Iceland is not sure how to respond to this letter, this letter he got from Faeroes and written with utter earnestness. As far as he remembers it, there was no such dragon, much less does he remember said dragon's name.

Certainly Norway had found a dragon at some point—if anyone would've, it would have been him, who believed in dragons more actively than the rest of them. A black dragon? If anyone would remember its name, it would be his brother Norway.

Faeroes should've written Norway, Iceland thinks as he leans overs a wind-weathered fence. For one thing, his brother loves getting letters, which are really more of a hassle than a simple e-mail. Flakes of paint stick to his jacket and sleeves. He is close to an old church for the most part abandoned, with lopsided graves in the cemetery and windows protected by plywood. Weeds and the brush, which is low, are aloud apparently to grow as they will.

Mr. Puffin is on his shoulder, and nearby two sheep graze contently, uninterested in Iceland's presence.

The sky is overcast.

Still, how—he would only use this word with himself—cool would it be if there had had been such a dragon? From Faeroes' description, it was something of exquisite beauty: sleek black, claws like semi-precious gemstones and eyes as bright as lightened rubies, with fine, gossamer wings spread with a slightly reflective membrane. The scales, too, had had an iridescent property not unlike oil.

Iceland, pausing from his thought, leans over the fence a bit more, so that it touches his solar plexus. It is cool even through the layers of his shirts and jackets.

Then he gets onto his feet. It is certain that at some point Norway had found dragons and shown them to him and his sister Faeroes, because now that he thinks about it he remembers seeing the dragons before, not the terrifying ones in the wild, but the younger and or smaller ones, less frightening because they had been brought by his brother. That seemed to make them contained somehow, like Norway's responsibility for the creator protected them from it absolutely. If Iceland remembers correctly, it also helped a little that he had never brought an adult one to show them.

Had he not wished to expose Iceland and Faeroes to that danger?

"I could've handled it," Iceland mutters to himself because he is alone—can be sure that he is alone because he has walked out all this way. He is closer to the church and the sheep which continue to remain unconcerned by him.

Iceland's brow is furrowed; his expression is somewhere between frustration and concentration.

Yes, absolutely he could've handled being in the presence of an adult dragon! Iceland had been young, yes, but certainly not a child. As a country he had lived many more years than a human by that point, the first time Norway showed him a dragon, so he hadn't technically been a child at all.

And now he is a very, very old soul.

Mr. Puffin is not particularly concerned for his owner, even if Iceland looks to be in pain, has looked that way for several minutes now. He is curious. Obviously Iceland must be thinking about something particularly embarrassing. He's muttered to himself, even—and there are the clenched fists as he slowly makes his way towards the dilapidated chapel everyone knows is haunted.

So Mr. Puffin asks, "Oi, Ice, what're ya thinking about? Something juicy?"

"It's not of your business."

"Tell me, buddy!"

"No," Iceland says, without looking at his shoulder where the puffin is perched.

"You're looking really weird right now! The family resemblance with that guy is particularly strong now."

At that, Iceland looks at his puffin; he bristles.

Any comparison at all to his older brother Norway is of course mortifying, so profoundly that the embarrassment can and often does immobilise him.

"I'm nothing like him!"

"Yes, ya're. You're a lot like him," the puffin says, and maybe he is goading Iceland a little.

Iceland is in a passionate fit now—he raises his foot like he is going to take a step forward, distance himself from Norway who really could be standing behind him, then he stomps his foot down and raises his shoulders.

"Not at all! I wouldn't endanger children like he did! And anyways, dragons aren't that impressive. I don't like that kind of thing anyway."

Mr. Puffin makes another comment and they quarrel for a while longer, but nothing else is really said. The whole time the sheep continue to graze, possessing loads more dignity than the red-faced boy who argues with his puffin.

Xxx

Nore –

Do you remember a black dragon you once showed Faeroes and me? She asked me about it, and if I remembered the name.

I don't remember a dragon. I don't know about this kind of thing. I've included her letter in this one.

Also, please quit leaving blank voicemails on my phone. I don't know if you're butt-dialing me, but it is really weird.

Iceland

Xxx

Fæ—

Please don't ask me about dragons. I don't remember anything like that.

If it ever happened, Norway would know about it, not me. You know how he is.

Iceland