[Fanfiction] Seeds
Title: Seeds
Author: sarageneris / sarageneris / kanadka
Prompt: Iceland, Sweden - Celebration/holiday | Viking age or Modern
Other characters: Denmark, Norway (briefly), Wales (super briefly)
Rating: PG
Content notes: History based, some notes at end if you're curious. Momentary and non-permanent nation death.
Summary: When Norway goes west to colonise North America, he needs someone to look after Iceland.
Sweden gets the letter when he's in the east again.
I'm going off west for a bit, writes Norway. I need you to come home for a few years.
It doesn't quite say please. But Sweden understands that while Norse has words for pleasantries and niceties - sometimes they've been useful to use with the English - Norway himself all but ignores them. Then again, Sweden is a gruff fellow, and isn't one for change, so he can't exactly comment.
No, Norway uses ...other magic words.
Sweden is sorely tempted not to pay the letter any heed - because Norway's the one paying attention to his halfwit boss, who styles himself a saint and drones on about Christianisation business - and he, Denmark and Norway had a right time blasting each other out of the water at Svolder about it all.
And yet...
And yet there is a longing to it that he feels after that night's feast. A nagging at the back of his mind. A...presence. Twice he turns, feeling there is someone watching him. Both times his eyes land on the letter first. He doesn't remember having moved it, but it follows him around anyway. It seems to stare at him.
This is when he decides he needs to leave his small hut.
He is in the midst of drinking a decent firewater his compatriots have secured when he hears, loud and clear, as though Norway himself is sitting beside him, I need you to come home for a few years. Sweden spills the drink all over his cheeks.
His jarls know he isn't as young as he appears but they tease him anyway. "First day wit' cher new lips!" they laugh. Sweden scowls as he wipes off his cheek with the back of his hand.
It happens again later that night as he's falling asleep. The wind through the leaves, and then a soft whisper, like from a bedmate, Norway upon the pillow beside him, It's just for a few years -
Sweden is wide awake in seconds, leaping to action, grabbing his closest shortsword -
- there is nobody here.
He looks left. Right. Turns around.
It's dark out.
Can't spare a few years for yer brother? I ain't askin' the world.
Norway's voice again, aloud. As though he is in the bed beside him.
Whut's family for, then? If not fer favours?
But there is nobody here.
Sweden dumps the letter in the fire the next morning as they're boiling breakfast and thinks nothing more of it. He'll have none of Norway's tricks.
"We ain't brothers," says Sweden to the fire. Brothers don't try to convert one another. Brothers don't pull underhanded magic tricks when they get defeated.
Of course, it's not that simple, and two more sleepless nights pass, spent sleepless with Norway's voice, before Sweden finally tells the head of his command in this place that he intends to return to the homeland than meet up with other Varangians.
When he reaches the East Sea he hears, Thank you, brother. God bless you. It sounds like Norway truly means it.
"Shaddup about that. 'M not doin' this fer you," Sweden grumbles, as he boards the boat destined home.
But you are doin' it. It'll be good for you, too. I've someone you ought to meet.
"If this's like that time Danm'rk brought me t' th' brothel," Sweden begins in a warning tone.
It isn't. Come find out.
Of course, since the rowing slaves can't see who he's talking to, they all think he's mad. On the upside, everybody leaves him alone.
--
Months later, Sweden has returned to what he calls home.
Norway, he finds, is waiting for him, along with a small basket. The contents, Sweden can't see, but he dearly hopes they're edible. "Havn't y'got places t'be 'n England?" he asks. "Thought y'were goin' west."
"Wester still," Norway says. He says it in a cryptic manner that aggravates Sweden and yet arouses his curiosity.
Sweden settles for, "Do I get t'know?" instead, paired with an eyeroll.
"We'll see how it works out. Mebbe you'll even have someone new to meet. In the meantime, though..." Norway makes his way to the basket. His back to Sweden, he bends over it a second and picks something up.
It's a thing swaddled in furs. Oh, no.
"Meet Island," says Norway. Iceland is a tiny thing, but not so tiny that he needs still to be swaddled. He's about two but looks non-verbal. It could just be that he doesn't want to talk in front of Norway. Norway's not often conducive to conversation.
"Yer jokin'," Sweden says flatly.
Norway shakes his head. "I'll come back in about a decade for more settlers. This trip's just for testin' the waters, so to speak. Don't want to lose every able man with some parts'f England still up in arms. But in the meantime, this one wants takin' care of."
"And y'can't ask Danmark," supposes Sweden.
Norway answers him with a stony look. "I like him," he says, and for a moment Sweden isn't sure who Norway is talking about. "I found him, too. On the place out in the rocks, from the isles, east'f Grœnland. The one in the middle of the ocean. I found him when we landed, almost instantly. Knew he was one'f us when I saw him. But more'n that... He looks like me, don't you think?" Norway approaches with the child in his arms. He touches the tip of his finger to the babe's fat cheek and pokes it gently, affectionately.
