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Chapter Text

"But I don't understand," Alfred's footsteps thundered down the steep, dark stairwell. He fumbled to keep the stack of luggage from toppling out of his arms and onto the heads of the valets below him. They carried similar stacks of bags and parcels, and continued around through the foyer and out the front door, but the nation paused in the entryway. He held heavy luggage aside in one palm and looked up at a bundled Thomas Jefferson. "Why do I have to go?"

"This is a treaty, our—your—first international trade treaty," Thomas was harried and looked tired. It was not yet sunrise, and he hadn't fully dressed, but there were dots of sweat peppering his forehead despite the frigid January air. He plucked a piece of luggage from Alfred's arms and handed it to a valet. "With the others," he instructed.

"No it's not," Alfred said, "We've already signed treaties with France and Holland—"

"Dutch Republic," Thomas corrected, knee-jerk.

"—and I wasn't there for those," Alfred whined. "I thought you'd be the one to go, you love Paris."

"And I should like nothing more than to return, Master Jones, but Congress has denied the appointment. But this is… this is different. It has to be you."

"No," Alred insisted, "I should be here, with the people. There are soldiers still in hospital," his teenaged voice cracked theatrically, but he powered through, "there are women and children still trying to rebuild houses, farms—I can help them, I'm no good at diplomacy, you know that."

Unfortunately, Thomas did. He drew in a long breath and sighed it out. He rubbed a hand over his face before taking the remaining pieces of luggage from Alfred's arms and giving them to a huffing valet who'd just returned from the carriage. "The last of them," he said. The valet gave a short sigh, took them, and left.

Alone in the dusky foyer of Monticello, Jefferson crouched slightly, eye to eye with his young nation. He grasped the boy's shoulders, unnerved as he always was at how they stood stiff and heavy as iron rods inside such a tiny body.

"They're talking about conceding independence," he said quietly. At this, Alfred froze, eyes big and surprised. He blinked.

"Inde... England is?"

"Yes. No official terms yet, but… they've accepted the name."

"What?"

"The United States. Last fall, Britain drafted a preliminary agreement, and they've called us the United States."

Alfred was frozen on the spot, unable to say or think anything. He felt lighter, taller, heavier, bigger, and somehow, scared. "But I thought…wait... last fall? No one told me," he accused.

"I didn't want to worry you. After Shelbourne's idiotic games, you were so despondant… it's still nowhere near official, and very precarious. France is trying to negotiate separate terms, and Spain and England are entangled in the Indies and Gibraltar. It's a delicate situation, and right now, not entirely in our hands. But it will happen. The British will concede."

"If you're so sure, then why are you making me go?" Alfred asked again, loudly.

"This isn't about England, Alfred," Thomas cut him off. He wished the boy was more internationally minded, wished he knew more about the world and how it worked—he was still so young. "This is about what happens after. Yes, we've signed treaties with France, with the Dutch. They are our wartime allies. They've been sending us soldiers, money, armaments. But once this war is over, they cannot be the only allies we have. We need neutral nations to recognize our independence. Nations that have nothing to do with England, or France, or this war."

Alfred binked and looked down at his shoes. It made sense, but… he cast a glance out the open front door, where he could see the first blush of morning light warming the cool Virginia horizon. The coachmen and valets were readying the horses and tying all of his luggage—over half of it filled with diplomatic gifts sent on behalf of Congress and Jefferson himself—to the carriage. The only thing it was missing for its journey to the Chesapeake was him.

"Benjamin Franklin has been in talks with an envoy from Sweden," Thomas interrupted his thoughts. "A treaty of Amity and Commerce is imminent. It's only right that you be there."

"Sweden?" Alfred repeated. He knew nothing about Sweden. Sure, he'd met a few Swedish soldiers over the last few years. They'd come pouring in to support his troops under the banner of France; but those were foreign legionnaires. But Sweden, capital 'S' Sweden? He'd never met the man. Doubt flooded him. Wait, Sweden was a man, right? He scoured his brain for whatever tidbits about other nations he might've picked up from Francis, from Gilbert. No one had ever really talked about Sweden.

"I… I know that, uh, that England," the way that Thomas said it let Alfred know he was talking about Arthur, "never taught you about these things, but international treaties are overseen by nations just as much as their ambassadors. If we are to be an independent nation, you need to be there. You need to show Sweden, to show the world, that you are ready to take your place among them when at last Britain has no excuses left." Thomas waited for Alfred to meet his eyes. "You will be independent, and you will need independent connections among nations."

The sun was rising over Virginia. Light poured into the house in timid sheets that grew by the second. Alfred swallowed and tried to stand a little taller. "Alright," he said.

"Good," Jefferson gave his shoulder a pat and straightened. "We must pray for the fastest winds the world can spare," he urged the young teenager out the front door. "Franklin and Cruetz could well be negotiating terms as we speak."

By divine providence or else phantasmic good luck, their voyage to France made exceptional time. Alfred knew that under six weeks' to cross the entire ocean was virtually unheard of this time of year, and that he should be falling on his knees to thank the almighty, but inwardly he was panicking. In his weeks at sea, he could still barely hold a formal Swedish greeting in his head without looking down for his dictionary.

But so it was, after a hasty departure onto a passenger vessel from the Chesapeake on January the twenty-fifth, Alfred Jones arrived in Europe for the time in his life, at about one hour past noon on March the third in the year of our Lord one thousand seven hundred and eighty-three.

Alfred stood alongside two Virginian diplomats—Joseph Jones and Arthur Lee—whom Jefferson and Washington had sent to accompany their nation on his first voyage across the sea. They were all dressed in plain commoners' clothes, as to not draw attention to themselves. Only a select few individuals knew that they would be here in La Havre, and they were meant to guard such knowledge with their lives.

While the two men directed the shiphands helping to sort their cargo, Alfred craned his neck and gripped his hands tightly against one another, so excited he could burst. His ears itched at the sounds of French all around him. Spanish, too, and German, or maybe Dutch? The docks were abuzz, and Alfred had to focus all of his energy in not bounding up to the ports to investigate what lay beyond. He could smell fish, and spices, and vomit, and rum, and the salty European sea that somehow looked different than back home.

"That looks like all of it," said Joseph as the shiphands sorted out the last of their luggage from that of the other passengers. He tipped them a livre each and then arched his back with a wince, hearing the bones pop and crackle. "So," said he, "This 'friend' of yours, what does he look like?" He asked Alfred.

"Oh, you'll know him when you see him," Alfred said.

They did not have to wait long. Through the midday traffic of fishmongers carts and swarms of passengers, two handsome black carriages pulled up to the dock. Out of the first emerged a young, blond, wigless man who was beaming like a lunatic. He waved a plumed hat to get their attention.

"Monsieur Jones!" Alfred could not help but smile back just as brightly; it'd been well over a year since he'd seen Francis in the flesh, and never in his life had he seen the older nation so happy. "Mon cœur bondit de joie de vous revoir!"

Francis jogged toward the American contingent, lily-white feather bobbling over his hat as he did.

"I thought the idea was to look inconspicuous," Joseph said in an aside to his fellow Virginian. Arthur Lee, who'd spent much of the Revolution abroad in England and France as a diplomat as well as a spy, snorted.

"Have you ever met a frenchman?"

Alfred didn't hear them and wouldn't have cared if he did. "En moins de six semaines, Francis, qu'en pensez-vous?"

Francis reached them in short order and had barely taken the time to kiss Alfred on either cheek before taking the boy into a hug and lifting him fully off the ground.

"Magnifique, Amerique, c'est magnifique! Bienvenue chez moi." The two nations laughed, and eventually Francis set the boy back down, pausing to examine him with the pride of family. Alfred watched the taller nation in some amusement, fascinated and thrilled to see him in his homeland. Francis kept his hands on Alfred's shoulders.

"To have you here in France, mon ami, is such a great pleasure I have long awaited." Still grinning, he touched Alfred's cheek. "On the very cusp of independence, les mots ne peuvent décrire à quel point je suis fier!" Alfred laughed happily, but said nothing.

Francis turned his smile toward Alfred's friends. "Monsieur Lee, and Monsieur Jones, oui?" He said.

"Oui," Lee answered for them both, reaching out to shake Francis' hand. Francis turned to Joseph and gave his hand a shake as well.

"And I am Francis Bonnefoy. I assume Master Jones has explained who I am." He glanced at Alfred, and then back up at the Virginians. "Two Joneses, this could become confusing," He winked. Joseph smiled.

"The story at sea was that I'm his father," he chuckled. "But please, Joseph will have to do for now."

"You are very kind, Monsieur Joseph. Are these your things?"

"Yes, this should be all."

"Maurice, Henri," Francis waved over the coachmen. While they got to work packaging the parcels and suitcases to the carriages, Francis smiled to his friends.

"The road to Paris is long and, I'm afraid, rather bumpy," he warned. "Viens. Monsieurs Franklin and Cruetz will be anxious to know you've arrived."

At that moment, Alfred's stomach began to rumble. Francis heard it and laughed as he turned toward the carriages.

"Yes, mon ami, I have brought food for you as well." Alfred was the one to blush, but it was Joseph who breathed,

"Oh, thank God."

Alfred was glued to the carriage window the entire ride to Paris. Everything was so new and eerily unfamiliar. The hills and fields were simultaneously like America and not at all. Every crop, every hay bale, every thatched roof and unidentified ruin were like gateways to a world he'd only heard about from Arthur's stories.

Francis watched the boy's rapt fascination with a small smile. They'd begun their journey with fresh bread, fine cheese, and every intent to practice Alfred's Swedish, but soon Alfred was asking questions about everything he saw out the window, and Francis hadn't had the heart to deny him.

"That looks old," Alfred commented at a derelict stone structure as they passed. "What is it?"

Francis had to look. He hadn't considered the ruin in centuries. "Rome put it there, I think," he offered, not fully remembering. "He was a cruel and controlling man."

Alfred was suddenly silent, and watched the pile of rocks pass with new fixation.

"So," Francis said, not liking how old he suddenly felt, "How are you feeling? About the treaty, that is."

Alfred glanced back at him, put on the spot. He looked back out the window.

"It feels strange," he said plainly. "Not… bad. But… Arthur still hasn't… you know," he said.

"He will," Francis promised. "Even Angelterre cannot stop you now."

Alfred blushed at the idea. Even now, right at the edge of getting everything he'd ever wanted, it felt surreal and rebellious in a way that transgressed everything England had ever wanted from him.

"Spain acknowledged your independence, you know—while you were at sea."

"I heard," Alfred said, feeling a thrill. Spain and his colonies had been cooperating with him for years, now, but Alfred knew Antonio didn't trust him. The fact that even Spain was acknowledging his independence was a golden harbinger. And yet… unbidden, a memory of Arthur surfaced in his mind, frowning and angry. England doesn't even know I'm here. Alfred watched Northern France roll by in waves of green and spots of brown, an unfamiliar continent.

"Having it so unofficial, though. Everything is so secret." A thought struck him, and Alfred turned to look at Francis, blue eyes wide in trepidation. "Sweden knows I'm coming, right?"

Francis chuckled. "Oui. He's been in Paris for a few weeks, and is looking forward to meeting you."

"Oh." The idea that someone from Europe whom he didn't already know wanted to meet him was a novel, welcome sensation. Alfred fidgeted in his seat, forgetting the window for the first time that afternoon. "What is he like?" he asked. "Sweden?"

"Hmm," Francis looked pensively at the upholstery. "He is difficult to describe. Tall, cold, slow to speak but decisive in everything he does. Unreadable at the best of times, absolutely terrifying at their worst." Francis glanced back at Alfred. "He laid siege to Paris, you know, many years ago. A formidable man and an uncompromising country. Not someone you'd be wise to cross." Alfred wasn't sure he liked the sound of that. It must have showed on his face.

"You mustn't worry, though. He's taken a keen interest in southern affairs of late. His kings study in my universities, his courts seek out my scholars and philosophers. And he's always been interested in the New World. I think you two could get along."

Could. The word stuck in Alfred's mind like a burr in between stocking and boot. There were so many ways for this meeting to go wrong. Could.

"What's his name?" Alfred asked. "I mean, his human name."

"Berwald Oxenstierna," Francis said, and Alfred immediately began wondering if he'd be expected to pronounce the surname right on the first try. "But when you first meet him, you ought to call him Svierge."

Alfred was ecstatic to see any part of France, and if he'd left only having seen Le Havre and the patchwork of fields between the port city and Paris, he could have returned home happy. But then, they arrived in Paris.

The city was unlike anything Alfred had ever seen. The biggest city Alfred had ever visited was New York City, and for years, it'd been the center of his entire imagination of what a city was. But this… this was so much bigger, and older, and louder, and… Alfred couldn't help it. He leaned toward the carriage door.

"Amerique, are you even listening to me?" Francis asked, sounding annoyed. "There is going to be a specific order to today, you need to understand what you're expected to-"

Alfred did not respond. He unlatched the window and leaned fully outside, toes straining to keep him tethered to the carriage floor.

"What are you thinking, you foolish boy?" Francis exclaimed, reaching over to grab Alfred's coattails, but he could not have budged the teen if he'd tried.

"This is amazing!" Alfred exclaimed, some of his volume stolen by the wind. "Everything is made of stone! The buildings here are so tall," he ducked back inside the carriage, and the look on his face when he turned cooled the elder man's anger. "Francis, it's beautiful!" And then he was leaning out the window again, laughing as the carriage sped past confused pedestrians and colorful shop fronts.

"Just do not let anything fly into your face, mon cher," Francis warned, trying not to feel flattered. "We are bound directly for Monsieur Creutz' residence. Do you really want to meet them with shit and mud blown in your hair?"

Painted such a picture, Alfred had the sense to duck back into the carriage, but he continued to look longingly out the window.

"Can we come back out here? I want you to show me around." Alfred was perched at the edge of his seat, eyes and nose illuminated by the dusky orange light shining in between the buildings as they passed.

"Of course, mon ami," Francis promised. "But first you must listen to frère Francisso you do not embarrass yourself at dinner. Sverige will expect to meet a fellow Nation, not a colonial bumpkin. Are you listening?"

Alfred frowned at the 'bumpkin' comment, but he fidgeted until he was in what he thought of as a dignified, Nation-like posture. "Of course," he mumbled.

"Good," Francis said. "Now, this is how things are going to happen when we arrive."

Francis' instructions were entirely unhelpful. Alfred hadn't fully digested them when they were in the carriage, and by the time he stepped outside, they flew from his mind straight and into oblivion. There had been so many details, so many steps, so many formalities and niceties that he may or may not be expected to adhere to depending on who said what and when. There were titles and names to remember, and ways to bow politely but not too politely, rules about whom he was allowed to shake hands with and with whom he wasn't. Worst of all, he would have to navigate this diplomatic melee while the ever-present expectation of dinner hung in the air.

Thankfully, before they ran into anyone who looked remotely Swedish, Alfred, Joseph, and Lee were shown to their respective guest rooms in Ambassador Creutz's generous townhome.

Alfred winced into the mirror as he combed furiously at his hair. Weeks at sea and hours in a coach had done nothing for his looks or his smell. He'd done what he could about the smell, and was in fresh breeches, socks, and shirtsleeves, but the looks remained in jeopardy thanks to the ratty blond mess atop his head. Not for the first time, he wondered why long hair was so fashionable when it was such an enormous bother.

There was a knock at his door, and a visitor let himself into the room. Alfred saw his reflection in the mirror, and his wince transformed into a smile.

"Ben!" He turned to greet him, hair a mess, head tilted as he wrestled with the comb. Benjamin Franklin laughed.

"Master Jones, in the Continent at last," the Pennsylvanian smiled, grey eyes peering tiredly over his bifocals. "How did you find the voyage?"

"Long," Alfred admitted, wincing again as the comb caught. He turned back to the mirror and doubled down his efforts.

"Indeed, indeed," Ben looked around, taking stock of the unpacked luggage. "The voyage is long and by consequence the evening is short. Where have you put your evening wear? I'll set out a jacket for you."

Alfred looked back at him, hands still occupied. He hated making other people do things for him, especially people as old as Franklin. "You don't have to, Ben—I can get it, really."

"You seem preoccupied with other matters of state," Franklin joked, meeting Alfred's eyes in the mirror mid-wince. "Time is of the essence. Dinner will be served in an hour or less, and I'd like to accompany you down and introduce you to our Swedish friends beforehand."

New nervousness gnawed at Alfred's stomach. "So soon?" he heard himself say, sounding more nervous than he'd planned. Ben saw it and gave him an encouraging smile.

"Don't fret, America. You'll like the Swedes—they're good, industrious Protestant folk." Ben looked about at the luggage in front of him, too economical to wait for a valet. "Now, evening wear?"

"The top one, I think," Alfred said. He hadn't actually packed the suitcases himself; Thomas hadn't trusted his sense of fashion. "I'll let you pick, you know the Parisian styles better than I do."

"Very well," Franklin flipped open the suitcase and began rustling through fabric that sounded far more expensive than anything Alfred made a habit of wearing. "You favor blue, do you not?"

"Mmm," Alfred hummed noncommittally, combing faster.

