17th December, 2072
"Island..."
Said nation stood victorious in half a metre of snow, his spear by his side, as he watched a lone figure struggling to sit up at the other end of the field. Within the last three years, Iceland- Island- the man who stood proudly with his army behind him- had changed. The one who sat, defeated and spattered with blood, could no longer call his brother- his dear little brother, whom he had raised on his own for 1200 years- a child.
"What have you done?"
"I've won," Iceland responded quietly. Smiling, he adds "You, Noregur. I've won you." And indeed he had. In three months, he had built up an army twice the size of that of the larger nations' and effectively crushed them. The entire point of the war, in the mind of the Icelandic army, was a viking-style land-grab, but to Iceland himself, it was anything but.
"I wished," he began, "For you to be mine." Norway, his brother, wearily opened his eyes, coughing up some blood and actually started to laugh. "What are you saying, lillebror?" he asked, confused. "I have always been yours." But Iceland wouldn't have that. "You don't understand," he mumbled. "You have always been there, perhaps, but..." He shook his head. "Never mine. Not in the way I want."
Norway propped himself up a little more on the oak tree behind him, shutting his eyes and clenching his teeth as he maneuvered his dislocated shoulder into a more comfortable position. "I was there for you," he hissed. "This whole war- was that- was that really-" A surge of pain and realization washed over him, and he groans. "Ah," he says at last, and Iceland walks over to him, laying down his spear and looking his brother straight in the eyes.
"Ég elska þig."
He mashes his lips against Norway's, ignoring the surprised gasp that escapes the older man and letting himself melt. The snow starts falling again, and Norway's frozen fingers fumble for the knife in his coat pocket- No! Norway has to be his, one way or the other, he cannot- he will not- Norway had grasped the knife at last-
-But it is too late, Iceland has pushed his hand away; the younger nation pulls the knife out of his brother's already weakened grip and plunges it hard into his chest. He tastes blood, whimpers slightly- he may have grown up on the outside, but Norway thinks- and Iceland knows- that he has not grown up on the inside.
Norway collapses, his head going limp, his eyes glazed, half-closed, his mouth open and dripping with blood. This was not Iceland's ultimate goal, it never was; the younger one realizes this and lets out a strangled cry of pain and falls forward, gripping his brother tightly and shaking him for a good five minutes before losing hope and and ceasing movement altogether.
Iceland, instead, goes numb and waits for the snow overhead to freeze him to death.
I may have written this in math when I was (supposed to be) paying attention to things I've already known how to do for three thousand years.
Yes, it's short, But screw it all, I wanted to write something.