"I ask again," Sweden says, "Danmark's round these parts more'n I am these days. Can't take'm t' the east. I'll hafta stay back while yer gone. Make much more sense if -"
"I like him," Norway repeats, "that's why I'm not trusting him to Danmark, I'm trusting him to you. Though you been keepin' the faith, an' Danmark hasn't. Shouldn't let no brother'f mine be raised with horse meat but you're more responsible 'n Danmark. Y'won't go off if you've got somethin' t'care for."
"I should be gone off now! Norge, I didn't ask fer this -"
"And let's be fair, y'owe me. For Svolder. Or ain't a part o' me yer fiefdom now? You'd think you'd like the sounds of more 'f my land." Norway sounds ticked. Sweden pouts. He can't and won't contest that Svolder - largely a battle of who-worships-what - indeed ended with some of Norway in Danish and Swedish hands. His fault for backing the wrong god. "Now hold yer hands out."
Even as he holds his arms out, Sweden is protesting, "But - I gotta - don' want t' - aw, c'mon, Nor' -" Norway rests the tiny child upon them. It blinks up at him under a fringe of white hair, with big eyes so deep a blue they might be purple. Sweden's not so old himself - still something of a child, although the fat of childhood has vanished from his face, perhaps an adolescent if he thought about it - but even so, Iceland's entire hand is the size of his thumb.
Oh no, thinks Sweden, his heart pounding, he's cute.
It's very difficult being a Viking who likes cute things.
"See?" says Norway. "Knew you'd like him."
"I hate you sometimes," Sweden replies.
And Norway grins.
--
It's only for ten years. That means something to the people Sweden oversees, but not-much to Sweden himself, who is older than any of them even if he doesn't look it. When he returns to the Varangians it may well be to a whole new set of people. New jarls, new warriors, new thralls. But same old Sweden.
"Can y'speak?" Sweden asks Iceland.
Iceland blinks up at him, stone-cold silent.
He doesn't say anything for the next month, and when he does, only gurgles. Sweden, who's never been the most talkative nation he knows, makes the best effort he can to fill the silence. He suspects Iceland's annoyed with his efforts, piss-poor as they are, even though Iceland is two and not capable of such judgements.
Give him land, he'll farm it happily; but the nation itself? And a child? Sweden has absolutely no idea what to do.
--
Denmark returns later that summer.
"Sverige! Thought I sensed ya 'round these parts. Missed ya last time, what're y'doin' back here so soon?" He elbows Sweden in the side. "Eastern sea guys got sick'f ya, didn't they?"
"Yer arm bands're missing," Sweden notes.
Denmark blushes. "Yeah, went down again at the battlefield in th' shield wall and uh, someone took 'em off me when I was out dead. Say, where's Nor'?"
"Went west," Sweden snaps. It's not been three minutes and already he's a little sick of Denmark. "Said it wasn't a trip fer cowards. Y' should go find 'im," he lies.
"That so? Sverige, I'll be right back!" And Denmark is out the door in a flash.
--
Denmark returns again before the snow flies. "Y' sure he went west?" he asks. "I mean, how west did he go? Came for him by the island where he found that kid - can't find the kid though. He take him with, y'think?"
Sweden shrugs.
"Well," says Denmark, "it's too late t' go back west again, I'll have to finish what I was doing next year. What're y' planning for Christ's mass?"
"What'm I plannin' fer what?"
"You know!" Sweden gives him a blank look. "The birth of the - that kid with the thing, th' one whut got 'imself nailed, 's just after midwinter, lotsa prayin' quiet reflection an' hopin' to smite them pagans?"
"Danmark," says Sweden slowly, patiently, as though talking to a child (though if Island could talk yet - he still hasn't - Sweden suspects he'd say better things than Denmark does), "you are one'f those 'pagans'."
"Am not!" Denmark retorts hotly, puffing out his chest.
"Since when?"
"My king said he's gonna preach th' gospel, so I gotta be all good an' non-paganly."
"That was Bluetooth," Sweden says. "His son don't put stock in that nonsense. He's yer king now."
Denmark doesn't seem to hear him. "By the way," and here he winks conspiratorially, "it's s'pose ta be no-meat, no-drink during the mass, but y' won't tell if I have just a glass, will you?"
"Yer secret's safe with me," Sweden says flatly.
"Yeah? Great! 'Cause it's thirsty work, prayin' for godly smiting an' - heyyy! wouldja look who it is!"
Sweden doesn't like the sound of that. He turns to finally look at Denmark and spots Iceland at the doorway. Damned loudmouth Denmark must've woken him up. Iceland has the long fur Sweden uses as a baby blanket clutched in his tiny fist.
