Fic: Seers, Souls, and Scandinavians (Part 6 of 7)
An interoffice memo glided onto Till’s desk just as he was finishing the first item in the pile of paperwork. He glanced up and looked over at the others in the room, wondering if it was a general missive of some sort, but no one else had a paper crane on their desk, and no one else seemed to have noticed that he did. The crane fluttered its wings in impatience. Till lifted it carefully into his palm and watched it unfurl itself into a square piece of paper with careful writing on it.
Till,
Please report to my office at earliest convenience.
HP
Till carefully slipped the note in his pocket and stood. Peterson across the way looked up at the movement, but Till just ducked his head and smiled. Peterson smiled back and resumed his work.
Till didn’t speak much, and most people were used to it. Since moving to Britain, Till was a little self-conscious about his accent. When he had been at Durmstrang, he was considered soft-spoken and almost feminine in his speech, yet amongst English speakers, even in his soft voice, his accent seemed to make his words sound too blunt. In his homeland, he was teased for being too soft, and in his adopted land, he was self-conscious about not being soft enough.
Despite his tall, thin frame and bright blond hair, Till found he had a unique ability to pass through a room silently and unnoticed. So, it wasn’t surprising to him that no one paid him much mind as he walked down the small corridor to Harry’s office.
“Hi Till,” Zaf greeted. “Mr. Potter says for you to go straight in.”
“Do you know why he wants to see me?” Till asked.
Zaf shook her head and pursed her lips, then seemed to come to a conclusion.
“He said, um...no one is allowed into his office until you come out. No matter how long you are in there for.”
Till frowned, more confused than he was before.
“Thank you,” Till said. He knocked on Harry’s door first, before opening it - despite what Zaf said, he couldn’t bring himself to just waltz into Harry Potter’s office as though he had every right to.
When he poked his head through the door, Harry smiled at him from behind his desk.
“That was quick! Let me guess: paperwork?” Harry greeted. Till nodded, coming fully into the room and closing the door quietly behind him. “Have a seat,” Harry smiled, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk.
Till sat gratefully. He towered over Harry when they were standing, and if Harry was sitting, it was even worse. He didn’t like it. Harry was... Harry Potter. Till felt that being taller than him was disrespectful somehow, even though most everyone was.
“Tell me about your education and training, Till,” Harry said, still smiling as though he were very pleased to see him.
“I was taught at Durmstrang, Sir,” Till said. “I specialized in Potions, Charms, and Herbology. I achieved all my levels with uh...very high marks.” Harry nodded, Till took this as a good sign and carried on. “After I finished school, I train at most largest Wizard hospital in my country, to become Healer, Sir.”
“And what brought you here?” Harry asked. “We have a reference from your superior at the hospital that says you were an excellent Healer, if that’s incorrect, why did you leave?”
“It’s correct,” Till reassured quickly, “I am a very good Healer, very good! But, I ... I did not like being Healer. Too...boring. I was bored. Chest colds; old people who were not sick, only old...it was all the same. I tried working in...more emergency accidents, and strange things. That was little better.”
Till took a breath, unused to speaking so much in a foreign language, especially about this topic. “Then the war - and the Death Eaters they came to try to recruit my family, and we did not want to, and they threatened my sister, because she is married to a muggle. He is a good man. The Death Eaters said that the British Ministry had fallen, and it was only a matter of time until Voldemort had all power everywhere. They began attacking people - like my sister and her husband. And I thought that a Healer should prevent injury, not just fix it. And so I fought the Death Eaters. Then the war was over, and I went back to work...only...”
“Only you had liked fighting,” Harry finished. “So, you decided to become an Auror.”
“Yes,” Till nodded. “As Auror, I could do both - fight and, if my comrades were injured, I could heal. It was very hard to get job though, because I had not studied the right things, and the Aurors thought I was... not enough masculine, because of the way I talk. They say, even the women are more man.”*
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Harry said. “Is that why you emigrated?”
“When I heard you were Head of Auror Department in British Ministry, I thought there might be opportunity,” Till answered. He didn’t know why Harry was asking these questions. “It was said you would hire many new people, that you were good judge of character. I also read that you were raised by muggles, and I know from my sister’s husband that muggles have Healers in their armies - and so you might see that I would make a good Auror.”
“You are,” Harry smiled. “You’ve worked for me for three years now, and I have absolutely no complaints.”
