Work Text:
Copenhagen, 1816
“Hello, Sverige,” said Magnus, smiling a winning smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
Björn had been escorted to one of Amalienborg palace’s many audience chambers under heavy guard. His own soldiers were eyeing up their armed Danish escorts, and the atmosphere was decidedly tense. All parties were perplexed when the chamber doors opened to reveal a beautiful table set for tea. Tea was not what Björn had expected when his presence had been requested in Copenhagen.
He hadn’t listened when his advisors had urged him not to go. Sweden and Denmark had closed the book on Napoleon’s war with the treaty of Kiel, and there was very little left to discuss. But Magnus wanted something, and Björn thought it better to get the whole thing over with. If he ignored Magnus, the Danes were liable to sail across the Øresund and bring the issue to Björn’s doorstep.
So, Björn stepped inside the guest room. Magnus waved off his soldiers, and Björn did the same. The gilded doors closed, leaving them in the company of the servants, who were busy bringing out plate after plate. There was an endless supply of shortbreads, pastries, and marzipan shaped to resemble exotic fruit, all spread across elaborately painted Chinese plateware.
He sat, and a servant poured him a cup of tea. Darjeeling. He frowned down at the pale brown liquid. The Danes had pulled out all the stops, for whatever reason. Nothing good, he thought.
At the other end of the table, Magnus sat primly on his grand red velvet chair, the picture of civilization. He was smiling placidly, but the look in his eyes told Björn that he very much wanted to lunge across the tea table and strangle him.
When all of the servants had filtered out, Magnus spoke. He was still smiling, but his tone was flat. "How is he?"
Björn hardly needed to ask who he was referring to. Norway’s absence was almost tangible. "You can ask him yourself,” he replied. If Magnus asked nicely enough, he would allow a visit — not that he thought Sigurd would agree to it.
Magnus said nothing in response, which was entirely out of character. All of his showboating did little to distract Björn from the dark bags under his eyes. He seemed a little thinner than he had the last time they had met face to face, just over two years prior.
And then there was the obvious question. “Where ‘r Ice and Faroe? Greenland?”
Magnus waved a hand dismissively. "Around. You know how these dependencies are. All grown up and busy.”
Around didn’t bode well. Back in the union days Iceland had been nearly glued to Magnus’ side, ever the adoring little brother. Norway’s departure must have changed things.
Björn looked a little closer at the man sitting across from him. Despite everything, this was a man who he had known for the whole of his life. Magnus was wearing his best coat, and he was jiggling his left leg nervously. He was angry, resentful down to his bones, but he didn’t want Björn to walk out.
He realized then that this wasn’t a trade negotiation or some kind of bizarre intimidation technique. This was a social call. Magnus was lonely. Lonely and desperate enough to call him across the border, which meant that things were dire. Surely Lars or Tyskland or even Frankrike would have answered his summons — but then again they were all quite busy down south, what with the famine and the mess left by the war.
Björn was struck by the sudden urge to flee the room, but his cookies and tea were still laid out before him, untouched. Nervously, he grabbed a little flower-shaped shortbread and crammed it into his mouth.
“So,” Magnus began, “are you… How are you?”
“Fine,” Björn replied, around a mouthful of crumbs.
“Good. That’s good.”
“How… Have you been?” Björn felt obligated to ask.
“Fine. Also fine,” Magnus said, “Just more of the usual. Meetings, dinners, paperwork.”
“Mh.”
“A lot of paperwork, actually. The Østergaard boy has been making trouble down south. Not Frederick, his eldest son. You remember Frederick, don’t you?”
“Shot ‘m once.”
“Ah. Right.”
They lapsed back into silence. Very tense silence. Björn picked up another pastry, some kind of chocolate-coated cream cake, which was, unfortunately, delicious.
He dared to shoot a glance across the table, and found that Magnus’ put-on smile had fallen. He was sitting hunched in on himself, looking down at his folded hands. The terrible powdered wigs he once favored had long gone out of style, and he was wearing his hair short and natural now. It made him look younger.
“I shouldn’t have called,” Magnus said suddenly. “You don’t want to be here.”
Björn really didn’t want to be there. They had spent several hundred years trying their damndest to put one another in the ground, and now Magnus wanted to make small talk as if none of it had happened. He might have said all that, had Magnus not looked so pathetic. Björn hated when he got like this, all maudlin and needy. Loneliness had always brought the worst out of him, ever since they were children.
So, Björn lied, albeit not very convincingly. “I do. I want to be here.”
Magnus looked up at him. “You do?”
He shrugged. “Nice change of scenery.”
“Oh.” Magnus turned his teacup around in its saucer three or four times. He was a little pink in the face as he changed the topic; “You know, we’ve got a new stud in at the stables. A chestnut, but the prettiest chestnut you’ve ever seen. A Frederiksborger, of course.”
Björn leaned in, ever so slightly. He did love horses. “How old?”
“Almost four, now.” Magnus looked down at his tea, playing coy, “I could let you take a ride, if you’re interested.”
A nice ride sounded a lot better to Bjorn than whatever the hell this was. He nodded.
Magnus’ usual smirk crept back onto his face, “You might not be able to handle him. He’s got a little more muscle than your Halvblods.”
Björn glared across the table at him. “I’ll handle him fine.”
“If you insist,” said Magnus, like he hadn’t suggested it in the first place. “Finish your tea and we’ll go.”
Björn did, and they set off for the stables. The stablehands scattered when Magnus set foot in the building. They had a pair of Frederiksborgers tacked up and ready before Bjorn had even gotten his borrowed riding boots on.
And so Björn found himself astride Mercutio, the handsome chestnut, riding through the streets of Copenhagen. Magnus assured him that there was a decent seaside riding trail to the west, away from the busy fishing ports. Magnus was riding one of his personal horses, a fleabitten grey with a strong roman nose.
“He’s a great horse, isn’t he?” said Magnus, looking fondly over at the chestnut stallion.
“Not bad,” Björn admitted.
“Does he ever talk about me?” Magnus asked, muffled; he had tucked his head into the junction of Björn’s neck and shoulder. They were in Magnus’ oversized four poster bed, nude and tangled up in red silk sheets. Björn hadn’t intended to end up here, but Magnus was a convincing man.
He didn’t answer the question. Silence would hurt Magnus less than the truth. Instead, he tucked an arm around Magnus’ waist and pulled him a little closer.