"Didn't tell me y'd met th' kiddo," Denmark says. "C'mere, honey!" Denmark squats down and holds his arms open. Iceland remains where he is at the threshold of the door, glaring at Denmark behind the security of fur.
Sweden snorts. "He's just shy," Denmark decides. "Say, if Norge left'm here with you, he musta gone real westerly," he realises.
"That he did," Sweden replies.
"Then he won't be back in time for Christ's mass - oh, boss won't like that -"
"His boss's th' one what sent 'im over the west seas," Sweden supplies. "Think he knows Norge's not comin' back fer awhile."
Denmark's face falls. "He went that far without me? What, 's his place overrun with giants'r summat? What's he got to go so far for?"
He shrugs. In truth, Norway hadn't told Sweden anything.
Denmark gestures to Iceland. "Well. If I'm gonna catch up, I best take him, then -"
"Oh no y'don't," Sweden says. "Norway gave 'im t' me. He's my charge."
"Aw c'mon," says Denmark, "I'm not gonna eat 'im! An' he knows me better!"
"Does not," Sweden argues. "Now, y'can stay for dinner but after that y' get th' boot, 'cause Island needs his rest, and he's not gonna get any with you here flappin' yer gums nonstop like y'been doin' th' past twenty minutes."
"I can't spend no time with our new baby brother?" Denmark pouts.
Sweden remains steadfast.
Still, after dinner and 'before dessert' (so says Denmark, although Sweden hasn't made anything sweet and isn't planning on it either) he catches Denmark, waggling his fingers in front of Iceland's face, tickling Iceland's chubby little feet. Judging by the peals of childish laugher, Iceland appears to love it.
Sweden scowls even harder.
--
It's the first time Sweden is back home for Midwinter in nearly thirty years. He had previously returned at various spots in the seasons for errands, but doesn't like travelling in the dead of cold with the darkest, longest nights. Even if death doesn't take for him, Sweden would gladly pick dying in the shield wall than drowning or freezing (or both) any day.
Midwinter celebrations take almost two months to run their course, beginning with the diseblot and alvablot. Sweden picks an auroch and slaughters it with his longsword. The flesh he cuts into pieces. and scatters over the hill behind his house. Iceland watches, somewhat confused. Many others who live in the settlement where he has set up a small farm are doing the same, and for a night the hill is brownish red. The next morning it rains hard. Another blood-sacrifice for fertility is made to Frej later that month. It is followed by a day of peaceful snow. Sweden takes it as a sign that Oden, Frej, and the elves are satisfied.
There is a proper swine-feast three neighbours' down for Yule, with a toast of ale for a good and peaceful year. Sweden does his share of eating but less drinking this year. Iceland gets the weakest ale possible; water needs boiling but he is too young to drink mead. Everywhere Sweden takes him, women coo over him, asking if his mother still gives him her breast. The first time this happened, Sweden stammered through the blush and admitted there was no mother, which drew him sad looks from the crowd. Now he just grunts and nobody keeps up conversation.
In many places, however, folk have been kind enough to take pity on the poor youth with the toddler - even if Sweden didn't ask for pity. Especially if he didn't ask for pity. At least, it nets them free food, and some toys for Iceland, not that he appears to like them much.
For Midwinter Night, not long after the shortest day, Sweden indulges in a goat, and they feast happily upon it. It's not the nicest part of the animal. Stewing meat, for Sweden isn't yet good at cooking besides boiling things until the broth has stolen all the flavor from the flesh, and also because he likes to gift the nicest parts to the gods, leaving them outside in the snow.
It turns out Iceland doesn't think much of goat soup. Sweden feeds him a little stale bread, dipped in the broth, and this is roughly the same thing Sweden feeds him every other day. But he seems to like it, because he eats it, so to Iceland there is no difference in the menu on this special feast day. After he eats that, he manages to feed Iceland half an apple and a little honey.
Sweden is certain he was never this picky an eater at Iceland's age.
--
The following year, not long after the final chief sacrifice at the Disting, at the end of the short days, Sweden wakes up to find Iceland very suddenly a toddler.
He spends a good fifteen minutes goggling in disbelief at Iceland, too in awe to remember that he's probably supposed to feed him.
"Big bro'r?" asks Iceland hopefully. "'m hungry."
These are the first words Iceland has ever said to him, and possibly - dare he think it - the first words Iceland has ever said at all.
He likes the way that sounds. Big brother.
That's how they're built, beings like Sweden. (And Norway and Denmark, which is why they're both out scouting for new lands.) It's a privilege, an honour to be big brother to someone. That means responsibility, and responsibility implies stability, progress on a national level. It's good for the little sibling; it's incredible for you.