Swedish Ambassador Gustaf Philip Creutz was waiting for him in the parlor downstairs. Francis, Lee, and Joseph had already gone in to meet him, but Alfred was still making feverish attempts to plait and tie his hair. His efforts were not aided in the least by Benjamin Franklin's comments about Jefferson's taste in fashion, but at long last, he decided that his hair was acceptable for polite society. No sooner did he turn in the room than did Franklin accost him with a printsman's speed and efficiency with a pale gold waistcoat, white silk cravat, and a handsome blue jacket. He tried not to fidget against the noisy rub of taffeta. Francis assured him such tight tailoring was in vogue in Paris, but Alfred longed for the looser, worn cotton outfits of home.

"Don't fret, master Jones," Franklin had felt the tension in Alfred's shoulders when he dusted the lint lingering on his lapels. "Ambassador Creutz's time in Paris is limited, and his king is anxious to have this treaty signed. We have the upper hand, and favorable terms." It was not Cruetz that Alfred was worried about, but he just gave Franklin a smile and a nod.

They descended the stairs to find that it was already dark out. Even with lamps the hallway was quite dim, but when the parlor doors opened up in front of him, it was awash in warm light. Joseph and Lee stood comfortably to one side, speaking with some of the Swedish attachés while Francis conversed with the Ambassador himself.

"Ah," smiled Cruetz when Alfred followed Franklin into the parlor. Francis stepped aside to allow the two to meet. Creutz reached out his hand and said in pleasantly accented English, "Mr. United States, it's a pleasure to finally meet you."

Alfred hoped that the room wasn't actually bright enough for anyone to see how he blushed. United States. No one had called him that before. He shook Mr. Creutz' hand in the exact and brief way he'd been told to. "A pleasure, Ambassador. Please, call me America. My diplomats, at least, find it's much quicker on the tongue." This amused Creutz.

"A man of economical speech. An admirable trait in any man," he glanced at Franklin, "or nation." the Swede smiled, crowsfeet plucking at the corners of his eyes. Alfred swallowed, trying to remember everything Lee had told him about Creutz on their long journey over the ocean.

"I understand you are well known for your own words, Ambassador," Alfred said. "I've heard many good things about Atis och Camilla. I look forward to reading it one day, but I admit, my Swedish is not yet up to the task." Creutz gave a surprised smile.

"You flatter me, Mr. America," he smiled, "I had not known news of my work had travelled so far."

"Men and women of Sweden have long been at home in my country—they speak highly of you. I'm glad we may be friends, now."

"I could not agree more, Mr. America," Creutz said, and glanced at the door, outside of which they could hear footsteps. The door latch clicked open.

"Ah," Creutz turned. "Lord Oxensteirna, please, join us." Alfred turned with the rest of the room, and then whatever else Ambassador Creutz said faded into the silence of Alfred's memory.

Pine trees. Pine trees, and damp earth and spiced wine. The smell snuck up on Alfred and reached inside him and pulled on something old, older than most everything he could remember. He'd been young then, too young to know English from French from Swedish. Just him, alone, in the forest and the marshes, except...

He blinked his eyes, and there was a man in front of him, towering above him, blonde and mean, peering down through oval wire-framed glasses with blue-green eyes as strange and cold as an iceberg. Alfred looked up at him, unafraid and curious, and realized quite suddenly that the room was silent. All eyes shifted awkwardly between him and the giant beside him.

"Herre Svierge," Alfred had missed Creutz' introduction entirely, but didn't need to be told who this was. He did not break eye contact. "Har… har vi träffats tidigare?"

The face above him lifted in the mildest degree of surprise. "Vi har," said Sweden, in a voice deeper and older than anyone Alfred had ever met in his life, older than England, than France. In accented English, Sweden continued, "A little over a century ago. I'm surprised you remember, you were very young." The truth was, Alfred didn't remember meeting him. He only remembered a face through the trees, and a tall monster of a man whose presence kept the wolves at bay. "It's good to see you again, United States."

"I'm Alfred Jones," he replied, extending his hand.

"Berwald Oxensteirna." They shook hands.

"Splendid," Creutz practically deflated with relief. "I believe dinner is ready; please, gentlemen, follow me."

Alfred knew dinner would be a fraught experience. Europeans were fussy to say the least when it came to table manners, and Alfred wanted desperately not to make a fool of himself. He eyed the prongs of every fork before selecting which to use, and double checked the placement of his glass each time he took a drink.

So wrapped up in the table settings and his own appetite, America seemed to have missed a key point in the conversation. Smalltalk in the parlor had been conducted almost entirely in English (out of courtesy to the American guests, Alfred was sure), but at some point, everyone had suddenly switched back to French, and he had no idea why. His brow furrowed and he leaned toward the middle of the table, where Franklin and Creutz were sitting across from one another. It sounded as if they were talking about the treaty again, specifically the fourth article, which Creutz was expressing may become a point of amendment after King Gustav had a chance to read it in its final form.

A quiet cough brought Alfred's attention back to his end of the table. He looked up and found Berwald watching him. The elder nation reached out to take another roll of bread, and used the opportunity to lead toward Alfred and say quietly in French,

"We all speak English quite well, but France is mediating the treaty, so when we speak of business, we speak of it in French. This is the custom with many treaties."

"Oh," Alfred whispered. He'd known the treaty itself was written French, but no one had mentioned the other bit. "Merci,"

"Mmm," was Berwald's only reply. He buttered his bread modestly and continued eating. Alfred hadn't exchanged more than a handful of words with the man since they'd met in the parlor. At first, he'd wondered if the northern nation wasn't unhappy with the treaty his king had arranged, but his kindness now made Alfred wonder.

Back up the table, the diplomats were embroiled in discussion over various international scandals and Britain's tumultuous government, conversation lubricated by wine and good food. Francis lounged in his chair, legs crossed and a glass of wine in his hand as he ate up the gossip in silence. No one seemed to be paying attention to Alfred, and he wondered if he should feel left out, but then again, they weren't paying attention to Berwald, either. The tall Swede across from him seemed blissfully unbothered, and cut into his roast duck with the ease of someone who knew when and how to enjoy moments of quiet.

Alfred's fingers twitched uncertainly near his silverware while he searched for something, anything, to break the silence.

"Such a custom must necessitate the acquisition of many fluencies," he said at length, and was grateful when Berwald's mouth twitched in a microscopic smile.

"It is a custom of convenience. Where common languages do not prevail, Europe has many learned men to translate."

"I'm sure you have plenty of learned men in Sweden to choose from. Mr. Lee was telling me about the Secretary of your Academy of Sciences, Herre Wargentin, the astronomer. Is it true you have an observatory in Stockholm?"

"Nearby there, yes," Berwald said. "It was built only decades ago, but I have studied the stars for a long time."

Alfred dared to hope he'd found a common interest. "I learned how to map by the stars," he said, leaving out the part where it was England who'd taught him how. "The maps of North America aren't quite accurate yet, so I like to make my own when I travel." Whether Berwald was impressed or utterly uninterested, Alfred could not have said. The man was unreadable.

"Perhaps you could establish your own observatory, someday," Berwald suggested. Once again, Alfred found himself unsure if this was meant to be an encouragement or an intimidation.

"I hope to," Alfred told him confidently. "After this war is finally over."

"Hmm," Berwald had been looking at his food the entire time they spoke, but now flicked a sharp look over at the ambassadors. After a moment, he turned back to his duck. "You may want to listen, then," he told Alfred.

They'd begun talking about Britain. Specifically, about how Britain's recognition of American independence was all but guaranteed, and was now left only to the details. Alfred himself did not fully comprehend some of what they were talking about, and realized much could have developed here in Paris while he was still at home, or at sea. Perhaps he should have felt irresponsible for not knowing his own affairs, but his mind became stuck on something Creutz had said.

"-jesty is ecstatic to be the first to establish relations with the United States. Whenever Britain decides to stop dragging his heels, the rest of the world will be at your door before the ink has time to dry."

The rest of the world.

Alfred wasn't sure if what he was feeling was excitement, anxiety, both, or something else entirely. He picked at his food as he listened. They'd probably be bringing out dessert soon.

"I am getting the feeling that I ought to learn a few more languages," he said quietly. Berwald took a sip of wine.

"I'd recommend Spanish or Italian, if you don't know either already," the Swede said. "Dutch, perhaps German. Your French is quite good."

"Thank you," Alfred was taken by surprise.

"Your Swedish could use some work." Alfred was embarrassed for a moment, but when Berwald looked up at him, there was a not quite-there glint in his eyes that made Alfred think he might be jesting. "But there's no need to worry over languages right now, United States. Let the translators do their jobs, it will give you the freedom to focus on yours."

"And…" Alfred realized it was foolish to reveal his own ignorance to a foreigner, but he was desperate for someone to tell him: "what would say that is, Lord Oxensteirna?"

"Principally, to keep yourself away from Storbritannien. He never taught you the ways of nations because he never wanted you to become one." Berwald looked up at met Alfred's gaze, and something in his eyes made the younger think he spoke from personal experience. "Now is the time for you to learn how the world works for people like you and I."

"Let me be the one to teach you," hung unspoken in the air, but they both understood.

They brought out dessert, and their conversation faded. The ambassadors continued to talk, and Alfred tried to listen, but his mind was spinning, wondering how much there was about the world that England had never trusted him with.

The following day, Cruetz and Franklin holed themselves away in an office with their respective attachés to iron out the finishing details of the treaty. The actual signing of the treaty was to take place as soon as possible. Creutz was being recalled to Stockholm, apparently, and could only remain in Paris for a few more weeks. Franklin, meanwhile, was eager to send the signed treaty back to Congress and wash his hands of the responsibility. Alfred hadn't been invited to the closed-door session, so he let himself sleep in, recouping the many sleepless nights aboard a frigid ship, but was awakened by a knock at his door and a familiar voice from the hallway.

"Bonjour, mon cher," said Francis, "I came by to see if you were still interested in a tour of frère Francis' beautiful city." Alfred's eyes shot open. He tossed off the blankets and practically fell to the floor.

"I'll be just a minute!" He shouted at the door, scrambling for his boots. He could hear Francis chuckling.

Paris was spectacular from a coach, but on foot, it was downright enchanting. Alfred had never been to a country outside of his own colonies. He'd been up to visit Matthew, sure, but Matt's home was similar to his, and boasted fewer big cities. But in Paris, the buildings themselves predated his earliest memories. Stories known and unknown paved every corner, arch, and windowpane, and Alfred wanted to see it all.

"It's beautiful," Alfred breathed, looking up at the giant rose window in the midmorning sun. He'd said "beautiful" perhaps as many as thirty times already, but the repetition didn't seem to bother Francis, who was eating up every compliment and wide-eyed look with pride.

"She is indeed." He side-eyed the smaller country. "Would you like to see it from the inside?" He asked, sounding smug. Alfred's eyes went wide.

"Can we?"

After Notre Dame, they walked along the Siene, passing monuments and bridges and shops and graveyards. Alfred asked about every single one, and soon, it was past lunch time. They lingered by the river, and Alfred asked about every flag on every passing ship and barge. Sensing a learning opportunity—and a chance to sit down after hours of walking, Francis indulged him and explained each ship, where it'd likely come from, and where it was likely headed.

"How do you know all that?" Alfred asked after a while. "You're not just making it all up to tease me, are you?"

Francis laughed. "No, mon ami, I would never. It comes with age. You'll be telling me about all the ships in Boston, one day, and whatever other ports you grow." He glanced down at the boy. "Speaking of growing, I know you're hungry. I've been listening to your stomach all morning."

Alfred looked sheepish. "I didn't want to have to go back to the ambassador's house," he said. "There's too much to see!"

"Whoever said we had to go back?" Francis stood. "Come. I know a place I think you and your ravenous appetite will love."

Alfred understood immediately that they were bound somewhere for food, but he had assumed it would be soup, or bread and meats from a local market or pub. Instead, Francis led him north of the Siene. They passed another church, slightly smaller than Notre Dame, which Francis called Saint-Eustache. Alfred watched the clouds wink and flash behind the maze of flying buttresses as they passed, wondering how anyone had gotten so much stone to look so delicate.

"We will come back by here," Francis assured him, urging him to catch up, "we may even eat here, if you like, but first you must pick out something to eat." Picking something to eat piqued Alfred's interest; usually, he was told what to eat. But when they arrived at their destination, the young nation was struck dumb by his options.

"Monsueir Stohrer was her majesty's chef, before he came here," Francis told Alfred, who was comically-wide eyed and open-mouthed in the presence of so many, many pastries. "He was not French by birth, but I am glad his pâtisserie did not pass away when he did. Paris has become quite fond of it, as have I." The older nation glanced again at his companion, unable to help from smiling at the younger's expression. "Continue, mon cher," he nudged. "You pick out two that you like, and I'll pick another two that I know are good."

"Ooh," Alfred breathed, looking around frantically. There were sweet pastries, and yeasty pastries, and pastries with fish, and egg, and poultry. The smells combined were a cacophony of honey and meat and chocolate and bread, and he wanted to eat them all. "This is harder than independence," he whispered. He'd said it to himself, but Francis heard him and laughed loud enough to turn heads.

Eventually, Alfred settled on a hearty slice of tart made of ham and quail eggs, and a towering fluffy croissant flavored with honey and almonds. Francis ordered some for himself, and a few treats for Alfred, and they carried their feast back down to Saint-Eustache and sat down under a tree.

They ate in silence until the loudest rumblings of Alfred's stomach had been quelled, and then devolved into comfortable conversation, mostly to do with the food. After Francis had given Alfred a lesson in culinary history, he leaned back against the trunk of the tree, content and full. Alfred licked sticky rum sauce from his fingers.

"So," Francis asked in the silence, "How did you find Monseuir Oxenstierna?" Alfred paused at the question. Looking at his still-sticky fingers, he went to wipe his hands on his breeches, before remembering his company. He wiped them on the grass instead.

"He seems… kind," he decided. "Hard to read, but kind, I think."

"That's good," Francis said. "You may be the first to describe him as such, but then again, you do not have the same history with him that others do."

"But I've met him before," Alfred said, sounding curious, "I know I have, but… I don't really remember it."

"Ah," Francis chuckled. "Yes, you scared poor Ambassador Cruetz half to death when you stood there and stared like deer in front of a lynx. I thought you'd just forgotten what I told you to say." he adjusted his position. "I'm surprised you remembered him at all; you were very young. Sweden knew about your existence even before I or Angelterre did."

This shocked Alfred. "Really?"

"Mmm," Francis closed his eyes, remembering the day. "We'd been on the continent for some time, as had Monsieurs Oxenstierna and Väinämöinen. They'd been fighting with the Dutch for some time when they came upon Arthur and I and explained how they'd seen an enfant sauvage wandering the forest—"

"I'm sorry," Alfred interrupted, "Mister what?"

"Väinämöinen?" Francis repeated, cracking open his eyes.

"Yes, that," Alfred said, unsure as to how the sounds rolled off the Frenchman's tongue so easily. Francis laughed.

"Tino Väinämöinen, he is like us, and is part of Monsieur Oxensteirna's household. His country, Finland, is part of the Swedish Empire—or at least, what's left of it." There was much for Alfred to take in.

"Part of Sweden's house?" he asked.

"Yes," Francis answered, and paused awkwardly. "Not… not unlike how Mattieu is part of Arthur's household."

Alfred frowned "Finland's a colony?"

"A territory, it's not quite the same. Things are done differently this side of the Atlantic," Francis said. "Sweden has no colonies; he might've, if Arthur hadn't whisked you away first. He settled in the Chesapeake for a while, that's probably why you remember him." The idea sent Alfred's head spinning, and he struggled to reconcile the quiet, considerate man at dinner with someone who'd once thought to lay claim to him and his home. Something in his expression must've given away his outrage, because Francis said,

"You have nothing to fear from him now, mon cher. The Lion of the North has been thoroughly declawed—him and his house. He could not establish a colony now if he wanted to."

"Oh," Alfred's anger faded as quickly as it had surfaced. "What happened?"

"A very long and ill-advised war with Russia," France said, expression wearier than normal.

"Who won?" Alfred asked. Francis laughed mirthlessly. The boy's conception of war was simple and idealistic.

"In which battle?" Francis volleyed back. "There is rarely a 'winner', not in the way you're thinking. Two decades of war. Sweden's power has diminished, and Russia…" Francis trailed off. "A word of advice, petit frère," Francis called him this so seldom now, Alfred leaned forward to attend to whatever he said next, "never get mixed up in Russian affairs if you can help it." Alfred knew next to nothing about Russia, had never met Russia, and had no intentions of going there any time soon. He blinked at Francis, not sure what to say.

"Alright," he offered. This seemed to appease the older nation, who sighed and continued,

"Sweden was a great power at the beginning of this century. Now, he is not. He is not seeking out an alliance with you to subjugate you, if that's what you're worried about. He does so as a friend, a peer."

"A much older peer," Alfred grumbled, mind supplying memories of Arthur ordering him around just because he could, because he was smaller and younger and weaker.

