Welcome to the next chapter! I know the last two were full of sadness and despair, but this one will have a bit more of a happier tone to it. I'd like to thank my amazing translators, MalinChan, yotzie, Ruusu, kooliobutterflyhahaha, Sine-k, Another Mad Swiss, Lillens, DianeLeBlanc99, and Sarai Onyx Vainamoinen! Thank you so much, beauties! I do not own Hetalia nor its characters, though I do own this story. This chapters song is called Ymer by Manegarm. Enjoy!

The tent was cold as stone when they entered its sanctuary, both weary boned as they urged Peter to walk through the threshold on his gangly knee scraped legs. The child had stopped crying by now, cheeks bloomed pink by the winds that fluttered about them from outside. Tino took the boy to his hip, the soft hair at the crown of Peter's head scrunching messily in the Finn's palms as Tino patted the silken locks. With special care to wrap the child in the scraggily hides of his and Berwalds bed, the Finnish man dressed the coarse and heavy mule deer's fur upon Peter's shivering frame.

"You will have to dry yourself up properly later, Peter." Tino cooed to the child, the only answer he received in turn being a shrug of shoulders and a low mumble from the gap in the tanned leather and fur.

Tino sighed and patted a soothing hand over the lumpy pile of coverings that made up the child's cocoon, tempted to try and coax the child out once more, but giving up against the battle.

Turning away from the huddled mass, he set to work undoing the bone ties at his robe, twisting each from their hold before he freed himself from the wools weight.

It was nice to have the chilled wraps off his shoulders, and he sighed contently at the creaking of his bones beneath his chilled skin. Though it still hurt to breathe from his lips, to fill his lungs with deep intakes of breath, his wounds were letting up some, thank the Gods.

Making his way over to his betrothed, he helped the hulking Swede with his own wear, careful to not meet the jade eyes of the man, eyes that shone a sad mixture of sadness and pride - as if the sea-green iris swallowed up all the flecks of gold greedily.

The Swede had reason to feel pleasure and pain - his men had been buried, yes, but they died a warriors death, a grand and befitting one.

Tino did not wish to break the silence with idle chatter that meant nothing to the both of them, so instead he fumbled with the leather throat latches at the Swede's collar, taking extra care with the movement of his chilled skin so that they did not cause the Swede to startle. All to soon, though, his fingers became crooked and bent by the time he had worked and silently finished the task of unknotting the rose knot leather tie of Berwalds armor.

Next, Tino wandered listlessly to a small little brass bowl that stuck out from the opened lid of a cedar trunk. Taking the simple looking bowl into his hands, he dipped the lip of it into a pail of cooled water. Flicking a combination of three fingers into the liquid he then dabbed at the ash dusted along Berwald's jaw, the Swede, as tame as any house cat, sat patiently while the other man cleaned his face lovingly and with great care.

It was a gesture of solidarity, and it did wonders to leak the tension and sorrow from each others shoulders. It did well to remind them that they were not alone, they still had each other to lean against and comfort, and that was more than enough to be thankful for.

After most of the water had beaded along the Swede's golden becoming of a beard, Berwald returned the favor and began to dab at his lovers face. By the time the Swede deemed himself done with his handy work, the cloth was stained an earthen grey and was thrown into a wicker basket to be tended to later by lye soap and pounding stones.

The two sat half heartedly upon the hide covered stools, breathing softly, hearing the rain patter against the deer skinned tarps of the structure, the soft snores of their child rupturing the stilled silence that would surely have given weigh to uncomfortable distress.

Tino cleared his throat, a gesture that pained him slightly, causing his hands to fly to the hollow of his throat.

"How goes the war, husband?" Tino asked softly, hands placing themselves over Berwalds. They warmed easily at the touch.

Berwald sighed through his nose, eyes half lidded in his skull. He leaned against the shoulder of the man next to him and sunk easily into Tino's side, body greedily soakin up the warmth of Tino's body heat.

"It can't be certain who is winnin' an' who is loosin' - so many a' men 'ave already died, with little ta' no ground ta' be gained… Ah' just wish ah never 'ave ta' see another friend taken ta' th' pyre." Berwald mumbled, the sound low in his chest as his words breathed warm against the Finn's neck.

Tino dipped his head to the left, pressing a chaste kiss atop his beloveds hair, like he often did with Peter when the child was in a great need to be soothed.

Berwald didn't stir.