But raising a young country is not easy; it comes in leaps and bounds. Sometimes randomly. And your boss doesn't always work with you on these things. Maybe one year you've an ally and the next it's a revolt.
Humans don't understand the nature of the relationships between beings such as them. They're too transient. A sibling becomes an adult friend in some ten years. A sibling for a nation can be for a century or more.
It's logical, Sweden supposes, that Iceland's progress is because things have been going well in this region for Norway. Their growth is never linear. But part of him secretly hopes it's because of Sweden himself. The way he talks is a little like child-speak. And a little like Sweden's own mannerisms, he likes to think.
Iceland spends the rest of the year babbling. Sweden corrects him sometimes but Iceland never seems to learn how to talk properly, so eventually he gives up on pronunciation. And although Sweden still isn't the talkative type, Iceland grows more comfortable around him with every passing day.
One night, he even falls asleep against Sweden's chest as Sweden is telling him a bedtime story.
It is so very difficult being a Viking who likes cute things, thinks Sweden, as he puts Iceland to bed and tucks him in beneath his furs. The child fast asleep, Sweden allows himself a moment of weakness and caresses his fat, baby-smooth cheek with a pang in his chest he calls fondness.
Denmark, when he comes by, is still the one who succeeds in making Iceland laugh.
Sweden doesn't think Denmark's antics are all that funny.
--
Four more winters pass, and a letter comes. Sweden expects it to be from Norway, but it's from Denmark.
Got caught in a bind, it says. Spot of trouble with the Britons. Found the guy in charge - the one like us! But he doesn't want to let me go. Nasty bugger. Been lucky to send this. Can you come help? Please, Sverige! I don't want another winter here!
Denmark's an obnoxious fool at the best of times, and part of Sweden wants to let him stay there til spring, but he reconsiders. Denmark did say 'please', and Iceland, when he finds the letter and demands it read to him, wails until Sweden agrees to bring Denmark back.
Of course, there's only three of them, and with Norway over the western seas and Denmark at the mercy of the Celts, that makes Sweden the only one who can take care of Iceland.
So Iceland comes with him.
May word of this never get back to Norway, he thinks as he rides, Iceland strapped in front of him in a sling across his chest. Or Norway will never trust him with his charges again.
Iceland doesn't think much of the longboat to England, and isn't perturbed by the rocking motion. Sweden, however, is glad when they land.
Now, to find Denmark.
He lands in Danish-governed territory where he meets briefly with the Danish king to interrogate him about that ill-mannered nation-folk brute who barely passes for one of Sweden's brethren. Sven Tveskägg directs him west to the mountains, beyond the Great Dyke, and says that's where they took Denmark. Naturally, his king doesn't follow.
So Sweden journeys awhile, a good season by horse. It would have been swifter to come by sea, but he doesn't trust the ports on that side of the island, and the Britons would kill him on sight. During this time Iceland remains approximately three and a half. He speaks clearly now, and more with every day. Sweden hopes that isn't Denmark's influence; one loudmouth in this family's enough.
The day finally comes that he arrives close enough to the great mountain that he must be careful not to alert the Britons or their scouts. "We'll camp here," he tells Iceland, and dismounts. He feeds Iceland a quick meal of hard bread and an apple and takes his quiver and bow into the forest for himself.
He's not far - he's never far when he's with Iceland - maybe twenty paces ahead when he spots a delicious-looking deer. Skade be praised, he mouths the words, not trusting his voice, help me, goddess - Sweden readies his bow with an arrow, stretches it back and -
- utter darkness, and nothing more.
--
Sweden wakes up to the sky pouring rain on him. He sits up, dazed. It wasn't raining before, was it? Why would he sit out in the rain, he could catch a death cold like that, that's annoying -
He doesn't remember covering the fire. It must be out! Iceland will catch cold, kids are fragile -
Iceland.
"Shit," he swears and curses, "and troll's dung and swine's piss, Island," for he left Iceland not twenty paces behind him and had turned his back for no more than a minute.
The fire is long out. It looks like it's been a few days. Iceland and his furs are nowhere to be found.
What can one do to a child? thinks Sweden, terrified. These barbarian Britons, might they sacrifice him to one of their heathen gods? Would they eat him? Would they sell him off as a slave? Iceland could be anywhere from here to the Eastern Seas by now! Sweden's heart sinks. And Norway had trusted him!
He remembers Denmark's words: Found the guy in charge - the one like us! But he doesn't want to let me go. Nasty bugger. That's curious, since Denmark rarely has the effect on people of wanting him around. Sweden suspects the Briton nation must be vexed already.
It's worth a shot! After all, isn't it much easier to find someone on your home territory? One of them? And maybe the Briton nation has found Iceland and doesn't want to let him go, either.
