Disclaimer: I don't own Axis Powers Hetalia.
Hyperkeratosis
Written April Fourth, 2009
He is knitting at the table by the kitchen door, and there is a present waiting for him. Unopened, the seal of the Danish crown, hearts and swirls on the packaging. The corner is ripped and one side has been smashed in, [dropped and beaten. Listless.] As if he didn't already -
I congratulate you. Under my wise and irreplaceable guidance, you grew up into a fine man; I wish you well.
The letter came separately on thick paper, blotting in between the lines. He reads it, fingering the collar of his shirt, vaguely disinterested: A pen in one hand. There are things he has to do, after all. Hidden under this is an agenda from the Council, and an announcement of events, and, "As a belligerent and an ally"…
It is raining, and the return note is in his native tongue [which Denmark does not speak, which no one speaks, and for that reason he is content;] and by the time he remembers to mail it, years will have passed.
xxx
"G-Góðan dag."
England pauses, stutters. Unused to speaking in a foreign tongue. He fingers the handle of his rifle and looks at the ground: composes himself. When he glances back he's woolen-tempered and stern, unmoving despite a flush. The weather is cold, and his clothing is too thin, and he resists the urge to warm his fingers against the nape of his neck, against his breath. No weakness can be showed.
"...I'm invading you," he declares and almost clasps a hand on his shoulder. He can't remember the last time he visited here, but the landscape is unchanged, the weather mild. It is Iceland who stands before him - It is only Denmark's lingering presence that is different; the man is nowhere to be found.
"Þetta er hrein og bein andskotans óvirðing. Ég er hlutlaus! Ég hef verið umburðarlaust saurgaður og sjálfstæði mitt vanhelgað." The nation is vitriolic, looming, impossibly furious - but England doesn't understand. Frowns at him, flips through the pages of a dictionary, worn and outdated. Second-hand. Didn't even have the decency to learn the language, and shrugs it off, his translator spewing out nonsense and looking inexperienced, young. Too young.
There is a problem, here. England says something [about Germany, and plans, and guns] and while the message is garbled, child-speak, he thinks he might be able to understand. He is, being invaded in the name of - and it is nothing but selfishness.
Britain, the Empire on which the sun will never set. [But he is neutral, he is independent, and there is nothing that will - ]
xxx
"Ég heimta skaðabætur," he mutters, closing the curtains with both hands. England has brought with him coffee, roasting the beans over the stove, filling the house with a burning, choking smell. It is late, and he is feeling tired; a weary, aching feeling settling deep behind his eyelids, into sinews and bones. When he stands to leave, it is England who follows, presses, leans him into the wall. The lilting of his voice unintelligible, meaningless.
Later, they try it for the first time. England is heavy and uncomfortable on top of him, and the feel of skin against skin is unpleasant. Unwanted. He shuffles over, reaching for the novel at his bedside - the man kvetches quietly, and he scowls. Prods him in the back, and who is the outsider here? There is no argument. England is upset, frustrated. Stopped in the middle of things. He almost feels sorry, almost, and the memory of Denmark that crowds into his thoughts is fleeting.
A pause. "When is a war to finish?"
"I don't know. Soon." England is haggard, sickly. An entire generation of his men, gone. An entire generation. Iceland replies, voice hollow and apathetic, turning the page. He is a neutral country.
xxx
In the morning when he wakes, England is nowhere to be found - just a ghost, a blur against the edges of his vision, mixing into memories like Denmark and Norway before him. He's left traces: rings of coffee on the table, notes written in an eased, cursive script. A tie, forgotten by the bathroom door. A broken dish, set to the side in some form of afterthought, apologetic.
America stands outside near the doorway, clutching a manual and unsure of where to go. He is battle-worn, yet smiling, dripping mud onto the yard. Arrogant, and proud, and unwavering, military patches decorating his clothes. Pants rolled, wet at the edges, stained with dirt and slightly baggy: suspenders taking up the slack. He waves, eyes bright. Heady with the rush of success.
Iceland frowns, and shuts the door in his face.
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Second part to come eventually.
xxx
* Góðan dag. (Good day, formal.)
* Þetta er hrein og bein andskotans óvirðing. Ég er hlutlaus! Ég hef verið umburðarlaust saurgaður og sjálfstæði mitt vanhelgað. (This is bluntly put damn disrespect. I am neutral! I have been intolerably defiled and my independence violated.)
* Ég heimta skaðabætur. (I demand compensation for this)
(1) Iceland was under Danish-Norway rule for a very long time, until Denmark was invaded by Germany. The King of Denmark sent a letter congratulating Iceland on its independence. England sent letters to the Icelandic government asking for cooperation.
(2) A month after Iceland's independence from Denmark came "Operation Fork" - When England invaded. No one in the invasion team was anywhere near fluent in Icelandic, which caused a lot of communication problems. In addition, the English troops were ill-equipped: wrong clothing, little weapons, no idea what they were getting into. England invaded so that Germany wouldn't invade.
(3) Later that night, the Icelandic government said they expected compensation for any/all damages done. Throughout the occupation, Iceland maintained an independent and neutral status.
(4) England stayed for about a year, then handed America the job of occupation once the US entered the war. The Icelanders were really against the Americans, but apparently the English didn't leave any big impression on them.
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Written for fukkafyla and the kink meme.