"You mustn't let your pride come between you and the opportunity you've been given, mon ami," Francis' voice was suddenly stern. "The opportunity to ally with older nations, friendly older nations is not a luxury afforded to most, especially not at your age." If Alfred wasn't mistaken, the Frenchman almost sounded jealous. "If Berwald wishes to help you and teach you, you should let him. You allow me to do so, do you not?"

Alfred looked down at the grass, which he realized he'd been picking at for a while. His still-sticky fingertips were staining green. That's different, he wanted to say. I've known you for forever. You're fighting for me. Berwald is a stranger. But he knew that was the point of this treaty.

"When do you think the treaty will be signed?" he asked.

"Tomorrow, or so I assume," Francis said. "They will not sign it without you, of course."

"Right," Alfred pretended like he'd known that. "Of course."

"And then," Francis drew in a breath and sighed it out again, "I will have to pack you up and send you on your way—though I desperately wish I could detain you—for your journey north."

Alfred's brain came to a halt, and he stopped picking at grass to look Francis dead in the eyes. "North?" he said, interrogative. Francis blinked at him.

"Yes," the elder replied, surprised by Alfred's tone. "To Sweden."

Alfred's jaw dropped. He blinked.

"What?"

"Oh, mon dieu, Angleterre really has taught you nothing, has he?"

"What?" Alfred asked again, watching Francis' face as the older man rose to his feet and brushed himself off with a long suffering sigh.

"Viens," he offered Alfred a hand. "My legs grow sore. I will explain while we walk."

Chapter Text

As he paced the perimeter of Saint-Eustache beside Francis, Alfred began to realize that there was an entire world outside of America that he knew absolutely nothing about. It wasn't Europe, or Africa, or even Asia. This world was not a world of land and sea, but of customs and traditions spanning back to the dawn of time, from whence it'd evolved completely independent of human affairs. It was a world of celestial bodies in human form, orbiting and dancing around each other like eternal mercury.

"We are not humans, Alfred," Francis was speaking softly.

"I know," Alfred said. Even after hundreds of years of knowing, hearing himself admit it out loud made his skin itch uncomfortably. "But we… our people are us," he said, a crease forming between his eyebrows as he frowned. "How can we operate outside of them, their culture, their… rules?" He had no other word for it. Even if—when—Arthur gave him his independence, he would always be dependent on his people, it was a fundamental truth that he felt bone-deep.

"Oui, they are us," Francis agreed, "but you must remember, petite frére, that we are also us." Francis looked up at the slate-dark roof and shining buttresses that shaded their path. "This church," he gestured, "was built over two hundred and fifty years ago. Did you know that?" Alfred tried to remember what he'd been doing two hundred and fifty years ago. He could scarcely recall. He'd been alone, scavenging in the rivers and forests after losing his mother, brothers, and sisters.

"I remember it like it happened yesterday," Francis continued. "A few centuries before, there was just a small chapel, back in the 13th century. I remember them building that, too, as if it were

last month." He turned and fixed Alfred with a look that weighed tonnes. "Do you know how many generations of humans and their rules have come and gone since?"

Alfred could practically feel himself shrinking. He thought of Werowocomoco, Jamestown, Williamsburg, Philadelphia, and all the suffering in between. He knew how many generations could pack themselves into a century, and he'd always been good at maths. He could guess.

"No," he lied. Francis must not have been in an indulgent mood, for he didn't answer his own question. Instead, he heaved a sigh and looked at the river.

"Human generations rise and fall and take their memories to the grave. We enjoy them while they live, celebrate what they accomplish, and honor them—if indeed honor is due—in death, but we must never let ourselves become slaves to the trappings of their world. Can you imagine? To live only for humans, by human rules, for human ends, for eternity?" Francis shook his head. "The bravest among us would go mad, Amerique. If you do not understand this already, in a few hundred years, you will."

Alfred thought suddenly of Washington and Martha, of Lafayette, of the soldiers in his regiment and the wives and children they had at home. He looked resolutely at his shoes and tried not to let his vision grow misty. Thinking hundreds years ahead was daunting; it was more years than he could remember.

"We are our own people, despite everything," Francis said, unfazed by Alfred's glum mood. "Humans… they will never fully understand us, and that is alright. But we all understand each other, even when we're at each other's throats. When our heroes leave us, when our empires crumble, when new ones rise," Francis nudged Alfred's shoulder. "We remain. To humans, treaties are purely political, things written into existence for the sake of commerce, defense, and taxes, but to us, allies are the closest things we can have to lifelong friends. It is impossible to be friends with someone you don't know. This trip to Sweden is not for America, it is for Alfred Jones, and Alfred Jones alone." Francis slowed to a stop, near the tree where they'd had lunch.

Alfred looked up and saw that the sun had fallen well past its noonday pinnacle and was sinking fast in the spring sky. He looked over at Francis, and found the elder nation watching him with an uncharacteristically serious—and kind—expression.

"Treaties can last hundreds of years, Alfred, and you live an ocean away. If your friendship with Berwald should last so long, would you not like to return home knowing the sort of friend you've made?"

Alfred took in a deep breath, held it, and exhaled. He nodded, understanding.

"Good," Francis came over and gave the teen's shoulder an encouraging squeeze. "Viens. They will be expecting us for dinner—and you must let me examine your wardrobe. I've had a few things brought over for you just in case. Springtime is quite a different animal in the Baltic, and your Virginian handlers wouldn't have known to pack for such a trip." His last comment struck a nervous chord in Alfred's chest. He turned to look up at Francis, whose hand remained on his shoulder as they walked.

"What if they don't let me go?" Alfred asked. He was used to being bossed around by his people; he was, after all, little more than a child to their eyes. "The journey here was so secretive, they won't like the idea of me travelling alone, especially not so far." The sun danced mischievously across Francis' expression.

"You are their nation, mon ami. Sometimes, humans need to be reminded of that fact."

Alfred turned his attention back to their trek home, and said nothing in response. He couldn't be sure, but he thought that maybe, he was beginning to understand.

March 5th, 1783 was a mild spring morning in Paris, and dew was still visible on the front lawn and on the window when Alfred, Berwald, and their respective representatives assembled for the event. They gathered in a paneled room with a table and chairs occupying most of the space. There were a multitude of bookshelves along the walls, as well as a writing desk, which looked like it'd been pressed to one side to make room for the table.

Franklin showed Alfred to a chair, and the boy fought to remain seated while the humans arranged the parchment and quills. The room was filled with books, maps, and other curiosities that Alfred wanted very much to examine, but he kept his hands fisted at his thighs and tried his best not to look impatient. This must be Ambassador Creutz' study, he realized, and stared hard at the bookshelves, wishing he was close enough to read the spines. I wonder if he has studied the stars, too.

He was drawn from his thoughts when a shadow settled over him, and he looked to his right to find Berwald taking the seat beside him. The man gave him a curt nod, which Alfred reciprocated without quite knowing whether they were saying 'good morning' or 'stop staring'. He turned his attention back to the diplomats and hoped it'd been the former.

Since he'd arrived in France, this was the first assembly Alfred had attended where Francis himself had not been present. He felt bare in the room, and realized belatedly that he'd never actually interacted with European diplomats without Francis or Arthur telling him what to say and how to act. He side-eyed Berwald again and wished the man were easier to read.

At long last, everyone was assembled, and the reading of the treaty began. One of the Swedish aides, chosen for his particularly clear French, read aloud for the room:

"Traité d'Amitié et de Commerce conclu entre Sa Majesté le Roi de Suede et les Etats Unis de l'Amérique Septentrionale." Alfred's eyebrows shot down in a sudden, confused frown.

"Septentrionale?" he whispered, too quiet, he thought, for anyone to hear. He opened his mouth to speak up, but something slammed into the side of his right foot. He looked immediately to the source. Berwald was calm and straight-faced, watching his countryman with what appeared to be rapt attention. Quicker than a wink, he glanced at Alfred and subtly shook his head.

"But," Alfred began to whisper, and Berwald kicked his foot again. Alfred shut up, surprised by how forceful the older man could be without even blinking. He quietly rearranged his feet under his chair as far to his left as he could manage.

"et des Vandales etcetera Et les Treize Etats Unis de l'Amerique Septentrionale," the aide read, and Alfred flinched at the misnomer, "sçavoir, New-Hampshire, Massachusetts Bay, Rhode Island, Connecticut, New-York, New-Jersey, Pensylvanie, les Comtés de New-Castle, de Kent et de Sussex sur la Delaware, Maryland, Virginie, Caroline…" Wait a second. Had they… Did the Swedes think that Delaware was three different states? Delaware? Delaware was tiny. Of all the states, why the hell did they think that they'd split Delaware into thirds? His hand twitched uncertainly, and he raised a finger and opened his mouth to ask—

Berwald coughed loudly, drowning out whatever Alfred was about to say. The taller nation pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and coughed into it, waving an apologetic hand to the assembly.

"Ursäkta mig," he choked out, ducking his head and giving one more cough for good show, "Snälla fortsätt." The reader gave him a quick nod and continued reading.

"devront être suivies relativement à la Correspondence et au Commerce que les deux Parties ont jugé necessaire de fixer entre leurs Pays, États et Sujets respectifs…"

Alfred seethed, shocked and annoyed. He watched Berwald carefully fold his handkerchief and put it away. He knew the Swede had done it on purpose, he just didn't know why. Surely being so rude to a new trading partner was frowned upon, right? Surely there were rules about that, even among nations. Unless Sweden hadn't actually changed since his days on the Chesapeake, after all…

A scribbling noise made Alfred's ears twitch, and he looked over to see Berwald writing a note surreptitiously on a small sheet of paper. After a moment, he set his quill aside, and when no one else seemed to be paying attention, slid the paper in front of Alfred. The teen looked down at the short, tidy handwriting.

Nations questioning a treaty just before it is signed will only cause trouble. They will sort out wording after, I promise.

Alfred's anger waned, and embarrassment swelled to take its place. No one had told Francis hadn't explained any of this to him, the etiquette of treaty signings. Maybe he hadn't thought to; maybe he'd thought it was so self-explanatory that even Alfred Jones would understand. The teen felt himself sinking into his seat, and he knew his cheeks must be bright red. Berwald took the paper away, and Alfred couldn't look at the man. A moment later, the paper returned with a new line of text beneath the first.

Your voice has great weight here. Object to small things, they will think you object to big things, too. Leave the semantics to politicians.

Alfred looked sheepishly over at Berwald, who did not acknowledge his existence. If the Swede was angry or annoyed or amused or bored, Alfred could not have said. He just stared straight ahead at the reader, attentive but expressionless. Alfred gave him a little nod anyway, and settled into his seat. He cast occasional glances over at the Swede, and tried to emulate his poise, statuesque posture.

"...les quels Plenipotentiaires, après avoir échangé leurs Pleinpouvoirs, et en consequence d'une mure deliberation ont arreté, conclu et signé les Articles Suivants."

Alfred listened and, in a monumental effort, refrained from mentioning the next three times they mistakenly referred to him as 'The United States of North America'.

The treaty was signed and then, much to Alfred's confusion, given the date of April 3. Before the ink could dry, the ambassadors stood and shook hands. Then, the two nations stood and shook each others' hands. Thatpart, at least, had been self explanatory. While Franklin and Creutz lingered to discuss the logistics of when and how the copies would be delivered to their respective capitals, Berwald invited Alfred aside for what he explained was a customary debrief. He led them down a quiet towpath in the back garden, where inquisitive staff would not be able to overhear what passed between nations.

"Tell me your questions," Berwald must've sensed that Alfred had many, what with the way he'd been fidgeting all morning. "I will do my best to answer."

"Why'd they date it like that?" Alfred asked as if he'd been holding it in for hours. "April third isn't for weeks. Surely you can't just sign a treaty into the future, can you?"

"Not generally, no," Berwald admitted, hands folded serenely behind his back, "But it is an unusual circumstance. Creutz is being recalled to Stockholm, and since this treaty is a secret, he cannot use it as an excuse to stay. April third will give the politicians ample time to quibble about wording over dinner without nullifying their signatures."

"Oh." Alfred was surprised by how practical it was. "Have you ever had a treaty signed like that before—into the future, I mean?"

"No," Berwald admitted. "But I've also never made a treaty with a brand new nation who starts to talk back upon hearing the title," there was a glint in his eye that Alfred recognized, with some surprise, as humor. "Everything must happen for the first time once," Berwald joked.

This one crack in Berwald's stoic mask opened the proverbial floodgates, and Alfred poured out his questions in rapidfire succession. Berwald answered them all as patiently as he could, until at last the young nation seemed satisfied.

"Thank you," Alfred said at length.

"For what?"

"For making sure I didn't embarrass myself in there," the younger explained.

"Vi är vänner nu," Berwald responded, "There is nothing to thank. Come. You are too young to celebrate with champagne, but Creutz's kitchen always has hot chocolate."

Alfred followed him back into the house, trying to translate what the taller man had said without the aid of his dictionary. He wasn't confident about most of the phrase, but he was pretty sure he remembered vänner—it was the Swedish word for 'friends'.

That evening, dinner was a celebratory affair, and while Alfred wasn't allowed (or inclined) to take part in the multiple bottles of wine that passed across the table and followed them into the parlor afterwards, he was allowed second helpings of dessert.

"Toutes nos félicitations, mon cher!" said Francis, draping an arm over Alfred's shoulder. "Berwald tells me you did marvelously, as I knew you would! A born diplomat, as I've ever said." Alfred cast a look over at Berwald, but the man was speaking with Franklin and not paying attention.

"I have good teachers," Alfred said.

"That you do!" Francis downed the last drink of his wine and gave Alfred a firm thump on the back. "And this one could use another glass. I've not been allowed near such a fine vintage since before le Roi Soleil."

"Well I have no intention of watching you flirt with my new allies while drunk," Alfred teased.

"Oh ho ho!" Francis leaned away with a smile, head already a bit fizzy from the wine. "So quick to grow into his britches. Your allies are our allies, mon ami."

"Well, you may tell our allies that I'm going to bed," he said, fighting a massive yawn. "I think I'm still worn out from the crossing."

"Of course. Oh," Francis caught his arm before he could retreat, "That reminds me, I had some clothes delivered to your room. You must try them on in the morning, and I will take care of any alterations you need made."

"I will—thank you, Francis."

"And at least say goodbye to Berwald before you go," he added on his way to the buffet where the house staff had left the wine. "It's good manners."

Alfred looked over at the Swede, who was still embroiled in what must've been a fascinating discussion with Mr. Franklin. Alfred was not inclined to break up their conversation, and did not want to cross the entire parlor to do so. He watched Berwald for a little while longer and, whether through chance or some sixth sense, the Swede looked over and met his gaze.

Alfred gave a smile and gave a short, polite bow, angling himself toward the door. Berwald seemed to understand, and gave the boy a cordial nod in response. It was not at all a French way to say goodnight to someone, and had Francis not been occupied with his favorite vintage, he surely would have reprimanded Alfred for such a conservative approach. Alfred, however, got the feeling that reservation was something Berwald valued more than continental flattery. He turned from the Parlor and climbed up the stairs, belly full and heart content.

Things adopted a fairly different tone the following day when Joseph Jones came up to fetch Alfred for lunch and found his bedroom door sitting ajar. Inside, Alfred stood beside a mirror, modelling a thick woolen great coat and leather gloves for Francis Bonnefoy.

"The coat seems a good fit, but the gloves… let me see," said France, taking Alfred's hand in his own and turning it over with a critical eye. Neither of the nations seemed to have noticed Joseph's arrival. "Hmm, they're a bit small. I'll have them send over a larger pair.

"They feel fine to me," Alfred said, clenching and unclenching his hands experimentally.

"They will be too small within a week, mon cher, we must leave you room to grow. Now take those off and see if your shoes will fit over these stockings." As Alfred set the gloves aside to roll down his cotton stockings, Joseph approached and gave the doorframe a light rap with his knuckles. Both nations looked up.

"Burgundy is a good color on you, Master Jones," Joseph commented cordially, leaning against the door jam. "But I admit it looks a bit warm for Paris." The Virginian had said it in good humor, so when Alfred's eyes snapped over to Francis like a child caught sneaking pudding, he frowned. Something passed between the two nations, unsaid and unseen. Francis abandoned Alfred's attire, and began folding shirts on the bed.

"It's not for Paris," Alfred said. Joseph had worked alongside the teen for long enough to think it strange how he puffed up his chest and clenched his jaw. "It's for Stockholm," the boy said. Joseph stared. He blinked.

"I'm sorry?"

"Stockholm," Alfred repeated. "It's still quite cold there, from what I hear, so Francis was kind enough to procure warmer clothes for my journey."

"Your journey," Joseph repeated. In the ensuing silence, Francis leaned across the bed to gather up a wool waistcoat to fold it. The floorboards creaked and in the silence, the sound was loud enough to make Alfred twitch. "Lee hasn't told me of any trip to Sweden," Joseph said.

"That's because Lee isn't going," Alfred shed his great coat and set it aside; the room was too warm as it was. He swallowed. "Neither is Franklin. Nor are you." Francis was not facing either American, but he could feel the tension rise until at last it found words and Joseph said,

"What?"

The Frenchman set his work aside and ducked toward the door, easing past Joseph with a taught expression.