"Talk of those dead and buried concerns us no more, it is the living that we must draw attention to." Tino spoke, his words sharp and slightly chastising, causing the Swede curled against his side to grumble and guff.

"Aye, an' what do th' livin' say?" Berwald mumbled, un-tucking his head from Tino's shawl to rest his chin atop the Finn's shoulder.

Tino brought his left hand to the side of Berwalds cheek, fingers lovingly petting the rough beard he found.

Biting his lip, the Finn spoke again, this time turning to look into the jade-jeweled gaze he found before him.

"Dress yourself in cloak and fur, bring your pen and pot of ink, and come and be moved by my words." Tino smiled with teeth as he removed himself from the warm sinking feeling of the bed.

Turning away to fetch a bit of incense and a dish, Tino mused silently, and attempted to straighten his thoughts. "How soon do you suppose the next attack from the Slavic's shall be?" He asked hurriedly as he set some pine resin to burning atop the bench that was pressed up against the end of the bed. They all smelled like ash and sea spray, a horrible smelling mixture that the Finn would be more than happy to rid the room of.

Berwald bit at his lip in concentration, his eyes rimmed black from lack of sleep as he yawned.

"They've been courteous enough ta' let us deal with our dead, however, I shall not expect 'em to keep us waitin' any longer. Ah give it a few more days until we see their ugly hides again." Berwald heaved with tired words, fingers combing absently at the distressing amount of bandages on his bared left arm that Tino insisted he be burdened with to aid in his bruises and burns.

Tino nodded at the information that he was given, his thoughts rattling in his head. He made his way to the long bench-like table that was cluttered near to bursting with paper, stretched leather, painted stones, and reed-pens - and decided to make himself useful.

His eyes began to study and curiously scan over a few maps drawn up on faded leather and parchment, each blackened symbol and note glaring at him. This was the table that drew up many a mans death, pressures, and strife.

Tino stood for nearly a full five minutes, Berwald stationed at his side with a bemused smile, when suddenly an idea struck the Finn, as if a great and clever plan hatched inside his head and cleaved forth.

Excitedly, the Finn turned to the warrior next to him, words bursting from his lips.

"Then let us draw up a plan of sorts…" Tino reasoned, fingers playing with the tip of a blackened twig that Berwald seemed to have favored when dotting out strategies and paths for his men to take heed to.

"An' what plan would that be?" Berwald hummed, eyeing the itching fingers of the Finn as they held tightly to the writing reed.

"We can surely not be expected to train your… our men, to ride with ease into battle while laden with axe, sword, and bow. T'would be a useless thought to entertain when we have but only a small amount of time before the phoenix leaves the safety of it's nest."

"Aye, an' what do you propose we do?" Berwald asked, pushing the folds of the map towards the Finn, an approving smile hinting in the Swedish mans eyes.

Tino smiled nice and bright and drew a thinly veiled shape along the territory of swamps with black ink, the clotted sketch causing Berwalds eyebrows to become raised.

"We lure them, trap them, and best them." Tino smiled up at his husband with a devilish grin so wide it made his eyes quicken with gleam.

Berwald looked towards the markings his beloved had just drawn again, eyes retracing the figure with determination. It was not long before Berwalds own lips grew into a grin, smaller than the Finns, but still there - and still gleaming.

"A Damen Lejon, you most certainly are." The Swede pressed his palms along the Finn's shoulders, running his hands along Tino's arms in a warming gesture of touch.

The Finn could only smile down at his handy work, feeling the over-whelming glory of victory in their grasps.

It was early dawn the next day when the small and ramshackle family of the Northern Lions made their way from the mild warmth of their tents to bare the elements for a short walk to the stilted home of the Southern Wolves.

Bundled with flaxen cloaks and an armful of wriggling Peter, Berwald and Tino hastily pushed back the oiled tarps of Nikolas and Mathias' lodgings, revealing an almost pleasantly homey sight.

Nikolas had halted in his movements at the sound of visitors entering his hut - his wet hands stilling themselves against Mathias' scalp. It was only when his startled eyes met the gazes of his cousin and the other fellow Chieftain and their son did the Norwegian go back to his work, his spindly fingers combing back Mathias' unruly hair.

Mathias, eyes brilliant and wide even though the early morn begged for sleep, was the one to great them with great clapping and cheer.