--
The Briton nation - who the English call Wēalas, but he calls himself Kum-ree (and will still answer to a generic Britonia) - is found in the northern parts of the nation, upon the largest mountain. "Took some time for you to find me, didn't it," he says.
"That it did," Sweden says. "Y'could've come t' me. Y' knew I was lookin'. Y' knew where I was."
"I could've," he agrees. "Well! Can't imagine you want to trade," he says acidly.
"Help me find th' little one I was with," begs Sweden. "Help me find him, don't care 'bout invadin', don't care 'bout yer land or yer people, though I'll grant you 's a pretty piece. I just want 'im back."
The Briton nation smiles dimple-wide and shakes his head. "Can't help you," he says, "I've no clue who you mean."
"Please!" Sweden says. "I'll - I've a fiefdom, hardly usin' it, y'could take it -" he'll raid back Norway's land - his new fiefdom - acre by acre but it doesn't matter about later, he needs Iceland back now. No Iceland would piss Norway off more.
"Not interested." He turns his back. In parting, he says, "Your little friend, by the way, finally managed to escape last full moon. If you could find him first and drag him out of my country once and for all, I'd be much more obliged to do you some favours."
Sweden is torn between finding Denmark because Denmark might have clues to where Iceland is, and finding Denmark because he'll muck things up if Sweden isn't there to fix it, and not giving two shits about Denmark because Iceland is the more pressing issue and Denmark's old enough to fight his own battles and Sweden doesn't feel like doing favours for a Celtic nation he hardly knows.
In the end he merely returns home, empty-handed, ready to raise an army to take Iceland back.
It's not the first time he's tasted defeat, but there isn't much he can do on his own.
--
When he returns to his house he finds Denmark at the big table by the hearth, carving himself an apple. Every so often he throws the peels across the table to Iceland who gobbles them up.
"Whatdja do, swim here?" asks Denmark. "Sure took ya long enough."
Sweden is so mad he sees red.
"Did you take my horse?" he asks, very slowly and seriously.
Denmark laughs. Sweden's fist literally itches with the urge to plant one on Denmark's face. "I wasn't th' one t' slay you an' take everythin' ya had," he says. "Rookie mistake! Don't turn your back on th' Brythons. An' they gotcha, right in the head. Was nice'n quick! No, but I found the idiots what did it t' ya. You'll be pleased t'know I made 'em reconsider!"
"Yes thank you so much," Sweden says drily, as Denmark puffs out his chest like a proud knight errant. "An' Island?"
"What of 'im?"
"Was he well when y'found 'im, had they done anythin' t' him? Did y'get 'em if they did, 't least?"
"Pfft!" Denmark scoffs. He tosses a smaller piece of peel in a smooth arc and Iceland catches it with his mouth. "Kid'd picked up your short sword ya left back at th' camp and had 'em dancin' like a bowlegged drunk! Think he takes after me."
"Like hell he does -"
"Guys!" It's a third voice, much higher-pitched, mumbling through a mouthful of apple. Iceland is pouting with his arms crossed over his chest. "I'm right here! Don't talk about me like I'm not even there!"
Now that he looks at him properly - after the elation that he's alive and safe (even if he was with Denmark) has passed - Sweden notices something.
"Y' grew," he says.
"He what now?" Denmark asks.
"Y' were three, mebbe four, now you're easily five, 'r six."
Denmark looks at Iceland, squints, double-takes, and then returns to Sweden with a cocky grin. "Don't look so shocked that I can have a good effect on some folk," he snaps. "Happens sometimes!"
"It happens never, ya shaggy-haired shortwit," mutters Sweden.
"You didn't even notice!" wails Iceland.
"I- I was busy!" blurts Denmark.
"Busy bein' a shortwit," Sweden supplies.
"Oh, don't you start!"
"Now that you're back, can you make us some bread? Dan' can't cook worth a damn."
"Don't swear, yer too young."
"Danmörk's only thirteen and he swears!"
"I can too cook!"
"And he boiled all your grain for porridge so he put ale in the bread to rise it, but he put too much and it stank up the room and fell apart mid-bake, and all I've eaten are apples because he doesn't cook those."
If ever Sweden had doubts that Iceland was one of them, they disappear utterly.
--
Denmark manages to wheedle Sweden into letting him stay with them through to spring-time.
This winds up being one of the worst ideas Sweden's ever had (and Sweden's had some pretty bad ideas) because of midwinter.
Midwinter this year is temperate and fair, with the snow falling peacefully if at all and the harvests rich and plentiful. The whole settlement is vibrant with life and glory to the gods and his neighbours are merry, asking after him at alvablot, inviting him to Yule for the large feast.