"I'll leave you two to talk," he said. He heard Joseph close the door after he left. By the time he was at the bottom of the stairs, there were raised voices. He went into the dining room where the last vestiges of lunch were underway. Franklin had taken lunch in his room, complaining of sore feet from his gout, but Arthur Lee was there, napkin tucked into his neckline as he bit into a piece of soup-soaked bread.

"Monsieur Lee," Francis greeted, taking a seat. He reached across to carve himself a serving of bread and cheese from the table and did not look up when he said, "Your compatriots are having a discussion upstairs that you may want to be a part of." Lee paused his chewing and frowned at the nation. After he swallowed, he asked,

"And what discussion is that?"

"That is for Alfred Jones to tell you." At that moment, indistinct shouting echoed downstairs, and Francis cast a look up at the ceiling before returning to his snack. He set it on his plate and leaned back, crossing one leg elegantly over the other. "As I say," he broke the bread and folded it around a crumble of cheese. "I advise you to find Monsieur Franklin on your way up. He'll want to have a say, as well."

Lee took the napkin out of his shirt with a sigh and excused himself from the table. Francis tucked a napkin into his cravat and chewed in contented silence.

"It's absolutely preposterous—that they would even ask that of you—" Joseph Jones was red in the face; he'd been arguing with Alfred for many long minutes before Lee had found Franklin and marched towards the sounds of shouting to join the fray.

"They didn't ask, and they didn't have to," Alfred snapped back. "And anyway, the Ambassador didn't even bring it up, Berwald did."

"As if there's a difference—it's daft no matter whose idea it was," Jones said. Alfred sneered at him, surprised and offended on Berwald's behalf.

"There's every difference in the world, and it's not daft—" Alfred began, but Lee cut him off.

"Stockholm is nearly two weeks' worth of travelling, and through the Empire, no less—if any of those states learn you intend to travel there—"

"They won't," Alfred said.

"They would be upon you at a moment's notice,"

"Why?" Alfred insisted, growing tired of arguing. "Who am I to them?"

"A belligerent in a war in which your newest friend has sworn neutrality," Ben Franklin stepped in, voice calm but firm. Unlike Lee and Joseph, Franklin had been unsurprised by Alfred's announcement that he intended to accompany the Swedes back to Stockholm, but he was no less unhappy. He fixed Alfred with a stern glare over his bifocals. "A war that is not yet over, Master Jones. If the United States is seen in the company of Herre Svierge, all of Europe will know in a fortnight that Sweden is no longer neutral and has forfeited his protections by the League of Armed Neutrality. Any ship bound from a Swedish port may be subject to seizure and search by Britain. If you were to fall to British hands here, in Europe…" he let the silence speak for itself.

To Franklin's credit, Alfred had not thought of it in those terms. However, the pith in the back of his mouth refused to let him acknowledge any merit in the ambassador's words.

"Well, it's a good thing none of them know what I look like then, isn't it?" he snapped. "They'd know you at first glance, I'm sure," He looked at Franklin, at Lee. "But no one here knows me."

"Excepting Britain, of course," Joseph put in.

"I'm not going to Britain," God, Alfred was tired of this.

"Denmark is close enough," Lee retorted.

"France is damn well close enough, yet here I am," Alfred took sick amusement from how Joseph flinched upon hearing a child curse.

"Master Jones," Franklin's exhaustion was becoming evident as well. "You must understand,"

"No, you understand," Alfred snapped, angry and, for perhaps the first time in his life, certain that he understood himself better than his people did, "I am going to Sweden. In two days, I will leave with Lord Oxenstierna and his people and our treaty. I'm going without you, whether or not you agree with me, and if you try to stop me, I'll ignore you." He fixed them all with individual glares "Washington sent me across an ocean to establish relations with Sweden, and that is what I am here to do."

Joseph was steaming with frustration. "The treaty is already signed, you've accomplished your mission," the Virginian said, and Alfred felt a sharp stab of hurt at the idea that his life, his purpose, was reduced to nothing more than words on a page. Was that how Joseph truly felt about him? What about Lee, Franklin—Was that all he was to these people? "Why risk such a trip now, of all times?"

Alfred stood dumbstruck with anger. He thought of all the lonely decades he'd spent waiting for Arthur to visit him, just for one day. All the years of fighting with Francis, competing with Matthew. Years of waiting on Gilbert, on Govert, on Antonio, on someone to help him, to write to him, to know that he existed. Years of waiting, and watching, and having humans dictate to him his own best interests, when all he wanted, all he'd ever wanted was to find someone out there who understood. Finally, he was at the very cusp of seeing the world and learning what it meant to be whatever he was, and these humans had the gall to stand there and deny him something he'd waited for for centuries. Something snapped.

"Because I am your nation," Alfred burst, and all three men jumped. His cheeks were aflame not with embarrassment, but with a candor he'd never felt before. "Because I have been alive since before your great great grandfather was a thought in his mother's head, and because I will live to see the deaths of your great great great great grandchildren, if you're blessed enough to have them," he snarled, unintentionally baring his teeth. "Because your signatures have set in motion something that could affect my life for centuries. Because I am not your child to command, no matter what I may look like to you. Because this is the way of nations, and none of you—not a single one of you—will take that from me. Because I am the United States of America, and this is my decision."

Stunned by his own words, Alfred blinked his eyes and found three American diplomats staring at him in shock and, perhaps, fear. He realized that his hands were shaking, and gripped the seams of his breeches to make them stop. He must look a sight: an immortal boy standing in the middle of a guest bedroom, red-faced and shoeless, stockings drooping down his calves as he threw a tantrum in front of his country's finest diplomats. He knew he ought to feel ridiculous, but he didn't. He felt relieved.

The floorboards creaked as the men shifted their weight, regaining their composure. Joseph and Lee looked surreptitiously at Franklin for answers. The old man adjusted his glasses and leaned on his walking stick.

"And how long do you intend to be away, United States?" he asked pointedly.

The real answer was likely to be through sometime in late May or early June. He had discussed as much with both Berwald—who advised him on the weather and favorable times to set sail—and Francis—who advised him on his wardrobe. However, he was not in a mood to share these deliberations with any of the men.

"As long as I please," he said. "I'll send word to you before I leave for America, of course." When Joseph opened his mouth to speak, he added, "Under an assumed name." Joseph shut his mouth again.

Franklin was never so quiet when he was this irritated. Alfred realized after a moment that it was because, beneath the frustration, there was a new layer of respect there that kept the man's infamous wit in check.

"Very well," Franklin said at last, and both Joseph and Lee seemed surprised by the concession. "Far be it from me to meddle in such affairs. I ask only that you be careful, Master Jones. No matter what you may feel now, you are very dear to us all."

"I will be," Alfred said, heart going soft again despite himself. "You have my word."

Two days later, in the dark hours of Saturday morning, Alfred stood by while the Swedish coachmen dutifully packed up his luggage to the three coaches bound for Stockholm.

Alfred had offered to help after seeing one of the coachmen struggle with a particularly large suitcase, but had been summarily turned down on the grounds that it 'wasn't proper'. He'd always been annoyed by notions of propriety, they tended to give him headaches. He sighed and watched his breath cloud in the predawn air. It was cold enough to be wearing his new great coat, but he knew it would soon be too sunny and warm to bother.

"I wish you could stay," Francis' voice approached from behind, and Alfred turned to see the older nation bundled in a high-collared coat that concealed a nightshirt and hastily-donned breeches. "Next time you are in Paris, I will use this as an excuse to detain you for longer." Alfred smiled at him. He was sad to leave. Nevertheless, his stomach churned with excitement and anxiety over the road before him.

"After the treaty, I half expected you to sneak out in the middle of the night without telling your countrymen a single word," Francis confided, looking up at the moon and stars which were still visible in the sea-dark sky. "I'm glad you told them. Had you disappeared from my home in the middle of a night during wartime, it would become my problem quite quickly, and I know how you Americans like to make a fuss," he smiled and looked down at Alfred. "I heard all the yelling on Thursday. Good for you." Alfred flushed and was glad for the dark.

"You heardthat?" He asked, mortified. Francis chuckled.

"I heard raised voices, and rather a lot of them, but did not hear what anyone said." Which was not entirely true; he'd since gleaned much of the argument's substance from Cruetz' house staff, but he wasn't about to admit this to Alfred. Beside him, the boy sighed.

"I feel bad for yelling at them. Is it too risky? Me going, I mean."

"Everything you're doing here in Europe is risky, mon ami," Francis reminded him. "Sailing here under an assumed identity, meeting with Berwald, standing here with me in Paris. It's all risky. Too risky, perhaps, for wartime. But this is not just a war. This is your freedom, your independence." He winked. "I daresay I think it will be worth it."

Alfred looked down at the cobblestones, trying to contain his smile—and his excitement—but his dimples gave him away. Francis smiled upon seeing them.

"Det är det sista av det," One of the Swedes announced to the coachmen. Cruetz' entire household had gathered to see him off, and he was busy bidding them all farewell and giving last tips and well wishes before his departure. The rest of the Swedish contingent were stretching their legs one last time before their journey began.

"God morgen," Berwald's greeting produced a fog in the frigid air as he approached the two other nations. Unlike his companions, he was dressed in thin, cool clothes and seemed utterly unbothered by the cold. "It's almost time to go. Do you have all your things?" He asked Alfred, who nodded. Berwald then turned to Francis. "Merci pour votre hospitalité et discrétion, Monsieur Bonnefoy," he said, giving a slight bow. He continued in English, "I speak on behalf of all Swedes when I say I look forward to an end of this war, and an amicable friendship between us all."

Francis smiled, and returned the short bow in kind. "Tout le plaisir est pour moi," he assured. After a moment of deliberation, he switched to very rusty and accented Swedish to say: "Ta hand om min lilla bror, Nord,"

Sweden seemed surprised by the use of his mother tongue, but absorbed the request in silence before bowing again, a little lower than before.

"Som om han var min egen," he promised. Once he'd straightened, he glanced between Francis and Alfred, before taking a step back. "We will be in the middle coach," he told Alfred, and left the younger to his goodbyes.

Saying goodbye to Franklin and Lee had been fairly easy; they still seemed somewhat upset with him over the whole Stockholm affair. Saying goodbye to Joseph was unexpectedly more difficult. Alfred had spent weeks pretending to be the man's son, and his affection and concern—however misplaced—genuinely warmed the boy's heart.

"You'll be in America by the time I sail back, won't you?" Alfred asked.

"Yes," the Virginian assured, "assuming dear old Ben doesn't saddle me with more work here first." Alfred shared a laugh at this.

"I'll write you before I come home. I'm sorry to cause you more worry." Joseph gave a taught smile that told Alfred he still harboured plenty of concerns about the trip, but would keep them unsaid out of respect for the young nation. He reached out a hand instead.

"Safe travels, Alfred," he said. The nation beamed. He loved it when people who knew what he was still called him by his first name. He took Joseph's hand and pulled him into a hug.

"You too."

And then, it was only Francis left to bid farewell. Alfred paused in front of the older nation, struck with an unexpected and powerful sadness. He felt like he'd just said hello to the man after over a year apart, and now, it would likely be just as long if not longer before they'd see each other again. Francis seemed to understand, but had centuries of practice to take the bittersweet ambience in stride.

"Venez ici," Francis spread his arms, and Alfred stepped into the hug with abandon. He squeezed the Frenchman around the middle as hard as he could get without hurting him, ear pressed against his left breast so he could hear the steady beat of his heart. He closed his eyes and committed the sound to memory.

"I shall miss this," Francis said merrily, plopping his chin atop Alfred's head. "You're going to sprout up like a weed as soon as Arthur signs the papers, I can feel it in my bones. Sooner or later you'll be too big for me to embrace you without people staring." Why anyone might stare at two men embracing as he and Francis were now flew right above Alfred's head, but the idea of growing taller was of great interest. He pulled away and looked up at Francis.

"Do you think I'll be taller than you?" He asked through a wicked smile.

"You wound me with the very thought," Francis said melodramatically, pushing the boy out of his arms. "I'm not sure the world will ever be ready for that." Alfred laughed again, dimples visible in the light of the driveway lanterns. Francis took Alfred's smiling face in both hands and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

"Bon voyage, mon cher frère," he said. "Jusqu'à ce que nous nous revoyions."

Creutz, along with his chief aide (who guarded Sweden's copy of the treaty) took the first carriage, and the other aides took up in the third. This left Berwald and Alfred alone in the second car, though for the first several hours of their trip, Berwald had the space to himself as Alfred slept soundly on the seat across.

When the boy awoke, he was thoroughly disoriented, and embarrassed to discover he'd drooled on the upholstery. Across from him, Berwald looked up from his book, eyeglasses perched hear the end of his long nose.

"I never could get used to sleeping in these things," the older man said when he realized Alfred was awake. "I envy you."

"The states are pretty long, north to south," Alfred told him, trying his best to fight off a yawn. "If I'm not marching somewhere on foot, it feels like all I ever do is sleep in carriages."

"I've always found sleeping on boats far easier," Berwald said.

"Yeah," Alfred agreed, rubbing a new sore spot on his neck, "it's not been all that safe to travel up the coast by boat, with the war," he explained, "but it sure was nice when we could."

"You'll enjoy some of this journey, then," Berwald turned back to his book, adjusting his eye glasses. "We'll be taking the Rhine up into Prussia's territories. I'm sure everyone will sleep better once we're on a boat."

At the mention of Prussia, Alfred's ears perked up. He wasn't sure he'd call Gilbert a friend, or even an ally, but he was certainly a notable reason why Washington's army had been able to fight back the might of Great Britain without catastrophic losses. The prospect of seeing his home, even in passing, was a welcome one. Alfred looked out the carriage window.

"How long until we reach the Rhine?" he asked.

Berwald raised his eyebrows. "Another day and a half, I should think."

"Oh," Alfred's stomach fell. Europe was big.

They stopped every several hours, and overnight in whatever town was closest. They were making good time, but whenever Alfred drifted off in his hotel bed, he would still feel the shake and tumble of the carriage beneath him.

At last, they made it to the Rhine. They left their carriages behind in Strasbourg and boarded a short masted vessel that Berwald told him was called an Aak by the Dutch who made them.

"They're normally used to carry cargo, not people," Berwald had explained on the dock, "but the hold has enough room for our luggage and some straw mattresses. The elder nation peered down at the sheltered center of the deck and the very low roof that covered it. Alfred followed the man's gaze and measured the hold's entrance with his eyes. Alfred would likely have no problem maneuvering in and out—he was still quite short, no matter what Francis' predictions were. Berwald, on the other hand... Alfred turned and looked up, up, up at the northern nation and wondered if he were imagining the look of resignation on the nord's face.

"I'm sure you'll sleep easier," Alfred encouraged, looking back to the boat, "once you can actually get inside, I mean." Where Alfred couldn't see, Berwald turned and fixed his young companion with a rueful frown. He shook his head. Upstart.

Alfred remembered climbing into the hold to inspect where he'd be sleeping. The inspection must've gone better than expected, because he woke up some time later to the sound of water lapping at the ship's sides and quiet Swedish being spoken nearby.

"Han har redan missat lunch, ska vi väcka honom till middag?" Said one man. A second one chuckled softly.

"Han verkar vara en växande pojke," said another. "Behöver de sömn eller mat mer?"

Alfred groaned something indistinct and rolled over off his pillow.

"Ah," said one of the men, "We were just about to wake you, Herre Jones. We'll be eating soon."

"Oh," rolled himself upright, groggy but suddenly aware of how hungry he was. "Thanks."

He clambered out of the hold and emerged on deck to find that the sun was halfway down the sky. Berwald stood at the bow of the ship, and Alfred went over to join him.

"Sleep well?" Berwald asked, sounding amused.

"Better than a carriage," Alfred replied, rubbing one eye.

"You've woken at a good time. We're about to cross fully into the Holy Roman Empire."

Alfred was immediately more awake. Gilbert had told him stories of the Holy Roman Empire, (or as Gilbert called it, Holy Rome) mostly in the form of complaints about his many, many brothers. Back then, in the muddy, cold military camps in Pennsylvania, Alfred never would have guessed than in a few short years he'd be seeing Holy Rome with his own eyes.

Berwald was looking over his shoulder at the rear mast of their ship. He turned back around with a troubled expression.

"We're flying my flag, but we may be stopped, perhaps searched. If that happens, you go into the hold and pretend to be asleep. If anyone wakes or questions you, do not say a single word, understand?"

"I understand," Alfred frowned, surprised by the sudden gravity. "But… isn't Prussia part of the League?" He said.

"Prussia is," Berwald confirmed, voice even but firm. "His many brothers, however, are not. The only place the Holy Roman Empire is united is on a map. From now until we cross the Baltic, you'd be wise not to speak to anyone who isn't from our party."

"Oh," Alfred deflated a little, feeling wary and suddenly exposed. He rested his arms against the bow's railing and drummed his fingers. After a moment, he looked over at Berwald. "If I can't speak to anyone but you Swedes, do you think you could help me improve my Swedish?" he asked. The corners of Berwald's mouth twitched up.

"I'd be happy to."