“Then why...um, why did you wish to see me today?”
“Do you remember two years ago, when I brought in two consultants to train the Aurors in non-magical defence against paranormal muggle problems?” Harry asked instead of answering Till’s question.
“Yes, I remember,” Till said. “Americans with no last names.”
“Sam and Dean,” Harry smiled, but only briefly. “They have been through a lot in the past two years. Recently, Sam went through a very traumatic experience. He was....sick, for a while - um, in a very unique way. Dean found a cure though, and cured Sam of the sickness. Sam is better now or, he is supposed to be, but seems to have fallen into some sort of deep sleep. He has been asleep for five days, and Dean is understandably worried. He asked me if I knew a Healer that could go look at Sam.”
“He is not already in hospital?” Till asked. “He should be in hospital. Even asleep, a person needs nourishment and water.”
“No, he’s not in a hospital, and yes, I know he should be,” Harry said, “but it’s complicated. Dean can’t bring Sam to a hospital. So, I said that I would bring someone to look at Sam. Till, would you be willing to make a short trip with me to America in order to check on Sam?”
Till stared at Harry, waiting for him to add, ‘along with a team of Healers from St. Mungo’s, but Harry just looked at Till expectantly.
“Why me? You are Harry Potter,” Till said. “You could ask the very best Healer at St. Mungo’s, or... or anyone!”
“But I trust you,” Harry said. “I told you it was complicated. I need someone I can trust absolutely. Normally, when it comes to Sam and Dean, I would only involve my closest friends - and even then, only sparingly. Unfortunately, I’ve found that very few of my friends went on to careers as Healers.”
Till didn’t know if he should be bursting with pride, or if he should be concerned with what exactly made things so complicated. It was a well known fact that Harry trust was difficult to earn, that only a select few were ever brought into his confidence. Till and Harry, all things considered, had spent very few one-on-one time together. There were the yearly performance meetings, in which Harry would tell Till that he was doing a good job, and Till would say that he likes his job. Till had been on a few missions with Harry, but that was always with a team, and Till tended to fade into the background. He hadn’t ever thought that Harry had noticed him much. Yet, Harry was telling him that he had somehow earned Harry’s trust.
“What makes it complicated?” Till asked.
Harry took a deep breath and Till could tell that he had prepared himself for this question.
“If you agree to come, we must leave now, and we must leave from this office,” Harry said. “We will travel by an unregistered transatlantic portkey directly to Sam’s location. After we are finished, we will return here to this office by the same portkey. You will have to give me your word that you will tell absolutely no one about the trip, nor about any information you learn between when you entered this office and when you leave it after we are done.”
Till nodded. In his head, he listed the facts: An illegal trip to American with Harry Potter, in order to help two mysterious and intimidating men with no last names who for some reason could not seek help at a hospital... that was far more interesting than diagnosing another chest cold back home.
“I will need my supplies,” Till said.
Harry smiled broadly and pulled a standard healer field kit out from under the desk. “If there’s anything else, let me know, I can have it sent.”
“Perhaps after I see my patient then,” Till said.
“There’s one more thing,” Harry said, and looked Till in the eye. “I want you to remember that the people we are about to see are my friends and they will not harm you in any way - but they are not men to be trifled with. Their enemies are greater than any force I have ever faced, and that includes Voldemort. They have seen things you cannot imagine, and they have both been through hell. It is in your best interest to be respectful.”
“I understand,” Till said.
“I doubt it,” Harry smiled, at Till’s frown he added, “but I believe you think you do, and that’s all I ask.”
Ten minutes later, Till set foot on American soil for the first time in his life. He immediately looked around, wondering where they were - his hopes of being near a city where quickly dashed however, when he was met with endless stacks of broken automobiles, and beyond them, only a few trees could be seen.
“Sorry it’s not New York,” Harry said.
Till shrugged. He was here for business, not pleasure.
The house they were close to was old and dirty. The upper windows were boarded up, but the lower floor looked well lived in. Till followed Harry to the door.
The door was opened by an older man in a baseball cap and a moth eaten shirt. He seemed to know Harry, but he eyed Till suspiciously.
“Bobby, this is my field medic, Till,” Harry introduced. Till didn’t miss the fact that he had used a muggle term for Till’s position, but perhaps they did things differently in America. “Till, this is Bobby Singer.”