Denmark, meanwhile, gets drunk in the streets and prattles on about a one true god. Many of Sweden's citizens are annoyed and some are even upset, because Denmark isn't being very polite.
And he insists on having fish made for Christ's mass, especially since it falls on Frej's day. Since Denmark can't cook - Iceland is quite correct - he manages to put out the fire twice and everything in Sweden's tiny hut smells of smoked, charred fish. Waste of fish, waste of fuel. Even throughout their meals as Denmark proceeds to eat the stew and then pick out all the meat like it didn't sit there in the broth all day, he can't shut his fool mouth. "You know we gotta do it eventually!" he says, with a mouthful of cooked turnips and hard bread. "Even Norge agrees!"
"Norge got his ass whupped at Svoldar, because I seem t' recall you agreed with me 'bout his saintly king!" Which come to think of it ... "An' that one got to th' throne pretty fast on Danish coin, didn't he?"
Denmark shrugs. "Bluetooth was touched by God, whut can I say."
"Y' don't even believe in that nonsense," Sweden spits.
The ale isn't quite so weak today, because this is some of the stuff Denmark brewed, and despite saying he wouldn't touch a drop he's had a bit too much. Both of them have had a bit too much.
"I'll tell you what I believe in!" Denmark roars suddenly. He slams his hands on the table and his mug of ale (which he's not supposed to be drinking!) falls down, rolls off the table and cracks on the floor. "I believe if we don't get some sort'f unification goin' on we're gonna be overrun by Germanien, an' then it won't matter who thinks what!"
"An' y' don't think we can repel any threat on our regular own with our old gods?"
Denmark rolls his eyes. "How can ya be so dumb? Thought you were th' smart one!"
Dumb?! "Most'f yer people still hold true t' them faiths!" shouts Sweden. "Yer new king holds true! Not so dumb at all!"
"But Norge says -"
"Norge's not even here! Fer cryin' out loud, his god-talk failed so he up an' ran t' th' west, leavin' me here with a child!"
And that's when Iceland starts to bawl.
Sweden is at his side in an instant, as is Denmark, although Denmark is much less useful and is more or less just flapping his hands ineffectively. Finally Sweden hears him mutter, sounding nervous, "This wouldn't happen'f Norge was here."
He likely means to do it under his breath. It's probably a thought he meant to keep to himself. It's maybe even true, because Norway is a lot more patient with Denmark than Sweden is.
But Denmark has always had trouble keeping quiet, and Sweden is in no mood to tolerate insults.
"Out," says Sweden, deadly calm. "Go take refuge in one'f yer churches."
"Aw, c'mon, Sverige, it's th' dead'f midwinter -"
"Which means nothin' to ya 'cause y'don't even celebrate it anymore. Now get!"
Denmark looks to Sweden, who is immobile, then to Iceland, who is still sniffling.
Then he turns tail and shuffles out the door. "Downright uncharitable," he says. "Even fer a pagan." Damn Denmark, thinks Sweden, always has to get the last word in, doesn't he.
--
Springtime comes. Another year passes. Nothing significant happens.
There's a raid from the Angles on newly Danish, formerly Norwegian territory that has Sweden on edge, concerned more for Iceland and the settlement than for himself, but they appear to restrict themselves to Denmark's land. It must be less to get supplies, slaves, food, and land and the like, and more for retaliation. Judging from Kum-ree, nobody in England likes Denmark; Sven Tveskägg son of Harold Bluetooth is not as liked as his father.
Whether Sweden likes it or not, Denmark's right - Christendom is winning, at least in England.
Another midwinter without Norway. Iceland eats what is given him; Sweden takes this as a sign that whatever tomfoolery Denmark's been spouting hasn't left its imprint on Iceland, who is properly paganised once more.
More and more, Iceland has a better appetite. To think Norway would've had him be raised with no proper meat! Sweden is confident Norway will return and Iceland will be older still.
--
Then one day, the last year before Norway is supposed to return, Iceland falls seriously ill. He cannot hold food down, nor ale, no matter how weak. Everything passes through him through one end or another untouched. It's a bad sign; it means his body isn't taking in any nutritional part of it. For five days he lingers in pain by the fireside, eating no food (and wanting none, either) as Sweden stays by his side.
It's not only Iceland. It passes through the entire town, and why Sweden himself doesn't catch it, he doesn't know. He has no answers. Some people are right some angry at him for this because how dare a child of his age be perfectly fine when their fifteen-year-old has just died. They are appeased out of their anger when he tells them about his little brother.
His little brother. And this, finds Sweden, is the flipside of responsibility. An honour and a burden.
Sweden tries everything. He asks the priestess in their settlement. She prescribes a few strange-looking herbs. Sweden attempts a tincture of them with no luck. Then he asks Eir, a goddess knowledgeable about health and medicine. He gives her his thrall. It doesn't appear to do anything. At last, he tries the runes. He's never been one with runes - that's Norway's business - but he tries it anyway to no avail. He pleads with the gods, begs them to do anything, although certainly they must be busy with the rest of the village.