"Ah, come in my kin, come in! To what do we owe this pleasure?" Mathias grinned as he gestured for the freckled child between Tino and Berwalds legs to come forth and greet his uncle Mathias. Nikolas made room for the childs passing, absently chewing a bit of rabbit hide in his mouth to soften it for string to tie his husbands hair back.

"We have matters we would like to discuss" Tino smiled, standing next to Nikolas to kiss his cousin upon the cheek before setting himself down upon a stool cushioned by sheep's hide.

Mathias hummed thoughtfully at the Finns words, quickly scooping up a chattering Peter to his lap. The child smiled silently, before, by the careful hands of Tino, Bjort was coddled to Peters own chest. The freckled child began to quietly play with the toddlers softly curling hair. Bjort only whined in annoyance before a quick kiss on the top of his head from Mathias settled him. Once the children were taken care of and happily distracted, Berwald decided it was time to converse the meaning of their early morning visit.

Berwald sat himself down beside Mathias, flickering his gaze to the Dane before he silently handed him a rolled and tied map, weighty in his hands.

The Dane raised an eyebrow, tilting his head before he unfurled the wide and stretched piece of parchment. Mathias soon began to wince at an especially hard tug from Nikolas' who had now started on combing and braiding the little twists of Mathias' unruly reddened blonde hair.

"What is this?" Mathias asked seriously, eye scanning over the indented notes on the map that burned bright and vivid along the ashen yellow of the paper.

""S a proposition - Tino drew it up." Berwald said, pride evident in his own voice as he sat back in his chair, the legs creaking some.

Nikolas himself set his scissors down to lean against Mathias' shoulder, eyes absorbing the thickened lines of the map.

Tino could only fidget in place, unsure of how he and his work would be received - he was not so adamant in his abilities to draw up a proper battle strategy, and he rightfully feared immediate rejection for his proposition. He was just a poor healer, not a warrior and certainly not a strategist…

"It's risky as well as damning, an' none too clean…" Mathias spoke suddenly, eyes still enthralled by the map. Nikolas hit him gently upside the head, whispering "Behave", to his beloved with a stern bite in his voice as he tied a small patch of Mathias' hair to the nape of his neck.

Mathias grumbled and rubbed his head, but conceded none the less, like a wolves tail stuck between his legs in regard to authority.

"But… it's a good plan. One that might actually work, though we're not forgiven on time, so we must attend to the undertakings at once." Mathias struggled with his words, biting his lip as he took one more gaze at the map before gesturing Berwald to set it down upon a bench near by.

"I was hopin' you'd accept the plan." Berwald smiled softly, the look in his eyes mellow.

"Anythin' to help my newfound kin, an' it is worth a try." Mathias sighed tiredly, reaching forth to clasp hands against Berwalds forearms, the Swede completing the motion with as much fever as the Dane.

"Aright, then. Tino, you're the leader of this attempt, so what you say goes, what will you need?" Mathias wiped his face clean with an absent washing cloth. He kicked the giggling children off his lap and piled them into the big bed-like manger that stood proudly in the hut. Throwing a wolf pelt over the squealing young children, the two instantly prickled with giggles and little imitations of howls as they scrambled and squirmed under the grey pelt.

As soon as the children were occupied once more, Tino grew serious, rattling off numbers that spewed forth from his lips with caution and care.

"I'll need half of the well and able villagers to start work on the swamp, the others to go into the forest and cut down limbs and logs, I'll need those that are ill or lamed to help as well, women and men to sharpen pine boughs, children to collect thrush and manure." Tino spoke, arms crossed over his chest as he watched Mathias scribble down notes and orders, scratching his chin occasionally.

"My men and women are better with axes, so they'll be put to work in the forest. Berwald, you're kin are more suited for the gathering of cow shit." Mathias concluded with a jeer, sending Berwald to growling as the Dane smirked.

"Easy, easy, gentlemen. Save the fight for the next battle, the winning battle." Nikolas warned, wiping his hands dry on the front of his tunic.

"You all know what is to be done, now set your people to work - They could use a distraction, the Gods know!" Nikolas barked, causing both men to stand up and leave the tent in abrupt hurry. Only Mathias' shrill order for attention from the masses could be heard ringing throughout the area.

At once Tino's gaze turned to his cousin, eyes filled to the brim with thankfulness.

Nikolas squeezed his cousins shoulder, thinned fingers worn with work and cold straightening out the seams in the Finn's tunic collar.

