With Suomi. Take him. Protect him from Venäjä. He is like you.' Sweden looked back at the boy, who was clearly not that anymore- now a nation, friend, new ally. He wondered who Venäjä was. A different word came to mind.

'Finland.' he said. The boy shrugged, nodded, seeming to accept his new name. Suomi was too different, too strange. Finland would serve him better.

That night, Sweden slept soundly for the first time in years. He forgot Denmark, forgot Norway, forgot everything expect the boy with the violet eyes, who was mystery, wonder- beauty.

8.

Sweden's return was not as he had imagined it, but pleasing nevertheless. He walked through the gates of Stockholm, to find Denmark waiting for him, smiling, and for once alone.

'Bror,' he murmured, enfolding Sweden in a tight embrace. He did not know whether to feel shocked, or grateful, or both. When was the last time he held anyone but Norway? Just as they broke away, he thought he heard Denmark breathe, 'I'm sorry'. But it was too quiet to be sure.

'Where's Norway?' Sweden asked guardedly. It was best not to get too hopeful in these situations. Denmark's face grew pensive.

'Gone to his colonies- to Iceland. There's been some unrest up there.' He straightened, and smiled again.

'Who's this you've brought back with you?' Sweden hesitated. Finland had been his and his alone, if only for a few hours, and that was a luxury he rarely felt.

'Go on,' he whispered, nudging Finland gently in the back. 'This is Finland. He'll be staying with us for a while.' Comprehension dawned in Denmark's eyes. He looked at Sweden- Finland's one of us, our brother.

'Welcome to Stockholm! I'm assuming you've never been before?' He had been a Viking not so long ago, and no doubt for Finland the sight of him rushing forward, hand outstretched, was quite a frightening one. Finland made a small noise, stepping back.

'Doesn't speak our language.' explained Sweden. 'But he'll learn.' Denmark nodded enthusiastically.

'Let's get him inside! We've postponed the negotiations for a while, at least until Norway gets back. We can't risk Iceland declaring independence just now.'

Finland turned out to be an avid drinker, much to Denmark's delight. He downed countless flagons of the finest dark ale, making toasts in his own tongue that grew increasingly long and complicated.

'It's no good, Sve.' mumbled Denmark, after what must have been his twentieth or thirtieth tankard of ale. 'I'll never beat him. He's more of an alcoholic than me.' Sweden simply smiled. He had accepted one small glass of the stuff, not wanting to make a fool of himself in front of their new friend. It was proving to be a sound decision. Some time after midnight, Finland reached into the small bag he had brought with him and pulled out a bottle full of clear liquid. 'Vodka', he called it. Denmark groaned.

'I've heard of that stuff. It's completely lethal.' Nevertheless, he managed to consume a full mug of it, before collapsing comatose onto the table. Finland laughed delightedly, draining his own cup. Sweden's head jerked up. Finland's laughter- he had never heard a sound like it. Clear, unslurred by alcohol, like the chiming of a dozen glass bells. I want to make him laugh again. He dismissed the thought as quickly as it came. Why would Finland- strange, lovely, hard-as-iron Finland- ever be interested in him? Even Denmark, drunk half the time and good for little but fighting, was probably more appealing. But Sweden could not stop himself from smiling. He caught Finland's eye; lilac, heather, violet, more flower-coloured than anything.

'Brother.'

'What?'

'Brother.' Finland pointed from Denmark to Sweden, then to himself. 'Brothers.'

Something clenched inside of Sweden. He did not truly want Finland as a brother, (wanted him as a companion through the centuries who would stand by him no matter what, who would smile at him and see past the grim face, be strong and loyal and loving-) not as Denmark was his brother.

'Friend.' he said. 'Friend.' Puzzlement crossed Finland's face, which only served to make it more endearing.

'Friend.' he repeated slowly. That same bright smile flashed suddenly. He touched Sweden lightly on the shoulder, then was gone, moving with his customary grace. Sweden stood there, empty cup in hand, for so long it might have been millenia.

'Sve?' Denmark's voice jerked him back to the present. He turned to look at his brother, and was shocked to see his face crumpled with sorrow. 'We're back together again, aren't we? Please?' He had always let more slip when drunk, that was true. And Sweden had yearned for this day. But now he had a choice. Finland, and half-stolen glances, a rare brush of hands, hope so slim it might as well be invisible? Or the brothers that had been with him for so many decades? Both. A voice entered his head. Why not both?

'Yes.' said Sweden. 'Yes. We're all together.'