“It is nice to meet you, Mr. Singer,” Till said, holding out his hand.
“Nice to meet you too,” Bobby replied. He had a firm handshake, and he gave Till a kind half-smile, before turning back to Harry. “The boys are in the basement, follow me.”
“No tests?” Harry asked.
“No tests,” Bobby said, smiling at them over his shoulder as he led them through the house. “I’ll admit, a voice like that would be the perfect disguise for a demon, but if he is one, he won’t be able to get close to Sam anyway.”
Till said nothing as he followed Mr. Singer and Harry down an old staircase to the cellar. He found himself hoping that the cellar was secretly a sterile hospital environment, but instead found that it was just a dirty damp cellar. He took a deep breath and ignored all the Healer instincts that were telling him that this was no place for a comatose patient. Harry had introduced him as a field medic, this was obviously the field, and for some reason they could not move Sam to another location.
When they got to the bottom of the stairs, Till saw soft light spilling out from behind a partially closed metal door, and heard low humming.
“Dean?” Bobby said.
“We should put a radio in here,” a deep voice called back, echoing strangely.
“Harry’s here,” Bobby said. “He brought someone.”
Dean appeared in the doorway, wiping his hands on a towel.
“Hey Harry,” Dean smiled.
“How are you holding up?” Harry asked.
“I’ve been worse,” Dean shrugged.
“That doesn’t tell me anything,” Harry rolled his eyes. Dean gave him a little smile.
“You going to introduce me to Sven Svenson?” Dean asked, nodding his head towards Till and tucking the end of the towel into his back pocket.
“Right, sorry,” Harry said. “Dean, this is Till, he’s one of my aurors, but also a fully qualified healer. Till was also a member of my team when you and Sam gave the training session.”
“Oh,” Dean said, shaking Till’s hand. “Sorry, I don’t really remember what anyone looked like anymore.”
“I would not expect you to,” Till said. “I am not very memorable.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Dean said, smiling, “If I had talked to you, I would have remembered.”
Till wasn’t sure if that was an insult or a compliment, so he changed the topic.
“How is Sam?”
The smile left Dean’s face, and was replaced with worry.
“Come on,” Dean said, turning around and opening the large iron door fully, “I was just giving him a shave.”
Till stepped into the round iron chamber in shock. In the middle of it lay Sam on a cot that was just a little too small for his large frame. Shadows passed over his face as a fan above them rotated slowly, but Till made out the pentagram shadow that remained. He recognized the pattern on the floor as another devils trap, with Sam securely in the middle. The levels of protection were not what shocked Till, what shocked him was seeing the bag of clear liquid hanging over Sam, dripping down a tube into his veins. What shocked him were the neat little row of stitches over a large cut on Sam’s leg:
Muggles.
Muggles who knew about ghosts and demons and how to fight without wands:
Hunters.
Dean picked up a bowl of water that was sitting next to Sam’s head and moved it over to the table. While his back was turned, Harry caught Till’s eye. Till took a deep breath and remembered the conditions Harry had given him before they had left. He willed his hammering heart to slow, as he put the revelation out of his mind, and set the bag of supplies next to Sam’s bed.
“Do you need me to undress him first?” Dean asked.
“No,” Till said, “I will diagnose first.” The wound on the leg would have to be treated, Till couldn’t in good conscience leave it as it was, but the pant leg was already ruined - cut open to the knee. If there were no other injuries, the patient could stay clothed.
Till pulled out his wand, casting a brief look at Harry and Dean. They nodded, and he began the spells that would reveal Sam’s external and internal injuries to him. He whispered the spells softly under his breath, reading the curling colourful words and numbers that appeared in the air above Sam’s body. The words were written in Till’s native tongue, so when Till looked over at Dean briefly, he was not surprised to find that Dean wasn’t trying to read the words. But Till realized that Mr. Singer was standing in the doorway and appeared to be reading along with Till.
“Have you heard from Cas?” Harry asked Dean.
“No, like I said when I called - I’ve tried, but he hasn’t shown up,” Dean answered gruffly. “You’d think he’d be concerned too, but I guess he’s got something important on.”
“You mentioned that things are in turmoil,” Harry said. “I’m sure he would come if he could. What exactly is happening up there?”