"You are a fine leader, Tino, you've already proved as much." His voice hushed any semblance of doubt in the Finns heart.

"Thank you, cousin, I must say I learned from the best." Tino smiled shyly, coming to the edge of the Norwegians bed to fish out the two giggling children from the straw and bedding.

Nikolas returned the smile softly, somberly, as he coddled his baby brothers frame to his breast. He shook his head though, eager for distracting thoughts and actions.

"Now, come, let us watch the earth swallow the Salvic's whole." Nikolas hummed, opening the tarps to let Tino and Peter through.

They made their way outside, the sky haloed entirely in blue above them.

A blessing from the Gods.

They are put to work immediately. Through the misty hotness of the day, where rain is sure to follow, they are armed with hoe, rake, pitchfork, and saw.

The three Slavic captures are assessed, separated, and assigned to be assistants to whatever Tino might need.

Toris, with hands that were steady and strong, was set to lead a small blackened mane pony over and over the course of the swamp anew, mapping out possible routes that the Slavic's might take for the benefit of the master scheme.

It was not long ago in capture that Toris confessed to know a great deal about the Slavic's bred beasts, and so Tino quickly flung the lead rope of a shaggy eared Icelandic horse his way, with orders to lead the animal over the threshold of possible routes Natasha might take her bloody brood over.

If anyone knew more about the Slavic's mounts, it was Toris.

"Natasha favors the sun as her compass, so she will more than likely attack from the south -" Toris back peddled the lumbering jet black pony, elbowing the snorting animal in the breast till the geldings hoof's met the faint outline of a trail already taken maybe a few nights ago.

Toris smiled as his handy work, ever so confident in his tracking skills.

"Natasha is cocky, thinks she can never be beat! So, she will more than likely take the already worn path. This will make her journey faster, benefit for her, but more visible to us." Toris smiled with a wide grin, his river-green eyes bright. Tino smiled softly back, impressed with the Lithuanians handy-work.

"I am so terribly glad I did not gut you and your friends like fish all those days ago." The Fin hummed as he clapped Toris upon the back good naturedly.

"Me too." Toris mumbled softly with a nervous laugh like the patter of rain upon the ground. Without guidance, he set himself back to work, clicking his tongue and using a small willow switch at his hand to urge the pony back and forth, creating sharp crescent marks along the watered mud.

At the command of Tino, the horde of young children in the camp set out to collecting cow patties, following the lazy walk of dairy cows as they peppered each fresh pile of droppings with gathered grass, allowing them to dry out some before scooping them messily into poorly and hastily made wicker baskets. Peter of course was exemplified from this rule, as Nikolas had warned that the freckled youths skin might become blemished again - and so Peter had the task of carrying pails of water to the thirsty men, women, and children to quench their thirst in the now heated summer sun.

The air was chirping with the sounds of work, the older children busying themselves with idle laughter and gossip as they weaved mat after mat of grass and heather, dusting them lightly with the reddish soil of the ground that they scooped up by the handful.

Nikolas and Tino themselves took one of the more laborious chores, and helped to thrash and lay down the sap-sticking logs and branches, the mist cooling patches of sweat upon their tunics so that they soon had to abandon them altogether.

It was devastatingly hard work, and they had to do so without complaint, which made the task all the more frustrating.

Tino, however, begged his body to not slow down, to not give into the wear of exhaustion. It did not do much to help by the fact that he was still sore and bruise-ridden, his throat dry and wispy so that he had to pause in his effort to drain ladle after ladle of sweetened creek water.

Berwald also was silent in his work, helping lug by the armful the cinches of ash, pine, and cedar till the skin underneath his arms and at his hipbones was chaffed and red with pricks of blood. Yet, still he pressed on, side by side with Tino, making sure that the Finn did not falter in his movements.

It was not long, however, that under the careful and mirth-pricked eyes of Nikolas that the Norwegian caught the two lovers stealing glances at each others dirtied and sweat stained forms, hunger overlaying the pity of the two's wounded bodies from the last battle.

Nikolas could hardly stand the starved looks of the both of them, and so with careful coy and a mind made up, he formulated an easy plan of sorts, one that would tend to the ache and kindle the becoming of a grand and furious fire.

At the call of evening the work was halted, almost all of it completed by the sheer will of the clan-folk alone.

