Chapter Text
Where was he? It certainly wasn’t the British isles, and it wasn’t in any of the Nordic countries either. Those are the places Peter most frequently visits (besides his own country of course), so he is at a loss. He tries to find a way out of the forested area he had found himself in, but the snow on the ground was making it hard for him to walk, or even feel his hands and feet.
He suddenly tripped over a small branch, hidden by the powder on the ground, and landed face first onto the ground with a soft thump. He held on to the nearest tree as he dusted himself off, now aware of the piercing wind that sent a deep chill through his light clothing.
Seriously, how did he go from his small country off the side of England (which, he was aware, was in summer time right now) to this chilly forest in the middle of nowhere? Maybe he’d been kidnapped– but who kidnaps a country? Enemies, maybe. But Sealand didn’t have enemies —no one recognized him— so it had to be one of Arthur’s. He pities the poor sap who thinks that England actually cares for Sealand, the micronation that hates him.
While knowing what put him in this situation was ideal, it came second on the priorities list at the moment. Peter could feel a nasty case of frostbite creeping up his toes and fingertips, and he’d rather not have to regenerate new ones. Being a micronation is bad enough, they healed slower than normal nations. Still faster than a human of course. It would take, say, a week to regenerate a thumb as a micronation rather than a few days as a regular nation, and of course, humans can’t regenerate. Some more powerful countries, like America, Russia, and China, take only a few hours (or after a good rest) to fully heal from severe injuries.
“Okay… okay, don’t panic,” he muttered to himself, even though his voice shook. “You’ve been in worse situations. Why am I lying to myself? That's not true.”
A branch snapped somewhere behind him.
Peter spun around so fast he nearly fell again. Nothing. Just trees and snow. Everything was just trees and snow. His breath hitched. He hated how small he felt– smaller than usual, even for a micronation.
“Mama? Papa?” he called out, hating the way his voice cracked. “Arthur? Anyone?”
Sharp gusts of wind answered, howling as the cold crept closer.
Peter trekked through the forest, leaving tracks that were quickly filled back up again by the heavy snowfall. His vision blurred, his body was numb, and his head burned despite the cold. Peter heard a small, but familiar (?), voice call out to him, though the wind was carrying the words away from Peter’s blue ears. The winds slowly morphed into the subtle humming of his Papa, blanketing his worries from the rest of the world. He couldn’t tell day from night as his feet finally gave out, surrendering himself to the chill of the frosty moonlight.
“Papa.” Peter called, his voice sounding uneven.
Sweden turned to look at Peter from his place at the kitchen stove, preparing a meal for when Tino would get home.
“Mhm?”
“I-” Peter stuttered, looking a bit green in the face, “I don’t feel so well. It’s not economy related, I know that. I don’t… have an economy. So I must’ve caught a cold or something.”
Sweden’s eyes trailed over Peter’s hunched position on the chair, analyzing him with a downturn of his mouth. He slowly shuffled over, placing the back of his hand to Peter’s warm forehead. His frown got deeper.
“You shu’d get s’m rest.” He finally responded, going over to the medicine cabinet and getting Peter a few cold-reliefs.
He took them graciously and slowly staggered up the stairs. If Peter had been in a better state, he might have caught the small and unnatural look of panic on Sweden’s face.
Peter woke up in a small bed, barely large enough for both of his feet to stay on. He turned his head on the pillow and saw that everything was downsized. He wasn’t tall for his human age –twelve– but right now he felt like the largest thing in the room.
Then the cold hit him. The air felt sharp, as if someone had thrown open every window in the dead of winter. A faint draft crept along the floorboards, carrying the smell of woodsmoke and damp earth. He blinked up at the ceiling, trying to clear his head, but instead of the popcorn texture he always hated, an unfamiliar face blocked his view.
A little boy –about his age, maybe a year younger– was perched at the top of the bed, staring at him with wide, solemn eyes. His clothes were strange: a rough linen shirt with uneven hand‑sewn seams, brown trousers, and a cloak that looked homespun. His blond hair was messy but not tangled, and a stubborn cowlick stuck out at the side.
Peter did the obvious thing, shove the boy away and bolt for the door. Unfortunately, he didn’t make it past Step One. The boy’s hand shot out and clamped around his wrist with surprising strength, holding him firmly to the bed.
Peter opened his mouth to speak, but the boy beat him to it.
“Forgive me. I could not leave you to the cold.” He drew his hand back to his sleeve, rubbing it nervously. “It would have been a sin to pass you by, so I brought you to my father’s cottage.”
Peter froze for a moment. Then his brain kicked into overdrive.
What sort of accent is that? Why does he sound like he walked out of one of my dusty history books? He reminds me of how Arthur talks in his sleep: definitely foreign, and certainly strange. Though when one is as old as him, it is natural to be quite loony. I can't help but notice the similarities in dialects though...
Before he could think better of it, the words tumbled out.
“What’s the date?”
The boy blinked, confusion flickering across his face before settling into a calm, almost resigned expression. “The Lord alone knows how long you were lying in the snow…” He sighed, and for a moment, something old and weary flashed in his eyes. “It is the twenty‑third of January.”
Peter swallowed. “What’s the year?”
This time the boy looked at him as though he’d gone mad. “You must have taken worse harm from than I thought. Perhaps we shall take a trip to the minister.” He glanced around the room, as if reassuring himself of the answer before speaking.
“It is the year of our Lord, sixteen hundred and ninety‑two.”