“He won’t say much about it,” Dean replied, “but apparently Raphael is trying to get the apocalypse rolling again, and well, obviously that would suck.”
“You can’t be serious,” Harry said. “After everything...Do you think he actually has a shot at succeeding?”
Till glanced up when the two paused, to find them both looking at Sam in great concern. Then Dean shrugged.
“Like I said, Cas isn’t saying much.”
“He has a wound on his head,” Till said. “Were you aware?”
“Yeah, he um...had a bit of a fight before...um,” Dean answered.
“Did he display signs of concussion?” Till asked, then cast a spell that would check for swelling in the brain.
“No,” Dean said. “He was bleeding a bit, but he was awake and aware.”
Till nodded, the spell confirming Dean’s story. The cut left behind was easy to fix, so Till did so.
“The cut on his leg,” Till said. “I will heal it, I can do it by spell, or by potion. Given the time it has been left - um, given how long ago the cut was made, I think potions would be better - more thorough in cleaning the wound first. Do you agree to this?”
“You don’t think my stitching job is good?” Dean asked. “I used surgical thread.”
Till glanced at the wound, at the neat stitches, and reminded himself that Muggles were not barbarians, that they had to make do with what they had.
“It is very good,” Till said. “Better sewing than I could do, but it would be good to heal it completely at once. No scar. No chance of infection. You want to keep him in this safe room, yes? It is safe, but perhaps not as clean as hospital.”
Dean nodded. “If I had known you were coming, I would have just used dental floss instead of the good stuff.”
Till tried not to show his horror at the very idea. He risked a glance at Harry, only to see that Harry seemed to be trying not to laugh at him. He wondered if perhaps it had been a joke, but Dean seemed to be serious.
“I will leave you a potion,” Till said, not caring about violations of the Secrecy Act, “for next time one of you needs to be sewn together. You can use potion instead. Muggles can use potions, even though they cannot make them.”
“Thanks,” Dean smiled. Till breathed a sigh of relief.
“What made the cut?” Till asked.
“An axe,” Mr. Singer said from the doorway.
“Was there rust?” Till asked.
“No, it was my good axe.”
“Good, that is good,” Till said.
Bobby Singer grumbled something and left the doorway, disappearing back into the house. Harry raised an eyebrow. Dean shrugged. Till turned his attention back to his patient.
The potion he decided to use first was a cleaning potion. It would dissolve the stitches and clean any dirt out of the wound, while not harming the flesh. Till busied himself with getting it out of the kit, as well as a clean sterile cloth, while Harry and Dean resumed their conversation in hushed tones. Till didn’t pay them much mind any longer, beyond overhearing Harry asking if there were conditions to some deal.
Rather than kneel on the concrete floor, Till lifted Sam’s injured leg and sat at the end of the cot, bracing Sam’s booted foot on his chest and tilting the leg so that he could poor the potion directly onto the cut. Once the potion made contact, it was absorbed by the wound, and then ten seconds later expelled - with any impurities now contained with the liquid running down Sam’s calf. Till used the cloth to gently wipe it away before it dripped onto the bedding.
“What’s that?” Dean asked, his voice suddenly louder. Till glanced up to see Dean looking in concern at Sam’s wound, his hand seemingly unconsciously stroking Sam’s hair.
“Cleaning,” Till said. “Not painful. Feels nice, like a warm bath.”
Dean nodded, but continued to stroke Sam’s hair, as though Sam could at any moment suddenly awake and be frightened. Maybe he could. When the wound stopped weeping, Till threw the soiled cloth on the floor and held out his hand, wandlessly summoning the healing potion, which he caught out of the air.
“Can you see his soul?” Dean suddenly asked. Till paused in opening the potion.
“Only the gods can see souls,” Till answered. Dean frowned.
“So, all those checks you just did...you can’t...” Dean trailed off. Till wasn’t sure what he was trying to ask.
“There is nothing physically wrong with Sam,” Till answered. “I do not know why he sleeps. He shows some signs of exhaustion. You show more though, and yet, you remain awake. If the problem is with his soul - this is beyond my ability as a healer.”
“Damn it,” Dean growled, taking his hand off Sam’s head, so he could reach for a class of whiskey on the table. Till uncapped the healing potion and dribbled it sparingly into the cut. Most British wizards used their wands while they chanted, but Till had learned the old fashioned way of kneading the flesh around the wound with his fingers. He let the magic flow through his fingers into the patient. His grandmother had insisted it made the healing better.