Whilst his brothers reconciled to the south with their new friend, Norway was heading north. The swaying deck beneath his feet felt strange. There had been no need for sea battles in a long while, now that their populations had grown sufficiently for a proper army. But Norway knew the sea would always hold a special place in his heart. He sat at the prow, the wind in his hair, accompanied by a sense of freedom that was only now beginning to feel familiar. Where else did salt spray taste so sweet, where else could churning blue monsters be seen as beautiful, but out upon the open ocean? Denmark would have given much to be here now. Out of the three of them, he had always revelled in the open waters most. But for once, he had declined the opportunity to be reunited with his first love.

'I shouldn't, Nor.' he said, when Norway told him about the situation in Iceland. 'It wouldn't be fair on Sweden. You go. I'll stay here and wait for him.' It had been a mournful, but bravely smiling Denmark that waved Norway off at the harbour. He will be all right. He is strong.

Norway took in a deep breath when they were put ashore, inhaling the scent of this strange, wild place. When he first discovered it all those years ago, it had been the same- the green smell, fresh and brisk, laden with heather's muted fragrance, and snows so cold he could almost touch them, feel the ice against his fingers. And now its people have risen up. As rumour would have it, at least. He set off up the bank, walking past several empty fishing nets. The little settlement soon came into view. It was composed of a few dozen small cottages, scattered with seeming randomness across the island, presided over by a wooden longhall. A few sheep grazed in a waterlogged field; somewhere overhead, a seabird squawked. There was not much else. Norway felt shame prickling at him; this was his colony, his responsibility, and it was his fault if anything went wrong. Which, knowing his luck, it had.

It took him nearly a full minute of pounding before the longhall's door finally creaked open. An elderly woman poked her head around the frame, eyes boring into Norway and his little band of warriors.

'You can come in,' she said, pointing one talon-like finger at Norway. 'You-' she indicated the others- '-stay here.' Inside it was a little more hospitable, with several cookfires burning merrily and the usual collection of drunks up on the dais. There was a tall, red-haired woman amongst them; she seemed to be outdrinking the considerably larger men around her.

'Ingrid Jørnsdottir,' muttered the crone. 'She's fancied herself a warrior ever since she killed that one raider two summers ago.' Norway frowned. Raiders? He kept the thought to himself. If there was truly a rebellion being hatched in Iceland, it would not do to aggravate the people further.

'I wish to speak with your leader.' he said, pulling off his gloves. 'Please.' He was led to a seat right beside the cookfire, next to a man sporting a rather magnificent auburn beard. Norway did not fail to note the way the man eyed his engraved dagger, nor the fine leather of his boots.

'I have been sent here by the king, to discuss-'

'I know why you're here.'

'Very well.' He did not allow himself to be perturbed. 'In that case, might I be permitted to address your people? This is a matter of great concern to His Grace.' The man snorted.

'When's he ever concerned himself with us?' His voice was guttural and deeply accented, which only made Norway more aware of how formal his own words sounded. I have become soft. Suddenly he realised he was no true Viking anymore; he wore silk and silver, sat beside a king in council and had his own servants to attend him.

'What's the matter? Something trouble your pretty head?' He laughed when Norway did not answer. 'I'll give you my name, if you give me yours. I'm Jørn. Jørn Liefsson.' That would make him the father of the drunk girl up on the dais.

'Lukas Bondevik.' Norway managed, stumbling over the words. It felt unnatural. His brothers called him Norge, Norway, Nor (and how he had smiled when Denmark whispered 'elskede' in his ear that day at the harbour). Indeed, Jørn found it ridiculous too.

'That's a pretty name.' he said teasingly. 'Only we both know it's not true. You're more dangerous than all my best warriors put together. Than me. And all because of what you are.' A chill came over Norway. How? How does he know? How? How? He could hold no other thought; his mouth was dry, despite the mug of ale at his elbow.

'There's no rebellion.' he said softly. Jørn nodded. A cruel grin cracked across his face.

'But there's something worse.'

'What?'

'One of them. One of you.' All at once, his feeling returned, brighter and better than before. Another one! One of us! Jørn's disgusted tone was lost on him.

'Where?' Norway blurted out frantically, discomfort forgotten. 'Can you take me?' But the man simply snorted again, shaking his great red mane.

'Your sort's wrong. Evil. You were never meant to exist. I'm not going back to that place again.' And with that, he rose, leaving Norway sat speechless on his own. There was no rebellion, no threat to his kingdom. He had been lured here, lured by the fear of people that were too far from anywhere to understand. And now there was another nation, waiting to be found.