Maybe it's something Iceland has eaten. There's only one way for them to get over that - time. The sickness shall pass, or perhaps Iceland himself will. With luck he'll return the next day, healthy and hale. Sweden wonders if Norway will be able to tell if that happens, as far away as he is.
He feels like the worst person in the world, unreliable and ill-suited to take care of another person, even if their deaths are never permanent. And he thinks to himself, if it's the horse, I'll never feed him horse again, all gods be damned.
--
Denmark shows up the next day at sundown.
"What're you doin' here?" grumbles Sweden.
Denmark shrugs. "Had a feeling somethin' was up," he explains. "An' somethin's up, innit?"
He says nothing.
"Ya gonna let me in, Sverige?" asks Denmark, unsmiling.
Sweden is tempted to tell him to piss off, to go away, to leave, because he's angry that there are no quick fixes for a sick child and Denmark's punchable face is right there.
But Denmark came all this way. It can't do much harm.
Mind you, if Denmark's loud voice keeps Iceland from sleeping, he'll take particular pleasure in booting him right back out again, and he can sleep in his longboat for all Sweden cares, and may the frost bite his toes off.
So Sweden steps aside to let Denmark by.
Instantly Denmark notices Iceland, asleep by the fire. "He looks bad," he murmurs. Sweden is too worried to snap at him for stating the obvious. "What've ya tried already?"
When Iceland wakes next, together they bring him a little salted broth and weak ale and help him take it in, Sweden at Iceland's front with a bowl of soup, Denmark behind him, easing him into a sitting position. Denmark catches Sweden's eye over Iceland's shoulder, and gives him a supportive half-smile.
It's touch and go for three days until one morning, Iceland wakes to better health, just as annoyed as he ever is with Sweden's coddling.
"So I can stay for Christ's mass again, this year, right?" asks Denmark. Iceland's recovery has delighted Sweden so greatly that he doesn't bother refusing him.
--
Midwinter is much better this year.
Sweden tells him that he's not cooking anything special for Denmark's new Christian dietary restrictions with the hope that Denmark will leave to find sustenance elsewhere. But instead Denmark seems entirely too happy about that and it convinces him to stay.
Midwinter that year is weirdly Christianised. Denmark goes with them to the still mostly-pagan settlement where everybody is in jubilant spirits about the gods. This time he says nothing and proceeds to eat a horse's weight, in fish.
So no matter what Harold Bluetooth said - and his son Sven Tveskägg - at least one part of Denmark seems to be moving towards Christendom. The day of the birth of the holy child that Denmark claims will rule the world or save the world or something the world (Denmark is foggy on details), Sweden slaughters one of his horses for its meat.
"Do I have to eat the horse?" whines Iceland, ever the picky eater. "It's gross and tough and can't I have some salted fish like Danmörk?"
Because it's Midwinter day and you're a damned pagan if it's the last thing I do, thinks Sweden. Nevertheless, it got him sick last time. "Fine," he says, "but you finish yer broth." Iceland eats the rest without prompting. Or grimacing. (Much.)
Late one night, when the stars are awake but Iceland is not, Sweden and Denmark share between them the very last of the ale. Nobody in the village ever gives them the real stuff, thinking them to be hardly a decade old. And Sweden doesn't brew it strong for himself. But either they've drunk too much on too little food (unlikely; the whole town is alive with the pleasure of eating) or someone made a mistake because how else could Sweden explain Denmark leaning on his shoulder as they both look up at the glittering skies?
"There's crosses ev'rywhere," Denmark slurs. "'S a good symbol, y'can find it in anything. That'll help convince 'em."
"Y'can find anythin' in anythin' else if yer lookin' hard 'nough for it," Sweden argues. "Sides, don't you be speakin' like y' don't believe it. After all yer natterin' on, you sound like you're a thru-out believer." When Denmark doesn't reply, Sweden looks over at him proper. He slides Denmark off his shoulder and props himself up above him.
For a moment Denmark lies back in the snow with Sweden above him, refusing to meet Sweden's gaze.
"Y' don't believe it, do ya," whispers Sweden.
"It's not important what t' believe," Denmark says. "Don't go tellin' my boss that, eh, Sve'?"
"I'll say nothin'," he promises. "But then, why d'you pay it any mind?"
Denmark swills the ale in his tankard thoughtfully, although he doesn't try something as foolhardy as lifting it to his lips and drinking, not when he's reclined on the ground. "Didn't say I believed in the old gods, neither."
Sweden waits. He hears no thunderclaps. Perhaps the Asgård were momentarily deaf, just then.