And so the days wore on, with Cruetz' party whiling away the hours over cold rations, card games, and incessant Swedish lessons for Alfred. He began practicing exclusively with Berwald, but soon the rest of the party learned of Alfred's ambitions and began helping him by speaking to him in Swedish—albeit very slow Swedish—whenever they could. His progress was modest but it was difficult to judge the boy when even small victories sent him smiling as if he'd discovered the sun. Once, one of Creutz' aides teased that Alfred's accent sounded closer to that of a Dane than a Swede. Berwald had overheard this comment, and shot the human a dirty look that shut up all further comments on the matter.

They never were stopped or boarded, and sailed downstream for five and a half days until they reached a small village called Wesel in one of Prussia's western provinces. Alfred had expected they'd stopped to buy more food—they'd been eating the same cold rations for the last week—and was surprised to find three new carriages waiting for them on the shore.

"Are we not going downriver to the ocean?" Alfred asked. Berwald was selecting a few books from his luggage to take into the carriage with him.

"No further," he said. "The Rhine travels through the Dutch Republic from here, and they are, as I'm sure you know, allies of the American rebels." He glanced over to see Alfred's perturbed expression. "They were also barred from the League by the British two years ago. It's not safe to take you through there, even under my flags. We travel through Prussia, and later," the taller man heaved a sigh and stood up straight, "through Danmark."

Alfred tried to not let the long journey get him down. He enjoyed seeing more of Prussia and Holy Rome through the carriage window, and Berwald kept him on his mental toes with constant lessons in Swedish. Language aside, the older nation quizzed him in all manner of topics: of history, science, astronomy, and philosophy. Before another week had passed, Alfred was conducting entire conversations in Swedish, albeit with poor grammar. Berwald even lent him some of his books to keep the boy entertained, and if Alfred was bothered by the fact that they were written in a language he could only partially comprehend, he didn't let it show.

On the ninth day of their journey through Holy Rome, they stopped in Hamburg for an overnight stay to gather provisions and new horses. While the rest of the men laughed over beer and one of the nicer meals they'd had all trip, Berwald pulled Alfred aside for a quiet word at a corner table.

"Tomorrow or the day after, we'll reach Jutland," he said. "The border between Danmark is always near dispute. Chances are we'll start encountering Danish patrols before we reach the border itself. As before, if anything happens at the border, you aren't to say a word, understand?"

"Jag förstår," Alfred agreed. It was his way of telling Berwald he was confident that he could follow the conversation in Swedish, but Berwald stuck to English to make sure that the younger nation understood in precise clarity.

"We will cross Jutland as quickly as we can, and board a ship at Odense bound for Stockholm. We will stop only when we have to, and linger as little as possible. If anyone should ask, I am a senior aide to Ambassador Creutz, and you are an apprentice. Förstår?"

Alfred was frowning. "Ja," he agreed. "But… why are you so wary of Denmark?" He had to ask. Berwald drew in a breath and sighed.

"Because my brother is a self-serving, suspicious pain in the ass who sticks his nose and his axe where it doesn't belong with complicated regularity," he said. It was the meanest thing Alfred had ever heard Berwald say. Berwald's dark mood remained unaffected by the boy's visible surprise. "Danmark is a part of the League, but if he knows you are here…"

"He would hand me over to Arthur?" Alfred filled in, nonplussed. Berwald shook his head.

"No. Last I heard, Danmark is actually quite enamored with your Revolution, but his government is more enamored with neutrality." Berwald took a long swing of beer—Alfred wasn't used to seeing him drink so much—and sighed. "I admit, my worries are selfish. Danmark would not hurt you, but he would use you to hurt me."

"Europe will know in a fortnight that Sweden is no longer neutral and has forfeited his protections," Franklin had said. Alfred began to understand Berwald's anxiety.

"Why not sail from a Prussian port, then?" he asked. "They're neutral as well."

"By name only," Berwald reminded. "Van Steuben's involvement with the Continental Army is resented by the British, and their king Frederick has not exactly been quiet about supporting your success. The only reason the British have not retaliated is out of decades-old goodwill. But if they were to learn that you were here…" Berwald finished his beer and fixed Alfred with as apologetic an expression as Alfred could imagine the stone-faced nation could achieve. "Besides, I know Danmark's tricks better than Gilbert's. Unfortunately, Danmark is our safest option. Once we are in the Baltic, we will be safe, but until then… best to keep an eye open."

"Right," Alfred said, stomach churning, and not only from the greasy (but delicious) meal. "Let's hope tomorrow's horses are fast, then."

The following day's journey was quiet and nerve-wracking. The further they travelled, the more anxious Alfred became. They stopped for the night at the southern base of the peninsula, in a public house in an out-of-the-way Prussian village. The next day, their journey took them into Denmark itself.

Berwald, deprived of beer and the comfort of a warm hearth, was back to his usual taciturn self, and betrayed no emotion whatsoever as they travelled further and further into Jutland. Their coachmen relayed that they'd been within Danish borders for several hours now. As hours and fields rolled by, Alfred felt the tension ease from his shoulders. All of Berwald's fears regarding the border seemed to be well behind them, and the teen let himself relax back into the rhythm of the road.

Alfred was surprised, then, when their carriages came to a stop abruptly mid-afternoon. He looked out the window, but there was no town or village in sight. Berwald looked up from his book. He knocked on the carriage wall.

"Vad är fel?" he asked the driver. There was no response. Alfred could hear muffled voices outside, and what sounded like more horses, but could not see who was speaking. He pressed his face as close to the window as he could, and had leaned back to open it when Berwald reached forward and yanked the curtain over the window.

"Lärling," Berwald snapped, using the word "apprentice" to remind Alfred of their plan should anything go wrong. "Get away from the door, as far as you can."

Alfred wordlessly complied, pressing himself to the back of the carriage. Berwald stretched one long leg out in front of him, a physical barrier between Alfred and the door. Alfred was already confused as to what exactly Berwald expected to happen, but his confusion doubled when the man reached into the back of his belt and produced a flintlock pistol, which appeared to be loaded. Alfred's eyes bugged.

In the following seconds, three things happened almost simultaneously: Berwald cocked the gun, the carriage door opened, and Berwald levelled his pistol at perfect eye-level with a very tall blond man in a bright red coat. For a terrible moment, Alfred feared the British had managed to find him after all, but something about the buttons and the colors didn't look quite right.

For several long seconds, nothing happened. Berwald and the redcoat held a silent staring contest, until the redcoat glanced over at Alfred. His eyes lit up and he broke into a wolfish grin. He turned back to Berwald. In a language that was not Swedish but sounded almost like Swedish, he said:

"Really, Sverige," he reached out and flicked the barrel of the gun. "That's no way to greet your big brother, now is it?"

Chapter Text

Denmark, for surely that was who this giant must be, was not quite what Alfred had been expecting. He was tall, for one. Based purely on his own imagination, Alfred had imagined him to be far shorter than Berwald. Seeing him in the flesh, Alfred estimated that he was very nearly as tall as his northern brother, and his windswept hair might've closed the difference between the two had they been standing side-by-side.

Berwald carried his own height, even folded up here in the carriage, in the same way that he carried the unyielding winters and quiet resolution of the North. Still, cool, and solid, Berwald was like a giant from the myths of old. Denmark, on the other hand, was looser and brighter, with big eyes and an open face. His smile and his stance were casual, but Alfred could see that his feet were spread wide and pointed towards his target. His hands were crossed comfortably under either elbow, but his right was tucked close to his sword. His whole energy reminded Alfred of Arthur, which was a similarity he could not reconcile with the stories that England himself had told him of Denmark, all filled with bloodthirst, cruelty, and malice.

Berwald said something to Denmark, and Alfred understood less than half of it. At the time, he assumed this was because Berwald had spoken too quickly for him to understand. Later in life, he would realize he hadn't understood it because nearly every other word was a profanity. Berwald hadn't taught him any of those.

"Come on, Sverige," Denmark rolled his eyes, "You didn't honestly think you could come here without my knowing. My boys have known you were coming since last week." He gave the other Nord a pointed look. "A passenger boat under Swedish flags? Three coaches crossing the entire Empire without cargo? Do you think I was born yesterday?" Berwald said nothing, and only squinted his eyes to glare harder. Denmark's smile widened. He looked over at Alfred with keen interest, and the young nation felt anchored to the spot.

"This one looks like he was, though," Denmark said, looking Alfred up and down. He looked back at Berwald, eyes sharp and accusative. "Is this who I think it is?"

"Get out of my face," Berwald growled, gesturing with his pistol. Denmark ignored it.

"He's Arthur's brat, isn't he?" Denmark grinned again at Alfred, eyeing him as if he didn't have ears. "'Neutral' my ass. My my, Sverige, what will Ivan say?" It occurred to Alfred that Denmark probably didn't realize that he could (mostly) understand him.

"Who do you think I am?" Alfred asked in Swedish. Denmark turned bodily around to stare, eyes blown wide in surprise.

"Lärling," Berwald warned. He was drowned out by Denmark, who laughed loudly.

"He speaks!" He looked back at Berwald. "You taught him Swedish already, you shameless skiderik!" He turned to Alfred, still smiling. "This is even better. So who are you, Little Swede? I've not heard Sverige's horrible language in your accent before and I think I can guess why."

"I will shoot you," Berwald said through gritted teeth. Denmark didn't pay him any attention, ancient blue eyes focused solely on Alfred.

"Well?" He asked. Alfred didn't want to admit how unnerved he was. He eyed Berwald, but received no guidance. He tipped up his chin and met Denmark's gaze. He'd always had a tendency to say stupid things when he was scared.

"You're the one acting like you already know me, but we've only just met," Alfred said. "Who do you think I am?" Denmark laughed again and Berwald closed his eyes, face the picture of regret.

"Forgive my impoliteness, young master," Said Denmark, "I am Mathias Kohler. As for you, I was confident before, but after hearing such lip from someone so small, now I'm sure: you're Alfred Jones." His eyes were dangerous and delighted. "Welcome to Danmark, mister United States."

Mathias opened the carriage door, presumably to ask Alfred out for a cordial word. The latch had barely left the plate before Berwald erupted from the car, lunging at his brother and slamming the carriage door behind him with Alfred still inside.

And that was the beginning of an honest-to-God argument between the two Nords. It was the kind of argument that made people turn and stare, the sort of thing men had duels about. Alfred had seen plenty such arguments erupt between Arthur and Francis over the years, but Berwald and Mathias were bigger and scarier than either of them, and had much louder voices. Alfred also realized, with a little surprise, that he couldn't understand a word they said.

Berwald was yelling at Mathias in a bizarre new language that Alfred didn't recognize. He was surprised when Mathias returned it in kind. They continued, yelling at each other in this unintelligible language, presumably about Alfred, and all the younger nation could do was wait, watch the two pistols they both held, (Berwald's was still cocked and ready to fire) and hope to God no one was going to wind up dead. That would certainly be a way to celebrate a treaty.

The commotion had brought all other activity to a halt. Alfred peeked outside the window, and could see members of Ambassador Creutz's contingent as well as the dozen or so mounted Danes shuffling around attempting to look composed while their nations screamed at each other. A few of the Swedes had come up beside his carriage, presumably to be his protectors (as if a few humans would stand a chance against a nation) and Alfred was heartened to see his own confusion reflected in their faces.

"What are they saying?" Asked one to his fellow.

"It sounds like jävla Isländsk."

Alfred wasn't sure what jävla Isländsk was, but if it meant angry gibberish, he was inclined to agree.

Eventually, the argument simmered to an impasse. Alfred did not need to be fluent in any spoken language to know that they had not reached a resolution. Neither nation seemed particularly inclined to stop yelling at the other, but eventually Berwald turned on his heel and stormed back to the carriage. He opened the door, but instead of climbing inside, he looked down at Alfred.

Had this happened a few centuries into the future, long after Alfred had learned the nuances of Berwald's broad arsenal of glares, he would've realized that Herr Sverige was embarrassed, cornered, and furious about it. That day in 1783, however, the fledgling United States found himself pinned to his seat by a stare that could petrify entire forests.

"Everything alright?" He squeaked out.

"They will escort us to Odense," Sweden's accent was thick and foreign from whatever language he'd been speaking. "Would you…" He paused. It looked to Alfred like he was trying to eat an under-ripe melon. "Would you like to ride with Danmark for the journey, Mister United States?" Boots crunched over the oyster-shell road and Mathias' face appeared by Berwald's shoulder. In contrast to his brother, he looked positively smug.

"I would be honored to show you the beautiful countryside, even if briefly," Mathias offered.

Alfred's eyes flicked from Berwald's face to Mathias'. The use of his formal name made him think twice about what he was about to say: this was not a personal question, this was a National question. Alfred had only been his own nation for a matter of years, and no one—not even Berwald—had ever asked him to make decisions for himself in that role. His heart pounded in his chest as he tried to recall any of the many, many lessons in diplomacy General Washington had tried to hammer into his skull. Martha had always told him that doodling instead of taking notes would come back to bite him. He hated that she'd been right. He could practically feel Ben Franklin glaring at him all the way from Paris. Maybe, if he imagined Ben giving him orders, it would be easier to say something smart that wouldn't get him into trouble.

Denmark is a neutral nation who's just found out that Sweden has broken neutrality to side with you, Alfred's mental impression of Franklin grumbled at him, in a war against one of the Three Great Powers. He is not your ally. You cannot trust him. Something pithy and mean materialized on Alfred's tongue, and it'd almost found words before Ben's voice hastily added, but for God's sake, boy, don't say anything that'll make him angry.

Alfred wrestled with his mouth, struggling to find something to say. He hoped the older men thought he was struggling with Swedish, and not with the concept of speaking itself.

"I've wanted to see Europe for as long as I can remember," he managed, brows furrowed in concentration. He couldn't look directly at either of them. "I've heard stories about these places for centuries. But…" He dared a glance at Mathias. But I'm not going to let you turn me over to ass-faced Arthur just because you hate Sweden. He bit his lip again. He couldn't say that.

"But I'm still very much at war," he said quickly. "My people have asked me to stay hidden while I'm here, and I'm afraid I have to act according to their wishes. Still," He couldn't help but add, looking up at Mathias' face with what he hoped wasn't too eager an expression, "I should very much like to come back and see it all," he said, fighting to look confident, "after I win." Mathias's disappointment was obvious, but he put on a smile.

"Which I'm sure you'll do in record time," he said, bowing his head slightly. He glanced sidelong at Berwald, and back to Alfred. Mathias' eyes were shockingly blue, but not like the iceberg-blues of his brother, but a dangerous, clear riptide. "I look forward to speaking with you properly, United States. I'd love to hear what your accent does to Danish." Berwald turned and glared at the Dane, but Mathias only laughed. He stood back so Berwald could clamber into the carriage, glaring the entire way. Mathias shut the door behind him and gave it a thump.

"My men and I will escort you from here to Odense. I believe your ship is already waiting for you." He gave one last parting word to Berwald in the mystery language they shared, which made the taller man bristle like a porcupine.

Mathias called his men to attention and drifted away. Alfred deflated with relief, but across from him, Berwald sulked. They did not talk the rest of the way to Odense.

As a (former!) colonist whose entire world hung on the tether of transatlantic travel, Alfred was no stranger to ships both navy and merchant. As they approached the port of Odense, he was excited to see the forest of masts that awaited them at the docks, and leaned close to the window to see the colors waving in the wind. Many of the ships were Danish, but Alfred also spotted Prussian ships, French, English, Russian, Dutch, Spanish, Italian, and, of course, Swedish.

The Danes led them all the way to the dockside, where a troop of Swedish shiphands introduced themselves and began hauling their countrymens' luggage away from the coaches.

Waiting dockside with the rest of Ambassador Creutz' party, Alfred was struck by the sheer variety of sizes of ships. Biased by the remote nature of his home, he was used to seeing nothing but massive vessels with three or four masts at the least, broadsides tall with guns and bellies round with huge cargo holds. Many of these ships, however, were low and close to the water, with one or two masts and such shallow drafts that Alfred wondered how they could possibly be seaworthy. He turned to ask Berwald if the ships were meant for rivers rather than the sea, and jumped when he found Mathias standing in his brother's place.

"It's a pity you can't travel all the way to Copenhagen," Denmark said in English. His accent was heavier than Berwald's and dipped in deeper patterns that made Alfred pause to make sure he'd heard correctly. "Sverige planned to avoid it, of course, but I think you'd like it."

"I'm sure I would," Alfred said, trying to speak as little as he could to avoid saying anything out of turn, "after the war." Mathias smiled, knowing in a way that made Alfred nervous.

"Or perhaps sooner," the taller man said. "Berwald tells me you're bound back home in early June. As it happens, the ship he's sending you on has to stop in Copenhagen to pick up cargo. It should only take a day and a night, but he's agreed to let me detain you for dinner." Alfred's anger flared, and he could not control himself when he blurted:

"When did I agree to that?" Mathias smiled wider.

"Are you going to refuse?" It sounded like a threat. It was a threat. Alfred shuffled his feet. He didn't like this, being caught in the crossfire of international games of chess. He didn't like how words held so much weight on this side of the ocean. He supposed he had better get used to it.

"No," he salvaged, "but I don't appreciate others speaking for me."

