Cast Iron Stomach

"What. Is. That?"

Iceland turned to see who was talking, his food midway to his mouth. He was sitting at Denmark's kitchen table enjoying one of his people's dishes. There hadn't been any meetings today but, as usual, he and his other Nordic Brothers had ended up at Denmark's house. He had no idea why he did it, but Iceland always seemed to end up in this comfortable house, surrounded by those closest to him. He put it down to boredom, nothing else.

Norway and Sweden had appeared in Denmark's kitchen and were standing at the other end of the room, their eyes wide (well, wider than usual) and their mouths pulled into tight, thin lines.

"What do you mean?" Iceland asked, looking down at his meal then back up at the pair. "You know what it is; it's hákarl," he added, looking them up and down. He held some of his food on a fork, twirling it in his hand as he watched the two nations' reactions.

"You're really g'ng to eat that?" asked Sweden, standing behind Norway, his face turning pale.

"Of course," was Iceland's curt reply as he slowly popped his snack into his mouth.

Norway visibly bristled at the sight. "All of it?"

"That is my plan. What's the problem?"

"N-nothing..."

From the doorway, Denmark and Finland appeared, their cheery conversation halting as the stench of Iceland's dish reached their noses.

"What the... is that rotten shark?" Denmark asked, his eyes landing on the white chunks in front of Iceland. Iceland nodded at Denmark's question and popped another square into his mouth, making Denmark shudder.

"Oh god it stinks! Someone crack open a window!" Finland squeaked, scrunching up his nose and waving a hand across his face.

"You're hardly one to talk Fin, you eat salmiakki of all things," replied Norway as he reached over the kitchen counter to open a window. He made sure to push it as far as it would go.

"Oh gods it's awful!" Denmark cried, trying to waft some of the smell outside with his hat.

Shrugging his shoulders, Iceland continued to eat. Sure it smelled and tasted a little strong, but it was edible. He didn't understand what all the fuss was about. Had the others not seen the cuisines from Britain? Or America? Now those were truly awful!

"It smells absolutely disgusting! I can't believe he can eat that and not throw up," Finland murmured, the colour draining from his face.

Sweden nodded his agreement. "Ja, he must have a... what was that phrase?"

"Cast iron stomach?" Norway offered, his stomach making churning noises at the sight of his brother.

"Ja, that's the one."

"I think I'm gonna be sick," Denmark mumbled, clutching his stomach and cupping his other hand over his mouth.

The four Nordics stood and watched with disgust and awe as Iceland continued to eat his hákarl, chasing the soft squares around his plate and chewing with deliberate slowness. After a few moments, he became aware of four sets of eyes still watching him.

"You're all still here," he said between chews, "...do you want some?"

"NO!"

Author's note: Again, this was an entry into the Idiom Contest on DA. Short, sweet and to the point this one.

When I first received this idiom, my mind immediately went to Britain. But then I thought, everyone has written about that, it's boring to write yet another "UK x Stomach Ache" story. My second choice was then America and his bad diet, but again that joke has been used too and I wanted something different.

Then I found this. Hárkal, or rotten shark from Iceland. It's a Greenland shark or sleeper shark which has been cured with a particular fermentation process and hung to dry for four to five months. Hákarl is often referred to as an acquired taste and has a very particular ammonia-rich smell and fishy taste. Wiki has a nice description of how it's made, and it is not recommended for the feint-hearted, only for those who have a "cast iron stomach." (OhIseewhatyoudidthere!)

Hope you enjoy! ^_^