As dusk broke above them in a casting of blackened blue tendrils of smoke, the villagers sat by the fire and enjoyed their meal of roasted meat and broiled waterfowl eggs and a whole salted pig prepared just this afternoon. After their jaws tore and swallowed the chunks of flesh, they washed it all down with jugs of water, their thirst not allowing hardly any grainy ale nor waxy mead to be drunk.

Near the warmth of the fire the wounded or elderly sat upon the dirt floor weaving braids of grass and clumping nettle, singing songs or sharing stories that they had heard and saved for such an occasion, mirth that had been gone for many a days shining softly in their eyes.

Tino, after a long string of miserable days, was finally content.

However, the evening was not to be long lived, as the aches and pains of the villagers begged for quiet lulled sleep in their tents, and so it wasn't long before the company by the fire grew less and less as many walked the little ways to their make-shift homes.

Mathias and Berwald were the first of the four highly esteemed leaders to succumb to good food and a hard days work and they soon made their way to their respective tents with heavy lidded eyes and aching bones.

By the time the stars had fully shown their gleaming faces to the mortals below, Tino and Nikolas were the only ones to be left by the embers warmth. Both wished to lay idle a little bit longer, choosing the easy and mind-numbing task of sharpening their daggers with whetstones as smooth as a hens shell.

It was not long though before their hums and whistles soon slowed to gentle breathing, as they humbled themselves with their work. Silence was easy between them and Tino wished not to break it, knowing that Nikolas would more than likely scold him for pressing chatter into the perfect night air, as his cousin delighted in quiet, finding it so rare in his own hut that he shared with the Dane.

But after a few minutes of Tino sliding the rounded soft stone outward from his blade, he hear Nikolas clear his throat, setting his own tools down upon the scrap of leather at his knee. He sheathed his still dulled dagger and turned the Finn, one of his brows raised slightly.

Tino lowered his own knife, startled at the look in the Norwegians eyes, one that a famished cat gives to a barn mouse. Intrigued with deadly intent.

"I cannot keep my tongue held in silence any longer, though a gossiper I confess I am not." Nikolas huffed, hands collecting the bundle of tools in his lap as he set them down, replacing clasped hands on his thighs.

"I do not know what you mean, dear cousin. I have done nothing to warrant slander…" Tino mumbled, a yawn melding into his words.

Nikolas scoffed, as if he was deeply offended. "Come now, do you think me blind? I see the way you two lust and slave after each other, as if you were both clubbed over the head with bouquets of roses and draped with metal keys!" Nikolas hissed, a playful gleam hinting in his usually stiffened eyes.

Tino rolled his own violet gaze, trying his best to not let the heat that was coming to his cheeks sting him.

"Please, do not remind me of wedding keys, I had hoped to forget such an ordeal." Tino sighed, fingers idling nipping at his dirtied nails, spying how no longer they were pearly pink from wasting in bed, but cut short and stained black.

"Then you admit it, you do confirm there is a fire kindled between you?" Nikolas smiled smugly, Tino caught taken aback by the look his cousin directed towards him.

"Coyness and arrogance do not suit you, Nikolas!" Tino quipped in jest, clucking his tongue as if scolding a child.

"Well go on then, confess so that I allude no longer." Nikolas prompted, urging Tino on with palms opened wide.

Tino sighed, cheeks burning red, feeling the sensation of cotton clouding his mouth.

"Aye, I lust…" Tino admitted timidly, wondering if it was the warmth of the fire that made his dizzy in confessing such a thing.

"And are you ashamed of such a feeling?" Nikolas spoke softly, eyes now dimmed with calmness and sincerity. He edged closer to the smaller bodied Finn.

Tino swallowed thickly, the motion pricking in his throat, a itch that could never be scratched.

"I am not ashamed, that I know. I am more numbed to the proceedings in a bridal bed…" Tino felt his eyes squeeze shut as he spoke his next words. "I know not what to do."

Nikolas' eyes widened as he watched his cousins bashful state.

"I… Well, I had expected as much, but let that not deter you!" Nikolas' voice finally erupted, causing the stillness to evaporate and Tino's eyes to fling open once more.

"And what am I to do? Lie there like a dead fish?" Tino hissed, mouth curved into a scowl.

Nikolas tittered a laugh, turning away from the Finn to rummage at the various tools and pouches at his belt.

It was only when his fingers ensnared themselves on a small and expensive looking blown glass bottle that he eased back into his seat, a look of calculating on his face.