"Neither Berwald nor myself mean any offense by it, you understand," Mathias told him. "You're the one at war, Sverige is trying to avoid another one, and I'm only trying to seize an opportunity when I see it. It's not every day that the New World comes knocking at the door of the Old," he gave Alfred a wink. "Neither you nor Sverige will come to any misfortune. Please don't think less of me because of poor Berwald's moods—He and I have too long a history to set aside. My desire for friendship between us is genuine."

"Your people have never asked for it," Alfred said before he could stop himself. Mathias's smile grew tight.

"My government never did, no."

"Berwald's did." Mathias' smiled disappeared entirely. Alfred realized belatedly that this was a very charged thing to say. "Do you think yours ever will?" He asked. Mathias seemed to consider the question.

"I surely hope so," the man said. "And all of Danmark with me."

Alfred found that he didn't want to think less of this man, Berwald or no Berwald. Still, he didn't trust him. He glanced over to where the Swedes were beginning to congregate and travel to their ship. He spotted Berwald at the lead, looking back at him in quiet judgement.

"We'll have to see, then," Alfred wasn't sure what else to say. Mathias gave a soft smile; whether in agreement or amusement at his conversationalists' lack of tact, Alfred could not say.

The Dane glanced over at shoulder towards the Swedish contingent, and gave his brother a distant salue. This seemed to annoy Berwald, and the Swede turned away. Mathias turned back to Alfred. The Danish soldiers had begun to filter away, and three Danish coachmen had arrived to escort the abandoned carriages away from the port. Mathias stepped backwards toward his horse, eyes not leaving Alfred's face.

"June third, a Tuesday, I believe. I'll meet you at the docks. I look forward to speaking of your grand experiment, lidt revolutionerende, and this thing you call a Republic."

Alfred was one of the last to board the ship. It was a sleek and slim galliot—galeas, one of the Swedes had corrected him—three-masted with triangle sails and a handsome paint job that looked new. They enjoyed a sturdy tailwind that whipped their Swedish colors aloft as they pressed away from the Danish islands and through to the Baltic proper. The air was freezing, the sun hot, the water partially frozen, but all in all, gorgeous for sailing.

Berwald had been in a positively grumpy mood since they'd left port, and had been moping at the quarterdeck the whole time. After how he'd narrowly avoided mucking up the encounter with Sweden's rival, Alfred felt it wasn't a good time to mention the arrangement with Denmark regarding Alfred's imminent return to the States, or the fact that no one had consulted Alfred beforehand. After working very hard to swallow his own annoyance on the matter (not a small feat), he joined the angry nation at his post and preoccupied himself with watching the portside leeboard dig into the waves behind them. He wrung his hands awkwardly. Alfred was born tactless—or at least, that's what Arthur always said. Desperate to prove his old mentor wrong, Alfred thought of what Martha Washington would do. He decided to change the subject.

"I've never seen one of these on a ship this big," Alfred broke the silence. "It's ingenious, really. I ought to mention it to the boys in Boston, it sure could solve a lot of problems with coastal shipping. But how does she fare in the open ocean?"

That was how Alfred got Berwald to start talking about shipbuilding, and as it turned out, once you got a Norseman talking about boats, it was very difficult to get him to shut up again. Nevertheless, by the end of the day, Berwald seemed to have forgotten all about his brother and was in high spirits once again. By the time the peaks and curves of the Swedish mainland eclipsed all memory of Jutland, the nation was practically glowing with pride.

That night, Alfred slept in a hammock below deck, bundled against the wintery cold by blankets and his French greatcoat. He dreamed that he'd built a galeas that flew in the stars.

They arrived in Stockholm the following evening. It was a bizarre experience for Alfred, for while he knew he was in Europe, something about it made it feel almost like he was arriving home.

The architecture awaiting him in Sweden was more subdued, more compact, and more colorful than what he'd seen in the continent. From the sea, the local architecture looked a far cry from the stone behemoths he'd seen in Paris. Although touring Francis' home had been fantastic fun, seeing Stockholm made Alfred's lungs freeze—not from the cold sea, but from an emotion close to homesickness. As the sun set lower in the sky, the rows of houses and steeples became silhouetted so that it looked like it could almost—almost—be Philadelphia or Boston.

"Välkommen till mitt hem, Amerika," Berwald said, coming up behind the younger nation as they drifted quietly toward the harbor.

"It's beautiful," Alfred said, too wrapped up in his thoughts to speak anything but English.

"Hon är," Berwald agreed, sounding proud. "Come, let's gather your things. It will be quite dark by the time we dock. It will be easier if we can disembark quickly."

The night passed in a daze for Alfred. The sun took ages to set, but they hadn't disembarked until it was completely out of the sky. The docks were cold, and Alfred spent much time shivering in his coat while Berwald and Creutz discussed the important things. The ambassador himself and his two chief aides would travel immediately to the palace, where they would deliver their new treaty to the king in the morning. The others would return to their homes to rest up for a busy week at court. Berwald and Alfred, meanwhile, would travel to Berwald's private residence, which, Alfred gathered in some surprise, seemed to be an unknown address to all but Creutz himself.

He asked about this on the carriage ride over. It was pitch black outside, and Alfred could only see Berwald by the reflection made by his glasses as they passed streetlamps.

"I value my privacy," the nation said quietly, almost timidly. "If the humans do not need to know, they do not know. Creutz is one of the ones who needed to know."

It was a simple policy that Alfred was suddenly tempted to adopt for himself. He had a few houses up and down the colonies: Williamsburg, Philadelphia, Boston, New York. All of them were well known amongst his leaders and human friends. He wondered if he would build many more homes in the future. If he did, he resolved to keep them a secret to all but those who needed to know. And those he trusted, of course.

"Thank you for sharing it with me, then," Alfred said, trying to sound not as hoarse and sleepy as he was. "I'm honored."

"My rules for humans do not apply to allies," Berwald said. Alfred could not see a smile through the dark, but he was fairly sure he could hear it in Berwald's voice. "I'm happy to share."

Alfred did not remember arriving at Berwald's house, and he only vaguely remembered going up the stairs, with Berwald's massive hand on his back, guiding him down the hall or perhaps just holding him upright. He must've found a bedroom at some point, because he did remember kicking off his shoes and breeches and falling into a mattress that was divinely soft. It was the first real bed he'd seen in weeks.

He awoke with the sun, which he knew must rise absurdly early this time of year, being so far north. There was a small stove in one corner of his room, and through the grate he could see glowing embers from the previous night. Their warmth did little to help him now, and it took Alfred several moments to muster enough courage to throw off the bedcovers. He found his suitcase and went immediately for his woolen stockings before rushing to the windows to throw open the curtains.

Up close, the city looked far more continental than it had from the sea. Still, something inside him felt bright and pleased upon seeing the seaside view, the colorful rows of houses and storefronts. Gulls screamed over the harbors, and from a distance he could see fishing boats disembarking for the morning's haul. He grinned and turned back to his room.

After he'd moved his clothes into the wardrobe and perused the small row of books set out on the dresser—all written in very old Swedish that he could not parse—he finished dressing himself and quietly, carefully peeked outside.

"My bedroom is just across there," he remembered Berwald saying, as if from a dream. "Down the hall from this one." Looking at the door now, Alfred guessed from the dark threshold below the door that the Swede was probably still abed. Alfred considered going back to his own bed so as not to be a nuisance, but the temptation to explore was too great.

Berwald had no house staff and apparently lived alone, so Alfred roamed the passages in utter silence, accompanied only by the creak of the floorboards under his bare stockings. He soon discovered that the Nord's home held considerably more than its dimensions implied. There were three floors—bedrooms on top, entertaining spaces in the middle, and larder, cellar, and kitchen below. There were no card rooms or parlors, no extra empty spaces that invited the type of assemblies and polite company that dignitaries' houses were designed for. Nevertheless, it was a spacious and comfortable place, the sort of place Alfred could easily curl up on a couch and drift back to sleep.

Instead of the opulent wallpapers and colorful paints he'd seen in Ambassador Creutz' house in Paris, this house was understated. The floors and wood siding were unpainted and largely unadorned, save for a few worn rugs here and there, some that looked older than Alfred the dining room had wallpaper. The rest were plastered and painted in muted natural tones. Upon inspecting the utilitarian rooms that Alfred found—the lavatory, the kitchen—he was surprised to find neither paint nor wallpaper.

"Whitewash?" he heard himself say aloud, astonished. He'd never seen whitewash in respectable homes, only in farms and poor village homes. Everything he'd ever learned about Europeans had led him to believe they were all equally snobbish about decor. "Maybe whitewash is in fashion in Sweden," he murmured to himself He tried to imagine Berwald re-applying the lime every winter. "But I doubt it."

Save for Matthew's lonesome cabin up in Québec, Alfred had never actually been inside another nation's house before. He wandered with no real aim in mind except to explore. Eventually, there was only one unexplored corner left, a room at the back of the house, right underneath where Berwald's bedroom would be. The door was slightly ajar, and Alfred could see hints of sunlight on the other side, so he gently pressed the door and it swung inward.

He stifled a gasp. It was a study. Stuffed bookshelves lined the walls, and under the broad window was a sturdy pine desk, covered in the kind of lived-in mess that bespoke a busy mind. He knew immediately that to go further into the room would be to trespass. This was Berwald's personal study, and was sure to be chock full of things he ought not go poking his nose into. He stepped into the room anyway.

The wall hidden by the door was covered not in bookshelves, but in portraits. Most were small paintings, no bigger than Alfred's spread palm. Some were in oval frames, other in rectangular ones and some even in square frames. None of the frames matched. He drew closer to examine them and was shocked to recognize Francis Bonnefoy; looking younger than he had in recent years and wearing some hideously old fashion. A few portraits away there was a pale-skinned man who could only have been Gilbert Beilschmidt, though his hair was longer in this portrait than Alfred had last seen it. There were over a dozen people that Alfred had never seen before, both men and women. He paced sideways down the wall, eyes glued to the unfamiliar faces. Were they all nations? Who were they? What were their names? Would he ever meet them, face to face? Nose hovering inches away from the paintings, Alfred stopped and gasped when he unexpectedly came across Arthur Kirkland's portrait. The paint was old and cracking, but those green eyes stared out at him with hatred and accusation that felt real.

"It's easy to forget who's who, sometimes," Sweden's voice made Alfred bodily jump and turn. The Nord was not looking at Alfred, but over his head at the wall of paintings. "Especially if you go a while without seeing them. Most nations have a new portrait made every century or two to share them with their allies. It helps with large meetings of state." Alfred had intended to apologize for invading Berwald's study, but was now too taken with this information to remember to do so. He turned back around and examined the wall of paintings.

"These are all your allies?" he asked, amazed.

"Not all of them. Some are enemies. Some are neither friend nor foe. Whatever they are, it's important to know a nation when you see one." There had to have been dozens represented here, and stacks of unhanged paintings sat on a nearby shelf. Alfred scanned his eyes up and down the wall. Francis, Arthur, Gilbert, Mathias… was that Antonio? It could have been, but Alfred had no idea what Spain actually looked like.

"I don't recognize even half a dozen of them," he said bashfully. Bewald stepped over to Alfred's side, arms crossed comfortably. Like Alfred, he was only half dressed, in shirtsleeves, breeches, and cozy woolen stockings pulled up over his calves.

"You will learn. You should have your own portrait made and distributed," he said, compelling Alfred to look up and meet his eyes. Once he had the boy's attention, he added, "after Arthurhas recognized your independence. To do so before would be interpreted as arrogance, and arrogance, like most everything in politics, is something you must be able to pay for in cash."

"How do you mean?" Alfred asked. Berwald's eyes strayed toward Mathias' portrait, and then to a portrait of a broad-shouldered young man with thick pale hair and strange eyes. His gaze lingered there in an unreadable pause. When he spoke again, his voice was suddenly weary.

"Arrogance is an invitation for war. If you do not have cash to fund a war, the price will become your undoing." After a pregnant pause, he glanced back at Alfred. "I imagine your Revolution has left you near bankruptcy." Alfred did not confirm or deny this assumption, but Berwald hadn't expected him to. "You will have time for ambition later. For now, you ought to establish yourself across Europe as you are with me. Quietly, without ruffling any feathers." Alfred thought about this, casting his eyes up and down the wall of portraits.

"But what if someone wants to ruffle my feathers?" he asked.

"Who would try?" Berwald retorted. "You are an attractive trading partner. Antonio could, perhaps, but no one else. Even Arthur will approach you for a treaty before another war. I think he's even more bankrupt than you."

"You think so?"

"I've fought in enough wars to know," Berwald said plainly. "You've driven Storbritannien to the rotting bottom of his coffers." Alfred would have expected such news would bring him joy, but was surprised to feel a weight of sadness on his chest.

"No need to think of it now," Berwald told him. "You must be hungry. Come, I'll make us some breakfast."

After that first morning, Alfred's life in Stockholm took a considerably more relaxed tone than it had in Paris. Divested of politicians, ambassadors, and the heavy expectations of treaty signings, Alfred was left alone with Berwald for days at a time. If he'd had a moment to think about it he would have been intimidated, but so far Berwald had managed to keep him occupied both in and outside of the house.

Berwald's residence was in the heart of an island, the Staden mellan broarna, the "Town Between the Bridges" which was lively and fun to explore. Berwald led him to not one, two, but three ancient churches. They were far smaller than the ones Alfred had seen in Paris, but he was entranced all the same; if not for their architecture, for their age. Though some of them predated Alfred's earliest memories by many centuries, Berwald slipped a few times and spoke of them as if they were still new.

They travelled to the docks and Alfred got another lesson on shipbuilding—this time without asking for it and not really wanting it—and a quiz on the colors of countries and companies visible one the masts. In the evenings, they would sup together in Berwald's dining room and then retire to his study. The older nation would quiz him on the portraits on the wall, and explain who was who. He instructed Alfred in the etiquette of treaties, and hosting nations and humans as guests, and how to treat each party in mixed company. He taught him what topics ought to be handled between nations in private, and which ought to be dealt with by humans.

Alfred's favorite part of the evening, however, was always when Berwald would tell him stories. He spoke of wars long past, ancient religions, magic, and cruelty. He spoke also of ingenuity, and kindness, and the sorts of humans who'd been equal parts scandal and legend. They always ended the night with one of those good stories. Alfred would laugh and relate tales of his own people. Though they were far shorter and newer, and usually told rather poorly, Berwald always smiled and thanked him anyway. Then, they'd go to their rooms, shut the curtains as tight as they could, and try to sleep despite the encroaching springtime sunlight.

One Saturday, Berwald took his young companion out to the main town square, or Stortorget, as he'd called it. It was absolutely buzzing with activity. Shops, stalls, customers, and criers of all sorts hawked and bartered and laughed and yelled at each other in a cacophony. Berwald strode into the fray and the crowd seemed to part in front of him; Alfred followed in his wake, hurrying to make sure the crowd didn't swallow him whole before he could catch up to his host.

They bought lunch and found a quiet spot by the seaside to eat. Alfred was glad Ben Franklin wasn't around to judge his manners. Their lunch was a horribly messy concoction of flatbread—tunnbröd, Berwald had called it—wrapped around some kind of white fish and a tangy sauce that dripped onto Alfred's fingers as he tried to eat. Berwald, of course, had no such trouble.

"My being here is not keeping you, is it?" Alfred blurted sometime after he'd finished. He'd been wanting to ask for a week. "Surely your King," he regretted the way his voice stuck over the word, "must want you back at court soon." Alfred was surprised when Berwald dismissed the thought with a shrug.

"This is more important than Gustav," he said. For one extremely bizarre moment, Alfred thought that Berwald was talking about lunch, before he realized he meant this, as in, Alfred being in Stockholm, and Berwald getting to know him. "And Gustav knows it. Cruetz introduced the Treaty several days ago, and the King is happy with it. That is all he has to bother himself with, and will leave us both alone for now." The Swede paused to finish off his lunch, sucking a spot of sauce off his thumb and dusting his hands of crumbs.

"Were you not still at war and I not neutral, I would arrange an audience for you, but," Berwald cast a steely glance Alfred's way, and the American had spent enough time around the man to now recognize the humor hidden there, "I hear you're not over-fond of monarchs." This made Alfred laugh out loud. He tried to make himself stop, but couldn't fight the smile completely away.

"Sorry," he said, wrestling with his mouth. "I don't mean to laugh." Berwald said nothing, only rearranged his legs on the dock to let one dangle over towards the water.

"Truth be told, I'm inclined to agree with you." Alfred's head whipped around so fast, had he still had any lunch left in his hands, he would've dropped it. Berwald glanced at him but betrayed no reaction. "I had something like democracy, not even a decade ago," he explained. "A parliament. The Riksdag. Liberty, freedom, human rights… we sought them all here in Sweden, but it's a delicate system. The estates fought so much that hardly anything could be done. I… my empire finished crumbling under their watch. People suffered, especially in the east. And what does a weak democracy want but a king to break it apart?" Berwald took off his glasses and cleaned them with the edge of his sleeve, but Alfred didn't think the other man would need lenses to see how disturbed he was. He could not look at Berwald. His mind was far away, on the other side of the ocean.