“Do you think he lied?” Harry asked Dean. Till listened with half an ear, while he watched Sam’s flesh slowly knit itself back together.
“No,” Dean said. “Sam’s definitely in there, it’s just...a year and a half, Harry. He was down there a year and a half. Cas said...he said that Sam might not be... that he might be some sort of vegetable. If four months up here is the equivalent of forty years in Hell, who knows how time passes in Lucifer’s cage?”
Till stuttered over his chant. Lucifer’s cage. A year and a half. A year and a half ago, Harry had announced that the apocalypse had been averted. They had celebrated. A few days later, a rumour had gone around that one of Harry’s friends had died - no one they knew, but apparently they died in the line of duty and had saved many people.
“But you said Death wanted you two to continue to Hunt,” Harry said. “Certainly, he would have healed Sam’s soul enough to-”
Harry suddenly cut off, and Till glanced up from where he was staring at Sam’s half-healed wound. Dean it seemed, was shaking his head as he swallowed down some whiskey.
“Apparently you can’t heal souls, not like that,” Dean said. “I asked him just to...cut off the bit that damaged, but he said that you can’t...you can’t do that to a soul.”
“No, severing a soul is a very very bad idea,” Harry muttered. He glanced at Till, and Till scrambled for the potion again, dribbling more onto the wound and resuming his whispered chanting. Till massaged the wound and thought, ‘this is the man who defeated Lucifer, this is the man who saved us,’ and Till suddenly felt wholly inadequate that all he could do for Sam was heal these superficial wounds.
“He said that instead, he’d put this wall up in Sam’s mind, with all the bad stuff behind it,” Dean continued. “But that it wasn’t perfect....like shoddy drywall, and that if Sam scratched at it...well, it’d be bad.”
“Well, then you don’t have to worry,” Harry said.
“He could be scratching it right now!” Dean said, gesturing to Sam’s head. “I just got him back Harry - I thought he was gone forever, and then he was back, but it was just his fucking body, and... god, what if this didn’t even work and-”
“It must have been a major shock,” Till spoke up, as he watched Sam’s wound finally disappear completely.
“What?” Dean asked.
“To be returned to his body, to be rescued after so much time,” Till said. “It would have been a major shock, no?”
“I, yeah...” Dean said. “Yeah, um, it is - I mean, probably was.”
“That is why he sleeps,” Till said. “When a person gets a major shock, they must sleep in order to recover, to understand what has happened to them. It is normal. The bigger the shock, the more need to sleep.”
“You think?” Dean asked, his gaze on Sam’s sleeping face.
“Yes, he is healthy and strong,” Till said. He carefully placed Sam’s leg back down on the mattress, as he stood again. He pulled the pooled fabric of Sam’s ruined jeans out from under his calf, so that Sam would be more comfortable. He glanced at the bloody fabric, and frowned, raking his eyes up Sam’s body to see that the shirt was also dirty, and that Sam’s hair was a little greasy from not being washed in a few days.
“Something the matter, Doc?” Dean asked.
“Do you want me to help you bathe him while I’m here?” Till asked. “I am trained, and with magic, we would not have to move him from this room. I could wash and mend his jeans as well.”
“Really?” Dean said. “Um, that’d be great, yeah.”
Till smiled and looked over at Harry, who smiled back at him, but continued to stay where he was. Till waited. Harry gave him a confused look and so did Dean.
“Sir,” Till said, “only family and Healer are allowed in the room while the patient is unclothed, for protection of modesty.”
“Oh!” Harry said, and quickly made his way towards the door. “I’ll just, um, I’ll... go uh, make some coffee.”
Dean smiled at Till after Harry had left the room.
“You just kicked the Chosen One out of the room,” Dean said. “Not frightened of losing your job?”
“The patient is the most important person in the room,” Till said. “I think we can both agree that this is especially true in Sam’s case.”
Dean smiled.
They worked efficiently, moving Sam as little as possible. Till used magic to wash Sam’s hair and mend his clothes. They used the wash basin that Dean had been using to shave Sam before Till arrived, and some towels that Dean had on hand. Then Till cast a slight warming charm on Sam’s clothes as they carefully redressed him - it was not ideal to have a patient in a damp basement.
