Well, it's younger Iceland, and it's historically based! I hope you enjoy it!
I don't own Hetalia! end /AN/
Iceland nerves were surely torn apart by now, despite the blood he had seen in the past. This was a terror of a whole new caliber, the solid wood under his feet leaving him no more secure in this vast sea than a paper boat. It wasn't that he didn't trust the boat; it was that he didn't trust the men on and in it.
Some of them were darker skinned; a bunch were lighter-skinned, and conversing in what sounded like Dutch. They were all terrifyingly taller than him, towering over himself and some of his people. Of course, none of his men were above deck. They were all chained below, to keep them from taking over the ship and saving themselves from their horrifying fate. No, only the women and children, such as himself, were on deck and permitted to see the ocean and the sky.
Iceland's hands clutched the wood of the ship, looking out onto the ocean and trying not to remember the horrible event. He had been in his room, safe and sound, preparing for a visit from Norway (unofficial, of course, nothing government-related) when the attack had occurred.
He wished he had been in his small house at Reykjavik instead of in Austurland; none of the people here were from his capital. In fact, he would give anything to be on land right now, even though he wasn't generally uncomfortable on a ship. Rather, he was usually in his element, but with foreigners? It chilled him, down to his bones.
When he had gone outside his house, to get some fish for dinner, that was when the pirates had struck. They had swarmed into the village, heading not only for the richest looking houses, but, to Iceland's horror, for the very people who populated this lovely little village of his. There had been screams, and some of the men had tried to fight back, but were shot where they stood, holes blown in their chests and heads.
Time had seemed frozen while his people were running through it like a stream through loose dirt; Iceland hadn't fought someone in a long time, and found himself unable to move until he was seized and thrown over the shoulder of a brawny dark man, like some prize domestic animal.
He'd screamed, like some babe being tormented by a malevolent older sibling, thrashing in the large man's grasp. Then, however, the cold metal of a blade made itself known against the coarse knit of his shirt, and he ceased resisting. His fingers had dug into his kidnapper's shirt, and his lips had trembled violently as the cries that wanted to come out were suppressed and instead kept as the raw emotion in his chest.
Shortly after, he was herded onto the ship with a group of his people, all healthy and fit like he was, some men, some women, some children. He had wanted to dig his feet into the dirt, to claw the earth for what little hold it would give him on his home, but resistance was futile in the face of guns and nasty Dutch-speaking souls.
He hadn't been the only one who cried. Some of the women and children did too, probably just as terrified as he was of never seeing their homeland again. They had stared out of the ship at their home, while the men were forced under the deck and into chains.
And now here he was, swiping at another tear with his sleeve, as his home grew smaller and smaller in the distance. The men milling about the ship ignored him, letting him stand and mourn his new journey, probably because they knew there was no way he would be able to escape now.
He wanted Norway, the one who had first found him as a baby and held him close and watched him grow. He tried to pretend to feel the sensation of being held by him, the brother who was cold to all but him. However, it was impossible, as the breeze whipped around his shoulders and the ocean reached his face and nostrils in the form of spray.
He wanted to be home.
As soon as Norway set foot on his brother's land, he knew something was off. The little village in Austurland that Iceland had told him to meet him at seemed out of sorts, things a mess, doors hanging open, elderly folk milling about uselessly, bodies in the streets. There had been a raid, to be certain, and Norway knew immediately he had better check on Iceland.
Sure, quick feet led Norway up to the little house that he had helped Iceland build a couple decades before, just big enough for the needs of a child and the occasional visiting adult. He threw open the door, frantically searching the inside to find that everything had been left as though Iceland had intended to return shortly; his bed wasn't made, firewood was sitting inside the hearth, waiting to be lit.
Not a soul, however, was there. Norway felt his heart sink, and he left the small building he felt his panic at where his brother could be, and what state he could be in, increase tenfold. Who would harm Iceland? How had they even known where he was? Iceland's location was not exactly the most common knowledge among pirates.
Norway stopped the first person he saw, an older lady who was distraughtly pacing by a house with the door hanging wide open. "Excuse me, but what's happened?"
The woman threw up her hands, tears coming into her eyes. "They've taken them, my precious Ari, and Egill... Lilja, the light of my life! What will I do without my family to care for me?"
If Norway hadn't felt horror before, he felt it now. "Who? Who took them?"
"The pirates! Some of them were dark skinned, like devils, but others were as white as any other man sailing the sea! They spoke a strange language- I think they are straight from the devil himself! Who else could take children and women without guilt?" The old women continued to cry throughout her whole explanation, wiping at her face with her handkerchief.
Strangely enough, Norway felt numb, as he stumbled away from the woman with a mumble of thanks. How could someone do this? How could they just waltz in here and take his little brother like any old piece of booty lying around? He was his, not theirs. Why wasn't Iceland protected?
Norway leaned against a wall despondently, flashes of memories of Iceland looking up at him with trust in his eyes, expecting protection and love. This may not have really been his fault, but Norway couldn't help but feel guilty. He should have pushed Denmark to protect Iceland better; he should have railed at the idiot until he did something about the general lack of protection and good ships in Iceland.
He felt as though he were going to be ill, thinking of how Iceland could be sold in a far off land, where he would neither speak the tongue, nor ever feel free again. The image of his brother, bound to servitude to some pagan, struck Norway as particularly infuriating. He had to do something, he couldn't leave him in that situation!
There could be no chasing after him, he reasoned, not immediately. His ship wasn't equipped for a long voyage, nor was the crew ready for engaging in combat with a large amount of pirates. He would have to head back, probably to Denmark, if only to try and get that fool to provide him with the necessary resources.
Feeling stronger now, Norway headed off purposefully towards the harbor. Once his crew had their rations for the voyage, they would be off.
On the way there, the sick thought played through his mind: was this retribution for his viking days?
/AN/ I hope you enjoyed it. It might stay a oneshot, since I've got other stories going, but I don't know. It seems like it'd be fun to write out. Anywho, this story is about the Turkish Abductions, which incidentally had nothing to do with Turkey. They took place in July in 1627 by a Dutch Muslim-convert pirate name Jan Janszoon. He probably got directions to the island from a captured Dane. The amount of people taken is unknown, with some saying 8 and some saying 400. So I'm just going with somewhere in between.