"In this vial is whale oil, corked up tight, if you warm it with your fingers touch - it should do the trick." Nikolas supplied helpfully.

Yet Tino could only stare miffed at the bottle now tucked in his hands.

"And what am I to do with this?" Tino hissed once more, nerves frayed.

Nikolas sighed, closing his eyes as if he was in pain. "Dear cousin, listen to me now, and take my words to heart. Do not squirm and do not blanch at the things I am about to tell you, now lean in to me so that I may whisper to you ear, yes, closer, closer…"

"…I am to do what with what?!"

The Finn soon found himself shushed by his cousin and hurried back to his warming tent, the Norwegian himself returning to his own quarters for the night, leaving Tino with more questions than answered.

As if in a daze, the Finn, still clutching the little glass bottle he had received so warmly from Nikolas, entered his sons chambers.

After making sure Peter has been tucked in and kissed good night and the snow white puppy had been placed delicately on the end of his bed to play guard dog, Tino found he had no other options left but to enter his own shelter for the night.

Upon entering the tent with teeth biting down hard upon his lips, the Finn sighed heavily, spying the form of his husband nestled on top of the bed, bathed and dressed for bed.

Berwald was not so keen, however, for Tino's eyes. Though the Swede was laying on his aching back, arm thrown over his eyes, Tino knew he was not in the deep throes of sleep. The rapid breathing of the blond ox-like man that had his ribs pushing up and down reverently gave him away, much to the Finn's delight.

So, quietly so as not to stir his listless bed mate any more, he stripped of his muddied breeches and washed his hands and face furiously in a bowl of cold water, the liquid sending his body to fits of shivers.

After his hair was combed and his face patted dry, the Finn made his way to the small bench heaved against the tanned walls of the tent.

It was a sturdy structure, made from oiled cedar and rubbed with goats fat twice daily to give it a smoothed shine.

Upon the make shift altar sat the cluttered idols of their Gods, various symbols for each, only housing the most dire ones the Swede seemed fit to nest at his own heath.

After studying the objects placed packed and neat before him, Tino took an amber colored chunk of pine resin, setting it to smolder and burn before the stony one eyed face of Odin the All-Father. He silently prayed for victory in war.

Berwald, amused and curious by the movements of the Finn, woke up from his faked slumber and leaned against his elbows to watch the Finnish mans workings.

Tino then strayed his hands slowly to a small clay figurine of Freyer, whom he could identify as the God from the hat he wore and the erect phallus between his squatting legs, signs of the Fertility deity who delighted in sexual acts.

Tino dipped his fingers in a washing bowl, by the floor of the altar, and wiped his reddened face again, flicking the mixture of sweat and water at the statue till it beaded with pearls. He placed a little stick of knotted wild rose branches to burn before the God, the thorns swelling and hissing before they became charred and grey.

"Tino…" Berwalds voice was soft as he breathed, eyes worrying as they focused on the Finn. Tino could hear the disbelief clouding his sleep filled voice.

"I want this, do you want this?" The Finn asked suddenly, a bit too loudly for the quiet that seemed to always settle inside the tent. The candles about them shook and spat angrily at the Finn's breathy voice.

Berwald hesitated for a quick second, eyes looking deep into the face of his beloved. His hands came to stroke Tinos own as the Finn drew nearer to the foot of the bed.

"You won't regret… You aren't -" Berwald sat up further, lets coming to rest at the edge of the bed, hands moving down to smooth at the cloth at the Finn's hips, fingers splayed wide but gentle.

Tino smiled softly, eyes growing kinder and calmer.

"Let me, please. Let me have you and you have me?" His voice smoothed over the Swedes lips as he kissed lightly, swallowing back his words.

Berwald sank back down into the furs and flaxen blankets, body relaxed and yet warmer than ever before as he nodded, lips chasing back at Tinos, eager to never have them leave.

"May I?" Tino breathlessly spoke, breaking away from their kiss to crawl onto the bed with slow stride.

"Aye." Berwald swallowed, jade green eyes impatient and more heated than the Finn had ever seen.

Tino grinned, pressing himself over the body of the Swede, claiming his mouth once more in feverish haste.

Don't worry, don't cry - you'll get a sex scene, but you'll have to wait till the next chapter. Ain't I a cruel bitch.

So, how many of you think you know the devious plan our Tino has concocted to end this war once and for all? Tell me in your review what you think the plan is!