"I wonder," says Denmark. Sweden remains silent. "If land's what we are, then fightin' for it's what we're s'posed ta do, innit? Y'know, sink or swim. But then sometimes, y'find these little people runnin' 'round, an' what're y' s'posed to do with them?"
"'M not followin'," Sweden says.
"Take Island! Now if that's Nor's land now, then why's he even exist? Why's he even here? An' he's doin' so good, but I know Nor's not! Why else he go out west? He's still angry about Svolder, I bet!
"An' tell me, when they say t' fight fer a god, which one do they mean? Which god smites which armies? Can they tell th' difference, 'cos sometimes I can't. Maybe th' humans are ta' us as we are to th' gods... an' if the gods get a family, why can't we too... an' we keep dyin' and we never see Valhalla, or th' God's heaven neither, so all's we really got is each other."
Denmark trails off a moment. Then he says, "Y'know, I shouldn'ta said such nasty things to ya, last midwinter."
"You okay, Dan'?" asks Sweden.
Denmark beatifically smiles at him from the snow. "'M fine, brother, never better."
--
Much later that night, Sweden is the only one still awake. He tends the fire for something to do. Island and Danmark are both fast asleep and Sweden himself is dozing off when he hears, "Brother."
Iceland's voice. Mumbling in his sleep. Sweden allows himself a fond smile.
And then there's a knock at the door.
"Sverige," calls out Norway's voice. "I know you're awake in there."
No point in trying to feign sleep. Besides, it's evening, it's midwinter - it would be inhospitable - and Sweden is no longer angry at Norway for saddling him with responsibility and keeping him from the east.
He opens the door to find Norway leaned against the doorway. Judging from the footprints in the snow he staggered his way here. His clothing is in tatters. He looks exhausted. His face is newly-scarred which will fade, no doubt, but only in time. He looks greatly weakened. He seems much older than how he physically presents, which like Denmark and Sweden is roughly thirteen.
"D'ya have," Norway pauses for breath, "p'raps summat t'eat? I'll just stay th' night -"
And then he pitches forward. Sweden reacts fast and catches him by the upper arms to keep him upright. Slowly, painfully, and with Sweden's assistance, Norway hobbles past the threshold. Sweden leads him to the table where he sits heavily. Then he puts his forearms on the table with a weary wince and plummets his head upon them.
"Y' look awful," says Sweden flatly. He's more surprised than concerned, although it's true that he hasn't seen Norway look this bad in some time. "Then... yer trip -"
"Unsuccessful, if'n I may say th' very least about it," Norway replies. "Thought I'd find a friend fer Island. Couldn't find no one, not hide nor hair. But the land was huge, an' there were folkd there - ah, the folk there. Didn't take. Not to me, not to my folk, not to the Lord. Bit off more'n I could chew. Lost some good men ... I'll say no more about it."
"So ... y' won't be goin' again, with more?"
Norway sours. Sweden has brought him a little cold stew and a hard bun for it and is pouring the ale when Norway spits, "No, so I s'pose that means you can return out east since I'm certain you're dying to get back out there. God forbid you grant a favour without complaints."
Sweden doesn't bother arguing with a sick, wounded, angry boy. "Y' can stay for midwinter," he says.
Norway grumbles around his stew. "I'll stay 'til Christ's mass, and no more, I'll leave after-morn," he says. He's picking out the meat, even though it's goat. Norway it seems is more faithful than Denmark. "Needn't haunt yer doorstep no longer."
"You'll stay 'til spring," insists Sweden, "an' that's final. Someone's gotta cook those two their proper Christian food."
And Norway grins.
--
Some notes:
This fic takes place during the time of Sweyn Forkbeard (in Swedish, Sven Tveskägg), son of Harald Bluetooth, which puts it about 1000ish. For Norway it's between the reign of Olaf Tryggvasson and Olav II (later St Olaf) both of whom were missionary kings. Backdrop is the Christianisation of Scandinavia: Harald Bluetooth was Christianised, his son sort of backlashed against it, and Svolder was one great backlash in war form. Norway and Denmark were among the first to be Christianised (and hence Iceland too was Christianised about this time), although the process was gradual and forcible, so I've tried to represent both faiths in the same nation-tan. While it began early for Sweden too, some sources I've read have it fully replacing paganism only in the 1100's or so.
I've also taken many liberties with Iceland's development (which unbeknownst to Sweden have nothing to do with whether or not he's a good big brother - Iceland in the 9th and 10th C. was quite decently democratic for the times, and Icelandic society was more peaceful and cooperative than its contemporaries), but hopefully have kept it fuzzy enough that you can insert your own Viking-era headcanons if you have any!
tl;dr I played super fast and loose with history, it might not all make sense and/or scholarly truth