Norway ignored the shouts of Jørn Liefsson, ignored the confused words of his men outside, ignored everything except the ground beneath his feet, the path that would carry him to a new brother. Not going back there. Not going back there. What struck him so by the word there? He pondered as he walked, careless of the swamp-like land and the water gushing into his boots. And then he stopped. For there was the answer. Towering, colossal, terrifying- a mountain spewing red ash, as close to hell as living man could see. He set one foot upon the rock, and began to climb.

Later, when he returned home, Norway would wave off those that called him a madman- Denmark amongst them. Because he knew it had been worth it. Worth it to brave the smoke and molten rock, for a brother that adored him- a boy with snow-pale hair and amethyst eyes- for Iceland.

9.

Teaching Finland Swedish proved to be no small task. He could write well enough, in a flowing script that made the letters look like art, but more often than not he used Finnish. When Sweden attempted to talk to him, he would give that blank-but-lovely stare of his, and turn away from his self-appointed teacher.

'Give it up,' Denmark often said. 'If he doesn't want to learn, you can't make him.' But that was his attitude in everything- he saw no point in trying to fix something that didn't work. Sweden hoped fervently that he was wrong. He wanted to speak to Finland in a language that was not one of stolen glances and half-smiles, wanted to give voice to his secret thoughts. So he persevered. Finland was made to read scrolls and notes from the king's councils, made to copy out hundreds of words thousands of times over, and at the end of the day, had to read a passage from the Bible. Denmark and Sweden both listened to his reading every night, though they were still wary of the Christian faith. Odin and the other gods had passed out of living memory, so it fell to them to honour their old religion, never truly accepting the one God and his ordered world.

'Love is pat...patient.' read Finland that night, as the three of them were gathered around the fire. 'Love is kind. It does not- does not en...envy. It is not-' He hesitated, finger under one word.

'Proud.' mumbled Sweden.

'It is not proud. It does not- dis- dishonour others, it is not self-see...seeking.' Sweden's head jerked up. Was that what he was- self-seeking? Did he teach Finland merely for his own gain? The Bible, to him at least, was a constant mystery. It preached that love was a good feeling, and should be nurtured. And it damned those like him, those like his brothers, who loved each other more than they would ever admit, damned them to hell.

'It is not-'

'Stop.' He rose, taking the book from Finland's hands. 'I don't want you to read that anymore.' Finland stared up at him with bewildered violet eyes. Sweden forced a smile. 'You can read what you like now.' There was a pause as Finland deciphered his words. Then he beamed brightly, nodding and mumbling his thanks in broken Swedish. Denmark watched him go with a fond expression on his face.

'What was that, lillebror? Going to teach him the ways of Odin now?' Sweden said nothing. A curious burning sensation had built up inside him, focused on the little black book in his hand. I love him. It is true. And if the book forbade that love, than he would turn his back on it. He crossed the room and wedged it between two slats of wood, not quite brave enough to burn the thing. Denmark nodded. 'Good decision. I always preferred a bit of paganism.' Finland returned at that moment, perfectly on cue. He was struggling with a thick leather-bound tome, gold-edged and worn.

'I like- I want this. To read this.' That earned him another smile. Denmark laughed, swinging his legs over the side of his chair.

'Should be a good read. As far as I recall, some of the entries are in blood. Particularly yours, Sve.' For once Sweden returned his laugh, remembering. This book belonged to them- he, Norway and Denmark- and had been where they recorded every one of their journeys or battles. And indeed, some of it was done in blood.

'Hard to get ink in the middle of a war,' muttered Sweden, just failing to suppress his smile. Finland resumed his position in front of the fire, book spread across his knees.

'December 25th,' he read fluently. 'Lon- London, England. Today ou- our- king was crowned.'

'This one's mine.' cut in Denmark. 'Gods, I miss old Cnut.'

'The North is ours. We ru- rule from the seas, from the- the-'

'Earth.'

'The earth, from a thr- throne of gold. And we will never give up our em- empi- empire.' He looked up, awed.

'When was this? When was your- kingdom?'

Denmark and Sweden exchanged a look. The loss of England had been a crushing blow, not to mention the death of Norway's king in trying to reclaim it. Their invasions there were a thing of the past, reduced to petty raiding to induct new warriors.

'A long time ago,' said Sweden gently. 'Something best forgotten.' Finland screwed up his face in concentration.

'Then- then I will forget.' he stuttered.

'No. Don't forget. Read the book. That's who we were before we met you.' His smile kindled, flickered- then burst into flame, a radiance across his whole face that tied Sweden's throat in knots.