"I do not say this to scare you," Berwald said, replacing his glasses. "Your people are doing something utterly unheard of. It is bold and brave, but you must make sure they design it well, or it will falter. When it does, the New World has no shortage of monarchs far greater than mine ready to eat you whole."

"We won't falter," Alfred blurted, feeling it in his bones. "I'll die before I let a king take my lands—my people—from me."

"Good," Berwald replied, sounding genuinely pleased to hear it. Silence reigned. After a while, Berwald stood and began to stroll along the boardwalk by the harbor. Alfred stood and brushed himself off to follow. As they walked, the mood lightened, helped along by the bright and breezy, if slightly overcast weather. After a while, Alfred spoke up to say:

"You know, Stockholm reminds me a bit of Canada."

"The northern lands of America," Berwald said, tracing the map in his mind's eye. "Newfoundland?"

"Yes, around there."

"Mm," Berwald nodded. "We called her Vinland, many centuries ago." Alfred frowned at the mention of "she", but then Berwald said: "I hear Canada is your identical twin. Is that true?" and whatever questions he had were forgotten so that he could become defensive.

"Well, he is, sort of, but we're not really identical anymore," Alfred defended. "Matt's like a baby. I've been growing a lot recently but he's still really little. I don't see him much, these days."

"Would he follow in your footsteps, do you think?" Berwald asked. "To revolution?" Alfred scoffed.

"No," He grumbled, kicking at a barnacle shell on their path. It skittered across the walkway and plopped back into the sea. "I asked him to, but he said no. He'd rather stay with rotten old Arthur than take his chances with me. I think he's just scared." He'd meant it as an insult, but Berwald gave an understanding little nod.

"Your brother knows his own weakness and knows he could never withstand the world on his own. Besides, he knows Arthur will watch him more carefully now that you've fought back. If he is indeed an infant, he is a very wise infant." Guilt blossomed in Alfred's chest. He'd never thought about Matthew as being wise, but he'd also never thought of him as being weak. His twin's rejection hadn't ever registered as anything but a deep and irrational betrayal.

"You are very lucky, Alfred. The strength of your people and their allies is not something most nations find until they are thrice your age, if ever. Have you ever warred with your brother?" Alfred shrugged, looking out at the ships that bobbed in slow rhythms.

"Not exactly," he said. "Just skirmishes. He only did what Arthur told him to do." It'd still stung. Matthew was his closest neighbor, and his only true brother.

"Brothers are forever," Berwald told him solemnly. Alfred wondered if he was talking about Mathias. "If it is within your power to keep peace with him, you must do so. Once you cross the line of Cain, there is no going back." Alfred nodded, sullen and quiet. Berwald let him sulk for a little while longer until they reached a crossroads between the docks and the path back towards the island where Berwald lived.

"Come now. You asked to see the Royal armory yesterday; a friend in the palace has leant me the keys for the afternoon."

That perked Alfred back up again, and his ill mood was quickly forgotten as Berwald led him through decades of history. Still, when Alfred dreamed that night, he dreamed of Matthew. In his dream, they were the same height, and stood arm in arm against the world.

When Thomas Jefferson had packed Alfred's suitcase for him, he'd done so in the temperate hills of Virginia. The linens and silks were meant for Paris, and he'd included only just enough formal outfits to see him through the appropriate state dinners and the treaty signing itself. Jefferson couldn't have possibly known that Alfred would need to dress himself for an opera in Stockholm on a blustery May evening.

"It will be warm once we're inside," Berwald encouraged as Alfred fought off shivers in the coach. Alfred didn't want to admit that he wasn't shivering because he was cold. He was shivering from excitement.

The Swedish Opera house was gorgeous, and reminded Alfred of the architecture of Paris. But where Paris was all buttresses and columns and grand scrolling, this opera house had strong angles and sturdy shapes that made Alfred think it could be struck by lightning and still not budge. The inside was rich and dressed in stark white and expensive blue, all dripping in gilded chandeliers and decor.

"For all that I might say about him, His Majesty's taste in art has been a boon to my city," Berwald had whispered to Alfred as he stood agog in the foyer before the performance. "It opened just last year; the King funds it himself."

The opera that night was Alonso e Cora. (A century or so later, Alfred would learn that Berwald had waited for the Opera's schedule to change so he could take him to Alonso e Cora rather than the English-penned Dido and Aeneas.)It was an Italian story, and Alfred's century-old Latin lessons let him understand only about a third of it. Even so, the singing was divine, and the backdrops were gorgeous, and some of the set pieces were so elaborate that Alfred missed several pivotal plot points while he tried to figure out how they worked.

"I haven't seen a play in years, let alone an opera," Alfred gushed on their carriage ride back.

"Because of the war?"

"Yeah," Alfred sighed. "General Washington lovesopera, you know, but a lot of people think it's immoral. I don't know why—did you hear her singing? She sounded like an angel." Berwald smiled. "I can't wait to tell him about it."

"Perhaps you'll convince him to fund an opera house of your own," Berwald suggested. "After your war, of course." Alfred smiled, wistful and determined. There was so much he was going to do, after this war. It was so close, he could practically taste it.

"Yeah," he said. "I think I will."

The next day, he spent nearly half a page bloviating about Alonso e Cora to Joseph Jones as he wrote to the Virginian, as he said he would, with details of when he would leave Stockholm (June third) and when he expected to arrive back in America (near the end of July). He used up so much of the page that there was hardly any space with which to sign it. As soon as he wrote the swooping capital "A" of his name, he remembered his promise to Ben that he'd use an assumed name. Cursing under his breath, he bit the feathered end of his quill in thought, and then quickly added a period after the "A" and substituted the first name that came to mind.

With warmest regards,

A. Franklin Jones.

Alfred wasn't sure where the time had gone. One day he was falling into bed in an unfamiliar house, and then suddenly he was in Berwald's study, sitting on the edge of his desk and swinging his heels as Berwald copied out out Alfred's description of a chair that Thomas Jefferson had invented, set on casters so that the seat swivelled without needing to move the legs.

Suddenly, he was drinking hot chocolate while Berwald had brännvin and quizzed Alfred on all of the nations' names and where they lived. Suddenly, he could recite them all without looking. Suddenly, he felt so comfortable in Berwald's home that he could not look at a calendar without feeling a sharp pang of sadness. Suddenly, it was May 24th, and Berwald was rapping lightly on the frame of his bedroom door. Alfred looked up from his writing and back at the Swede.

"I don't mean to interrupt," said the taller man, "but there's someone downstairs that I'd like you to meet." Alfred followed, and the moment his feet touched the main floor, the stranger turned to him and Alfred froze. The shy smile on this man's face was just the same as it had been some hundred-and-fifty years ago.

"Tino," the teen said in surprise. "You're Finland."

Tino Väinämöinen stood just inside the front door, dressed in a grey coat and cap both dusted with rain. He exchanged looks with Berwald, who looked just as surprised as Tino.

"How did you know that?" Berwald asked his young companion, peering down at him with intensity. Finland was not a sovereign state, and his portrait was not on the wall of Berwald's study. Alfred's face colored under the attention.

"Monsieur Bonnefoy told me you were with Herr Sverige in the New World, many years ago," Alfred told Tino "I don't… I don't really remember it, exactly, but I… I recognize you." Truth was, Alfred had recognized him by his smell: woodsmoke, sweet pastries, and spruce. But the young nation didn't feel comfortable explaining this. He closed his eyes and shook his head, trying to dispel the embarrassment. "I apologize for my poor manners," he said, reaching out a hand. "I was surprised, I've done this all backwards. I'm Alfred Jones," he said. Tino laughed, and it was a very nice laugh.

"No need for apologies, master Jones," he said, swiping a hand over his head to remove the rain-speckled cap and reveal a layer of flat white-blond hair. He reached out and took Alfred's hand. Tino's hand was smaller and softer than Berwald's, but his grip was twice as strong. His ancient brown eyes wrinkled around the edges in patterns of sadness but also great cheer. Alfred immediately wanted to be his friend.

"It's good to meet you, United States," Tino said.

The day Tino arrived began in rain and ended in more rain, so the young Republic got to know the Swedish province indoors. Though Tino offered to cook, Berwald insisted on preparing supper himself. While he busied himself in the kitchen, Tino and Alfred sat by the fire and exchanged smalltalk. Alfred told Tino about his crossing from the New World, and his surprise upon seeing the smaller, sleeker vessels that navigated the Baltic. Tino in turn told him about his first excursion to the New World, and bragged that he was the first one to spot Alfred when he was small, and how at first he'd been terrified the boy was a human orphaned or abandoned in the woods.

"I don't think I've ever been so happy to be wrong," Tino told him, smiling. "And look at you now—you've grown so! You make old men like me feel like ancient relics." Alfred did not like being reminded of his relative youth, but for whatever reason, with Tino he wanted to puff out his chest with pride.

"I'm grateful to learn from other nations like you," Alfred told him earnestly. "I know I have a lot of catching up to do." This seemed to catch Tino off guard, and he was suddenly flustered, looking toward the hallway as if someone were going to walk in and scold them.

"Learn from me," he sputtered, setting aside his drink so he would not spill it. "Oh, dear. What a thought."

Alfred was excited to have a new member around the table for supper, but somehow the conversation was more stilted than it had ever been when it was just Berwald and himself—hell, it was worse than when it was just him and Tino in the sitting room. The talk was painfully small, and the clock in the other room was absurdly loud. Berwald was making an effort to facilitate conversation, relating to Tino how he was teaching Alfred the names of all the nations, of how he'd been learning Swedish since they'd left France. Tino smiled and nodded along, but kept his attention mostly on his food.

It was easier when Alfred was talking. He was animated and enthusiastic, and Tino seemed to gravitate toward this over Berwald's stiff attempts.

"—by the time he got back, we were stacking up their guns and white flags," Alfred was saying "So he comes up and asks if he's missed the battle, and Knox looks right at him and goes," He screwed up his face and lowered his voice in his best Henry Knox impersonation. 'Battle? My God, boy, you've missed the whole damn war!'"

This earned a laugh from both of the other nations, and Alfred laughed with them. Tino's laugh quickly turned into a cough, however, which in turn escalated into a chest-rattling hack that left tears in his eyes. He braced himself on the table and hit his plate on accident, sending his flatware clattering onto the table.

"Tino? Are you alright?" Alfred wasn't sure what to do.

Berwald said nothing, but stood so quickly his chair nearly fell back. He left the room and came back with a glass of water, which he offered to Tino.

"Easy," he said. Tino took the glass, but tried to wave Berwald away.

"I'm alright, Sve, it'll pass," he choked out, coughing into his napkin.

"Tino—" Berwald moved to put a hand on Tino's back, but the smaller man slapped his hand away with an audible smack.

"Voin hyvin," he snapped with unexpected venom, and Berwald retreated, scorned.

Struck dumb by the feeling that he was an outsider caught in a personal dispute, Alfred turned his attention to the remains of his dinner. Unfortunately, he was a fast eater, and there were only a few bits of potato to push around and make it look like he hadn't noticed the cold-shouldering happening across the table.

Alfred's ship home was leaving in one week, and while he was sad to be leaving Stockholm, he had to admit that it would be a relief to escape the tension Berwald and Tino created. Although the pair were clearly trying to save face in front of their American visitor, the discomfort between them was palpable on even the best of days.

From the tidbits of history that he'd gleaned over the last few months, Alfred knew that Sweden had been involved in an incredibly costly war with Russia not too long ago, and that Finland had borne the brunt of the fighting. Finland had even been occupied by Russia for a few years, and was still suffering the aftereffects. Alfred certainly couldn't blame Tino for his bitter attitude towards Sweden. However, Alfred could also see real concern in Berwald's face whenever he saw Tino cough or sigh or turn in early for bed. Alfred recalled Berwald's disillusioned words about his own king, and his advice about waging war. Somehow, he doubted Berwald had ever entrusted those thoughts to Tino. It was a gloomy reminder of the complicated lives that nations too often led alongside each other.

Alfred was not fond of so much abstraction, and was much gladdened, therefore, when Berwald approached him with an unexpected distraction.

"A trip?" Alfred repeated, surprised. "To where?"

Berwald glanced at Tino, and a surprisingly amicable look passed between them. A tiny dimple appeared at the corner of Tino's mouth, as if he was trying to keep from smiling.

"It's a surprise," Berwald said. "A parting gift, before you go. Just one night—pack warmly."

Their surprise destination was far enough away that Berwald roused Alfred before dawn to board a carriage, but was close enough, Berwald assured, that they would arrive well before sunset. Alfred sat across from Tino, and the two spent much of the carriage ride discussing Scandinavian geography and wildlife while Berwald read quietly to one side.

Sweden was the first to sense that they had arrived, and the first to step out of the carriage. He waited for Alfred's feet to touch the cobbled street before he gestured to the brightly painted building ahead.

"We'll be staying here," Berwald said. It was an odd looking building, Alfred thought. The main structure looked old and boxy, with stone-brick corners and a plaster facade painted a cheery yellow. On top, however, the roof was rimmed in iron rails. Atop the center, there was a bizarre square tower that looked newer and slightly out of place.

"It is nearly summer, but we should get a few hours of darkness tonight, so long as we don't look North."

"What?" Alfred was frowning. Tino came up behind him and placed a hand on his shoulder. He pointed up at the crest of the small hut atop the building where a brass armillary stood tall.

"Sverige says you admire the stars," he said, and Alfred could hear him smiling. "He studies them, too." Alfred's eyes went wide, and he turned to Sweden in disbelief. Berwald was caught someplace between amusement and pride.

"Herr Wargentin owed me a favor," he shrugged. "It's ours for tonight. Welcome to Uppsala Astronomical Observatory, herr Jones."

Alfred Jones was in heaven. Not literal heaven, of course, but as close to heaven as he could hope to ever be. Alfred did not know if nations could reach the same blissful afterlife that humans pined for, but he figured a night in an actual observatorywas his best shot.

"This is incredible! Look at this! It's brand new—I've never seen a lens like this, where is it made? Is this silver? I've only read about these!" He'd reverted to English in his excitement, and while Berwald and Tino were both perfectly fluent, Alfred was talking too fast and his teenaged voice cracking too wildly for either of them to fully understand him.

"Hän muistuttaa minua Vinland," Tino remarked quietly in Finnish, for Berwald's ears only. "Ja miten hän haaveili." Berwald smiled, and hummed a gentle agreement.

"How long until sunset?" Alfred asked in English, smile broad and eyes wide enough to show off their striking blue color. He looked a bit like the wild child he'd been, years ago. Berwald chuckled at his impatience.

"Surely you'd like supper first," He said. "And perhaps instructions on how to use the instruments."

"Oh," Alfred had forgotten about food entirely, and realized somewhat belatedly that he ought to be acting more composed in front of an ally. He straightened his waistcoat with a belatedly dignified cough. "Of course, um, yes."

The night sky over Uppsala would not reach the full darkness of night due to the time of year, an incontrovertible fact of nature for which Berwald profusely apologized. "You'll have to come visit again when it is darker," he'd said. This did not deflate Alfred's spirits one iota, and as soon as the stars began to peak out from behind the haze of fading sun, Alfred was at the southern window with a telescope, carefully tuning the lens to behold the burning sphere of Saturn, the pinpricks of Libra surrounding it, the tall arch of Ophiuchus next to it. For the rest of the night, he did not move from his perch except to switch to a different telescope or a different window.

Berwald explained to him the discoveries his scientists had made, and pointed out newly observed constellations when they became visible. Tino brought up warm glogg when the night grew cold, and told Alfred ancient stories of how the world rested on the branches of a great tree. The apex of the tree pressed up against the North Star, or so they said, and the vast cloud of stars that split the sky was the bridge between gods and men.

Alfred absorbed it all and hungered for more, so he sat at the scope even as the night began to grow light once more, the promise of an early spring sunrise.

Berwald had begun to yawn, and used the excuse of taking down their tray of empty glasses to turn in for the night. A cot and warm blankets awaited him downstairs, Alfred knew, but he was afraid to close his eyes, for fear he might miss something worthwhile. Tino stayed with him.

"You've met Mathias, I hear," Tino said.

"I have."

"You look at the sky as Mathias once did." This gave Alfred pause. He turned his head to look at Tino.

"Really?"

"Mmm," Finland nodded, moving his stool up beside Alfred's to peer up through the thin observatory window. "He used to say that he could sail a ship anywhere in the world, so long as he had a clear night sky to guide him." Tino's dark eyes caught the starlight as he traced the constellations. "You've travelled further than most nations do for similar treaties. I imagine you will travel the whole world, some day," he told Alfred.

"Well, maybe," the teen looked back up to the sky. "But I'd rather travel there," he pointed. This made Tino laugh.

"Perhaps you will," he said, not really believing it. "We ought to get some sleep. It's going to be light soon, but the hour can't be past three past midnight." Alfred sat back in his seat and sighed.

"I want to stay," he said quietly, "I don't want it to be over."

"You can ask Sverige if you may stay another night," Tino offered sympathetically.

"No, that's alright," Alfred said. "I meant the night, but… my visit here, as well. I've enjoyed visiting Berwald, meeting you," he glanced bashfully at Tino. "Once I leave, I know the war will be real again, the rest of the world will be real again, knocking at my door."