While they worked, Dean asked Till about himself, if he had any family, so Till told him about his sister and her husband. Dean told him a little bit about Sam, mostly anecdotes about Sam’s youth. Till had difficulty matching the large muscled sleeping man with the awkward and studious personality that Dean insisted Sam had.
Till asked Dean about the bag of clear fluid that was dripping into Sam - he did not know much about muggle medicine. Dean explained it, and Till was impressed by the ingenuity. Till pulled some potions from his bag, and left them with Dean, along with carefully written instructions on how to use them.
Eventually they left Sam and went upstairs, where Harry was sitting with Bobby Singer, discussing monsters. Harry gave Till a questioning look, and Till nodded back. Harry stood.
“Well, we’ve already been here long enough to be suspicious,” Harry said. “It was great talking with you Bobby. Dean, I’m sorry we couldn’t wake Sam.”
“Yeah, me too,” Dean said. “But I appreciate you bringing the doc regardless, and maybe he’s right - maybe Sam just needs to sleep off the shock.”
“If he does not wake up in the next week, we could try to force him awake,” Till said. “But I do not recommend it, as it is hard on the mind, and you have said that his mind might be fragile. It is best he wakes up only if he is ready.”
“Yeah,” Dean nodded. “Thanks. I gotta tell ya, you have a great voice for a doctor - fucking soothing. You could probably tell me I’ve got two weeks to live, and I’d still think everything was going to be okay.”
“Thank you,” Till said, blushing, “but I am not a doctor anymore - now, Auror and ‘field medic.’ Being a doctor was...boring.”
“Maybe you just had the wrong patients,” Dean smiled.
“Hey now, he’s one of my best - try not to convince him to leave me,” Harry joked, but then sobered and added, “Keep in touch, Dean, let me know the minute something changes, or doesn’t change, whatever the case may be.”
“I will,” Dean said. He pulled Harry into a half hug, and then shook Till’s hand firmly. “Thanks for looking after my brother, Doc.”
“It is the least I could do,” Till said, and added a very sincere, “Thank you.”
Dean just gave him a confused look. Besides him, Harry activated the portkey, and Till quickly reached out to place his hand on it.
Three, Two, One...The two Hunters, the dusty study, the old rundown house surrounded by broken automobiles, and the unseen hero in the basement all disappeared in a blur of colour, as Till was yanked through space, twirling at outrages speeds, his shaggy blond hair stinging where it hit him in the face. The temperature dropped to an almost unbearable degree, Till’s stomach felt like it was in his throat and then his feet. Just when Till thought he couldn’t take any more, the twirling stopped, and he found his feet back on solid ground, with the interior of Harry’s office suddenly surrounding him.
Till collapsed backwards onto the chair in front of Harry’s desk, as Harry staggered over and took his seat. Till decided he did not like transatlantic portkeys.
“Two hours,” Harry said. “Take a moment to catch your breath, but then you better get back to your desk.”
Till nodded.
“Do you remember the conditions I gave you?” Harry asked.
Till nodded slowly. He can never tell anyone where he was, who he was with, or what he learned. He can never tell anyone that he met the man who defeated Lucifer, that he tended to his wounds and bathed him. He can never tell anyone that he had traveled to a broken house, surrounded by broken cars, inhabited by broken men. Men who saved the world, who saved everybody, yet had torn clothes, and slept in basements, and had learned to doctor themselves because no one else would. Till could not tell anyone that he had done everything he could to help them, yet it was not enough, not nearly as much as they deserved.
“What do I say?” Till asked.
“Say we were discussing whether revisions had to me made in the Healer kits during active missions,” Harry said.
“Revisions to the Healer kits?” Till asked.
“Do you think they need them?” Harry asked.
“No,” Till said.
“I agree. I’m glad we were able to discuss this so thoroughly. You can go back to you regular work now.” Harry smiled.
“Oh,” Till said, and stood to leave.
“Till,” Harry said. Till turned back. “Thank you.”
“No,” Till said. “Thank you”
It had been an honour and a privilege.
Part 7
*disclaimer - Although Till is Scandinavian, I'm not suggesting that the Scandinavian countries are misogynistic/homophobic, nor is Till's accent supposed to be an accent from the Scandinavian countries. Till was actually born and raised in an eastern European country that shall remain nameless - English is his third, fourth, or possibly fifth language.