'Thank you.' said Finland. He touched Sweden's hand. It was nothing really, the lightest brush of fingers, but to Sweden it felt as though his whole world was floating in the heavens. He watched Finland leave again, this time clutching the precious book, eyes lingering on the door long after Finland was gone. A sudden laugh jerked him from his daze.

'You're not exactly subtle, are you? It's a good thing the boy's so innocent, or he'd have got out of here as fast as he could.'

That was probably the thing Sweden detested most about his brother. Denmark could be drinking and joking one moment, perfectly harmless. In the next he would display his irritating talent for finding the thing that bothered a certain person most. And in this case, he had done so for Sweden. I thought I was safe. I thought no one would know. But was he really that transparent? Did every word, every look to Finland reveal his true feelings? Perhaps Denmark was just suffering lack-of-Norway withdrawal symptoms. Either way, he had cut Sweden right to the quick.

'Going to bed.' he muttered, making for the stairs.

'Godnat, Sve, Make sure it's your own room you end up in.' The sound of Denmark's laughter haunted his dreams that night.

Norway came back the next day, hopefully ready to put Denmark back under his control. His brothers, old and new, waited for him at the harbour. Denmark began to shout and wave the second he spotted the sails, energetic as a puppy.

'Who?' whispered Finland. Sweden resisted the urge to sweep those blond locks from his forehead.

'Norway,' he said. 'Our brother. You'll like him. He's quiet too.' Norway stepped elegantly from his boat, ever correct. He frowned at Finland.

'Who's this?'

'Our new brother. I found him a few weeks ago.' Sweden ushered Finland forward. He smiled at Norway and extended his hand, just as he had been taught. Norway shifted the bundle in his arms and took Finland's hand briefly, before turning to Denmark, who looked positively explosive with excitement.

'Nor!' he said, holding out his arms. But to all their surprises, Norway ignored him.

'We need to get inside,' he said. 'I've got something to show you.'

They gathered around Finland's storytelling fire, Norway in a high-backed chair. He shifted his bundle, pulling away at the top. A collective gasp hissed about the room. For there, swaddled in countless layers of blankets, lay a child. His eyes were the strangest thing Sweden had ever seen, a shining purple even brighter than Finland's, ringed in indigo. He could just see tufts of white-blond hair, poking from beneath the wrappings.

'What's his name?' whispered Denmark. He appeared utterly entranced- a look Sweden had seen only once before.

'Iceland. He's Iceland.' Iceland was a colony of Norway's, previously with no human representative. There could be only one reason why one had appeared now- the little island's strength was growing, growing to an extent that it needed a channel for its power. Norway smiled- a little sadly, thought Sweden.

'He won't be so small for long. The people there- they're becoming aggressive, independent. It'll take a lot to keep him a colony forever.'

'Can I hold him?' said Denmark, still slightly dazed. Norway shot him a fierce look.

'He's my little brother, and if you think I'd trust him to a clumsy idiot like you, then you've got less of a brain than I thought. If that's possible, of course.'

'But I can still hold him?'

'Fine.' They took turns admiring Iceland's ethereal, almost fairy-like features, sighing in unison when he let out a little yawn.

'The boldest Viking in history, felled by a small baby.' muttered Norway. Denmark, who currently had possession of Iceland, grinned broadly.

'You think I'm the boldest Viking in history?' Norway flushed.

'I never said that. Idiot.' But he was already returning Denmark's embrace.

'What are they doing?' said Finland in a small voice. Iceland had been passed to him after Norway's little slip of the tongue, and he clutched the little nation tightly.

'They- they're-' Sweden could not find the words to describe Norway and Denmark's relationship. It was a strange one, admittedly. They circled each other constantly, closing in at moments, joined by a force that linked fire and ice.

'Love. They're in love.' He blushed as he said it, the words too romantic for his tongue.

'We are not!'

'Oh, come on, Nor! That's not fair!'

From that day on, they were five, five united by blood and more, inseparable in any combination. Finland soon became fluent in Swedish, despite his original misgivings, and quickly learnt its few differences to Danish and Norwegian. When they were alone they used Old Norse, or stumbled along in Finnish at Finland's insistence. Those days were good ones. Iceland never knew the violent childhood of his older brothers, instead growing up in various castles. He rarely voiced memories of his own land. Denmark and Norway became ever closer, no matter how much they denied it. And Sweden could only watch- watch in envy and despair, as his stern face and crippling fear alike kept him from Finland. But soon they were to be bound together closer than ever. For when a letter arrived from Denmark, away with his queen in Copenhagen, it signalled the start of a union that would make and break countless bonds.