There are wounds, scars, etched into their backs. None of them are innocent, not even the tiniest among them. Even such a small child as Sealand, isolated amid the great waters of the sea had his fair share of experiences. Experiences that he would rather not remember.
So when the countries fought, and fought they did- near every day- it wasn't so much about the hate. Time had long forgiven each other. It was the pain- the tightening of chests, the tingle of cuts and bruises a thousand years old.
Some things were best left forgotten. But among the cursed immortal, nothing left. Things only faded into dull white seams marring smooth, ageless skin. Each stroke told a story, each was a sentence of a book, carved by blades into peeling bleeding flesh. Imprinted images etched into minds that would always know.