"Is that not exciting?" Tino asked.

"It is," Alfred answered quickly. "Of course it is. It's just… terrifying," he said. "I'd rather see more of Sweden—and Finland, too! Your capital is Turku, isn't it? I'd love for you to show me around sometime."

Tino gave a strangled scoff, and turned to look towards the door to make sure Berwald wasn't in the room. "The Swedish renamed it Åbo. And I could not possibly—" he laughed nervously, but as it became clear that Alfred did not understand the absurdity of the request, his smile faltered. "I am not sovereign, Yhdysvallat," he said quietly, gravely. "Sverige is your ally, and when you visit, he will host you in his own home. Turk-Åbo," he caught himself, "is no place for you. I am only a territory, if that. I have no right to entertain Sverige's allies." Alfred was frowning at him. Tino's self-deprecation bristled his own fledgling sense of self-esteem.

"A few years ago, I was only a colony, and so what? Arthur was happy enough to visit New York," Tino was clearly uncomfortable.

"Alfred, that's fairly different,"

"Maybe in a few years you'll be able to become indepen—"

"Alfred stop," Tino burst. Alfred did, looking up with a little surprise into Tino's fearful face. The older man bit his lip and took a deep breath before speaking again. "I'm not like you, Alfred, I can't possibly be like you. I'm… I'm like your brother," he said. "Like Canada." Alfred deflated in understanding. "And you can't speak such things; Sverige is your ally. You mustn't cast him in the mold of England."

"But you could—"

"No," Tino insisted firmly. "Just… no. Peace, Alfred, please."

After that, They were quiet for a long time. Embarrassed, Alfred turned back to the telescope and peered out into the brightening sky. Many long minutes passed in silence. The wind whipped around the tower's corners, bringing in the scent of cool air and the sound of rustling trees.

"Six hundred years." Tino said. Alfred looked up from the telescope.

"What?" he asked. Tino was looking resolutely at the ground.

"I've been with Sverige for six hundred years. Longer than you've been alive, I expect." When Alfred did not say anything in response, Tino continued, "It's not that he hasn't been good to me. Berwald is a thoughtful man. But…" He breathed out, and it became a wheeze, and a cough. "His kings wage war with madmen. My people always pay the price—always. A few years ago, I had hope… they took away much of the king's power, for a time, but now…" a huge sigh, tired and angry. "Another war is inevitable. Gustav wants to reclaim our former glory, but I've barely recovered from the last war. Humans do not understand. I don't think Berwald understands, either, and the fact that he tries to only makes it worse."

Tino looked up at Alfred. In the predawn light that leaked inside the observation tower, Alfred could see the age lines of Tino's face, more apparent than when they were in the full sun. He was surprised when the older nation reached out to take hold of his hand.

"You will prevail, Yhdysvallat," he said. "You must prevail. You have taught Englanti a lesson he will never forget, but you cannot let it end here. You must grow, you must fight, you must show the world how even Empires may crumble under the weight of will." His eyes were watery and hungry with centuries' worth of burdens. "The hope of many rides on your success, herra Jones. You may yet teach the world what Enlightenment truly means."

Alfred was gobsmacked by the speech, and was unsure how to respond. Saturn was quickly disappearing into the daylight, but Alfred was busy looking into the coal-brown eyes of a nation eons older than him, who now looked to him—him, a rustic colonial bumpkin—for hope. Hope for what? For throwing off the shackles of Sweden, his newest and first independent ally? Alfred had nothing but good will for Berwald or his people. Tino was just a territory.

"Sweden has no colonies; he might've," Francis had said, "if Arthur hadn't whisked you away first." How would his life have turned out differently if Sweden had been able to stay on the Chesapeake? Would he see Berwald as he now saw Arthur? What of Tino? Would Tino fill the role of Matthew? The universe offered up a million possible histories that would never exist, but Alfred felt the weight of what could have been all around him.

Over the last weeks and months, Alfred had begun to realize that the world was a complicated place. Nations moved in an intricate and convoluted dance around each other, changing yet remaining ever the same, like constellations rotating across the sky in their seasons. Which stars fell into what constellations was, at its base, a matter of perspective. The astronomer, then, was responsible for drawing a reliable map. Alfred felt comfortable adding to the complexity of the world by loving his ally, but loving his ideals more.

"One day," he told Tino, "I don't know when, but one day, I'm going to visit you in Turku—not Åbo—and you're going to be my host, and you're going to show me your city. Ally to ally," he said. Tino gripped Alfred's hand tighter.

"I hope you are right," he said softly. He held Alfred's hand a bit longer, before giving it a pat. "But first," he sighed and looked up. "You must go home and finish this thing you've started. Now come. We both need sleep."

The second of June was a grim and rainy day. What followed was one of the warmest, sunniest, most pleasant days Stockholm had seen the entire year. Naturally, it was on this gorgeous day of Tuesday, June the third, in the year seventeen hundred and eighty-three, that Alfred Jones bid Europe goodbye for the first time in his life.

Alfred had never been good at saying goodbye. For as long as he could remember, goodbye had been the beginning of loneliness, often for decades at a time. He knew it did not have to be that way, certainly not anymore, and yet his hands shook with the immanence of it. He looked on awkwardly as Berwald and Tino finished handing off his luggage to the deckhands. It was not just Sweden and Finland he was leaving behind, but France, Denmark, and Prussia as well, a whole world he'd only just been growing to know. A lump was forming in his throat, and he did all he could to avoid talking.

The luggage was taken away, and the carriage double-checked for anything he might've dropped. Then, the only package left was himself. He knew he ought to say something. He had to say something. He was a nation, and nations could not act like children who cried each time they were sent away.

"I," he had to clear his throat, and it made his voice crack a little. "Thank you for your hospitality, Sverige," Alfred said respectfully. "I've enjoyed seeing your beautiful city, and meeting your people. I cannot possibly repay you for all you've done for me." He looked to Tino and made himself smile, even if his lips were beginning to waver. "And thank you, Mr. Väinämöinen, for your stories and your kindness." He really did waver, now, and had to blink and look at something that wasn't either of their faces. He fixated on a bit of earth between the two men. "You've both been so kind to me during my stay here, I find it…" the lump was back in his throat, painful and thick. "...difficult to leave," he said, voice shaking.

Berwald stepped forward to rescue him, face trained with a careful stoicism that Alfred latched on to like an anchor.

"The pleasure has been all mine, United States," Sweden bowed just slightly. "It has been an honor to have you here, and I look forward to your next visit. Perhaps someday soon, I may visit you in the New World." This made Alfred smile.

"I'd like that very much," He said. Unexpectedly, Berwald produced a wrapped parcel from beneath his coat. It was flat and heavy, wrapped in plain paper and tied up with colorful twine.

"Ambassador Franklin tells me that you've begun celebrating your birthday on the day when your people celebrate their independence," Berwald said. "I expect you'll still be at sea on the fourth. On the day, open this and know you and your victory are in my thoughts."

Alfred gripped the gift, eyes growing misty without his permission. Acting on impulse and knowing he would have no other opportunity, he lunged forward and seized Berwald in a hug. The taller man let out a surprised breath, but then relaxed and put a warm hand on Alfred's back.

"Thank you," Alfred said quietly, "for everything."

"There is nothing to thank, my friend," Berwald said softly, giving him a quick but sturdy squeeze before pulling away. "Godspeed."

His own lack of control embarrassed Alfred terribly, but after that, Tino insisted on giving him a hug, too.

"I wish you all the luck my land can offer," the smaller man said into Alfred's ear, and ruffled his hair when he pulled away. "Fair winds, and since I won't be there to say it," he winked, "happy birthday."

They waved their last goodbyes, Alfred boarded the ship, and suddenly the world was real once more. As the shores of Stockholm faded into the wide blue horizon, a small and shaky part of Alfred felt that he was finally ready to face it.

"Ideas are dangerous things, Forenede Stater," Mathias had said. They'd squeezed themselves into the dark corner of a seaside pub, hidden away from prying eyes. It was not the sort of meeting Alfred had expected at Copenhagen. "Personal liberties? Freedom of the press? Humans fight wars over less. Kings draw and quarter over less—any Dane could tell you. But starting a brand new nation?"

"I'm not new," Alfred had said. "Only young; but not for long."

Denmark had met his gaze, and Alfred had realized with some surprise that his eyes held the same hope-hunger as Finland's had. "I hope not," Mathias had said. "The world is watching."

It was well into summer now, but the Atlantic was often frigid at night. Alfred paused in his writing to pull his candle closer and draw the blanket tighter around his shoulders. He carefully dipped his quill into the inkwell as the ship rolled left and right, and continued his letter to George Washington.

I feel certain that our alliance with the Kingdom of Sweden will be a strong first step out into the world, he wrote, and felt immediately too much like a diplomat. Truth be told, he continued, falling into a more personable tone, the whole ordeal has only made me want to travel more, meet more people, to see the world and show them what I have to offer. All of Europe is transfixed by our struggle for independence, and in all regions seems equal parts doubtful and hopeful for our success. If the struggle of the coming years must make me into the world's spectacle, then I shall put on such a spectacle as to define the histories they will write about us. He looked up at the map he'd pinned up inside his tiny cabin; all of Europe, Africa, and Asia to the right, and the Eastern coast of the Americas across the Atlantic. West of the Great Lakes, the continent faded into unknowns and possibilities. I must tell you, General, that I look forward to every second.

"What sort of government do you think you will have?" Denmark had asked as he walked Alfred back toward the docks. The Dane had set a leisurely pace, not ready to lose Alfred's company too soon.

"There are better minds than mine to figure that out. I've heard James Madison has some ideas." Alfred had replied. "Something balanced. Something sturdy." He'd thought of all that Sweden had said at the docks of Stockholm. He'd thought of Antonio, Francis, and Arthur: the three great powers who surrounded him on all sides. Even Francis would be waiting, watching as the ink dried. Alfred would be ready. "Something stronger than a European crown," he'd said.

Alfred spent the fourth of July a thousand miles from home, but he did not spend it entirely alone. There was a lively contingent of Americans—most of them returning home after visiting family or conducting business in the Baltic—and in the utter absence of British passengers, they'd taken to the deck with bottles of rum and a very old fiddle. It had to have been nearly midnight, but the skies were clear and the stars bright, so they set up a pool of lanterns in the middle of the deck and eked out a dance hall. Some of the sailors even joined them.

Alfred sat a ways away and laughed at his countrymens' antics as they coaxed a few French women and a stray Spaniard into dancing with them. He held Berwald's gift in his lap, and tried to guess what it would be. The Americans started singing Yankee Doodle, and Alfred carefully tore into the package.

It was a book, tall as well as long, handbound with a soft leather cover. There was no title on the front, so Alfred flipped through the pages. His eyes grew wide. It was a book full of celestial maps. Every constellation, every star, every orbit, moon, and sun was accounted for. He flipped through the pages with a growing smile, so happy he almost fell over where he sat. At the back, there were several sections of blank pages. Out of one of them, a note fell into his lap. It was written in crisp Swedish.

I've included all the maps I know. Next I see you, I expect to learn some new ones, and hope you'll tell me how you made them.

Alfred was beaming wider than the crescent moon above. The Americans whooped and hollered and sang at the top of their lungs, teaching a giggly French woman the words.

And there was Cap'n Washington

And gentle folks about him;

They say he's grown so 'tarnal proud

He will not ride without 'em.

Alfred lay back against the deck, feeling the sway of the ocean as he stared up into the endless stars, hugging his book to his chest.

"I hope you won't hold it against me for kidnapping you like this," Mathias had said once they'd made it back to the ship, where the crew was just finishing loading the Danish cargo. "I would have liked it better if we met in Paris, signing papers." Alfred had looked to the taller man in some surprise, but Mathias had kept his gaze up and away. "Berwald beat me to it, the bastard. My government isn't so fond of the whole 'personal liberties' talk at the moment." He'd eyed Alfred. "But my people are. They can censor the newspapers, they can censor me, if they like. But there's no keeping you or your ideas out of Europe now," he'd teased. "And when you win your war, there isn't a censor alive who will be able to cover up such a story." They'd come to a stop right at the gangway, and Mathias had finally turned to regard the much shorter Alfred with a look that bordered on respect.

"Expect to hear from me," he'd extended his hand. "My king may be out of his mind, but his ministers aren't. As soon as they hear Sverige has already signed a treaty, they'll be falling over themselves to draft one for us."

"You two fight a lot," Alfred had observed, taking his hand.

"Only over what's important," the Dane winked, giving Alfred's hand a firm shake. "Farvel så længe, Amerika," he'd said.

"It was good to meet you, Mathias." Alfred climbed the gangway back up the ship. The sailors were drawing up the anchor and letting down the sails when Mathias had waved from the dock.

"Oh, and Alfred!" Alfred had leaned over the ship's railing to see him.

"Yes?"

"I may not be the first one to sign a piece of paper," the Dane had shouted back, "but let me be the first to say, congratulations!"

December in Virginia was far milder than in New York or Boston, but the wind was cold with the promise of a harsh January to come. Advent had started nearly two weeks ago, and Alfred was settling in to spend the season in Yorktown. Families here were still rebuilding their homesteads after the battle two years ago, and he knew they'd need help preparing their struggling farms before the winter settled in.

"Don't worry, Mrs. Anderson," Alfred assured, carrying a full-sized log over one shoulder while a worried, wide-eyed woman followed him in case the weight flattened him to the ground. "I've got it, really!"

The basic frame of the barn was finished by sundown, and in the waning hours of light, he, Mr. Evans, Mr. Anderson, and Mr. Anderson's two sons sat straddled on the roof, nailing down the last shingles. The women and children of both families had built a fire not too far from the new barn, and gathered around it to cook and sing Christmas carols to keep the mens' spirits high.

The Evans' eldest daughter was the one who spotted the horseman first. The singing died away and she shouted up at the men before pointing at the road.

"What'n the hell," Mr. Anderson used the edge of his scarf to swab sweat out of his eyes. "He's sure in a rush."

"Is that an army uniform?" the younger son asked.

They all watched the horseman hurtle down the road and wondered where he could possibly be going. To everyone's surprise, he pulled his horse to a stop when he reached the Anderson homestead and dismounted gracelessly. He was indeed dressed in army blues, and had begun to run headlong towards the barn-raisers.

"Master Jones! Master Jones, quickly!" his shouts echoed across the field. All eyes turned to Alfred, who glanced at them all, nonplussed. Not sure what to expect, Alfred hurried down the ladder and jogged out to meet the man. He could hear the Andersons and Evans following him, straining their ears to eavesdrop.

"Master Jones," the man huffed, winded from riding, running, and trying to speak quickly. "Sir," he saluted erratically. "Private Daniel Fletcher, sir."

"Pleased to meet you," Alfred replied, sounding confused. "What's this about, Private?" Daniel dug into his pocket and produced a letter.

"News, sir," he said, handing a battered envelope to Alfred. "From Mister Franklin." Alfred took the letter and opened it.

He read it.

Dumbstruck, he looked up at Daniel, who was beaming.

"What's all this, then?" Asked Mrs. Anderson, who'd come over with her husband to investigate. Daniel only beamed wider, and looked from the couple to Alfred, who was staring back at the letter open-mouthed.

"Well, lad, what's it say?" asked Mr. Anderson. The children had come over too, now, and were peering around their mothers' aprons at the Army Private and his shiny brass buttons.

"Well?" Mr. Evans appeared next, standing with his wife and daughter. Alfred looked up at them all. Although they knew he was close with George Washington, none of them knew exactly who he was, what he was, so none of them could understand the depth of the expression on his face, the full extent of his elation when he said:

"I'm- we're- they've- England's signed the Treaty," he told them, an awestruck smile coming through in fits and starts as he looked back down at the letter to make sure it was real. "The United States is independent. The War's over. We won."

"What?" Mr. Evans lunged for the letter.

"The war is over," Alfred repeated, breaking into elated laughter as the man took the letter to read for himself. "We won independence!"

"September," Private Fletcher told them, also smiling, "they signed it in September. We've been free this whole time, and we didn't even know it!"

All at once, the men were cheering and the women were squealing and everyone laughed themselves into a frenzy. Before he knew quite what was happening, Alfred was being lifted off the ground in a hug, and someone slapped him on the shoulder, and they were all falling over themselves to gather around the fire. The Andersons and Evans dragged Daniel over to join, and they all started dancing and singing. The children hopped along and the girls sing-songed about the end of the war while the boys spun them around until everyone was dizzy. The fire grew brighter as the sky grew darker, and they all belted out Christmas carols into the night.

Joy to the earth, the Savior reigns!

Let men their songs employ;

While fields and floods, rocks, hills and plains

Repeat the sounding joy,

Repeat the sounding joy,

Repeat, repeat the sounding joy

Finis

Translations:

jävla Isländsk = fucking Icelandic

Voin hyvin = I'm fine

Hän muistuttaa minua Vinland = He reminds me of Vinland

Ja miten hän haaveili = and how she dreamed.

Yhdysvallat = Finnish term for the United States

Forenede Stater = Danish term for the United States

Farvel så længe = Farewell, so long.