Disclaimer: I don't own Axis Powers Hetalia.

Written December Twenty-seventh, 2009.

When Iceland returns he's weighed down with snow, breath laboured. Too slow to keep up with Norway's long strides. After closing the door he fumbles with his mittens and sets them out to dry, bending his fingers slowly to ease in the warmth. The wool is wearing thin, a gift from years and years ago, but –

"You had something to ask, Iceland?" Norway watches him from the table, idly flipping through a story that Iceland had left to the side. He's frowning, unable to read some of the words, and marks corrections in the margins of the paper. Easily making himself at home.

Iceland pretends to be busy by brushing off his clothes, sweeping the snow to the edge of the door, organizing the pile of winter clothing at his feet. He mumbles something and Norway pauses, unable to hear, but Iceland doesn't meet his eyes. He's unsure of this, but he always seems unsure these days, and it's rare that the two of them have time alone. The words won't come out.

"I don't know how to..." He tries to continue, nervous, attempting to keep his expression blank. Iceland stares at the ground and unhooks the buttons on his clothing, then closes them up again. He's too old to be asking for help, but if it's from Norway, he can bear it. "This is my first…"

In the end, Norway accepts.

xxx

Norway slips away. He's busy, always busy, and when Iceland asks to see him the reply is almost curt. Iceland saves what he can spare and fashions toys, makes clothing, tucks them away in a special corner just for them, because nothing can be wrong. He waits for a time when he can share his thoughts, while the amount of gifts slowly grows.

Sometimes, Iceland passes by when on other errands - a lie, for what errands could he possibly run in Scandinavia - and checks to see if Norway is home. He isn't. He leaves the toys at the doorstep, bundled with shirts and a note. Holds in his tears. Each time he returns it takes longer to warm up, the chill seeping into his chest and burrowing into his fingers, and each time his cough grows worse.

xxx

The next time Iceland tries to visit he's called back, the sense of Denmark affecting even the air he breathes, suffocating and foreign and unwanted. It leaves him enervated, and the distance to Norway's house seems longer and colder than before, and he is busy. Far too busy. He's unable to wander on his own.

Sometimes he glimpses Sweden, his coattails disappearing around corners and his shadow melting into the walls. They never speak but the blue of his uniform sinks into his dreams, turning into water and flowers and bright, cloudless skies.

Iceland lays in bed, unable to settle his own affairs, and ventures only as far as the doorstep of his house. Norway's whispers bend through the streets and drift into his room, haunting, keeping him awake. Lingering for hours and days and long after the man has left.

xxx

The news is brief. He folds and unfolds the letter, hoping something will have changed, and aside from this there is little contact from Norway. The only personal message is one that wishes him well, but the handwriting is unfamiliar, and he can barely make out the words.

Denmark met him.

Iceland has read the page enough times for the creases to tear. He coughs, shivering into the frame of his bed, and closes his eyes.

xxx

Greenland is dead. Norway stands there, treating it as if it's just one more thing they'll have to leave behind them, even as his hands fist into his shirt and he voices his regret. His speech has an even, practiced tone, and Iceland wonders how many hours he has thought this over, how many days he –

Iceland rubs away tears with the arm of his sleeve and turns away, face contorting. It's too late. When he excuses himself Norway looks at him strangely, as if he can't quite understand, and says nothing as he leaves.

Denmark ghosts - constantly, overwhelmingly present - and wraps around his chest. Constricts. Iceland stumbles towards home, fingers shaking from the cold, and arrives to find that someone has visited while he was away. The package sits on the edge of his table, untouched by the snowfall. Opening it finds a handful of toys wrapped in paper, letters with smeared ink, illegible and uninteresting.

His head swims and he collapses onto the bed, ignoring the imprint of someone on the blankets. His eyes blur. The cold won't leave him, and his breaths are shallow and quick, and for the first time he realizes there is nothing he can do.

This is how it begins.

xxxxxxxx

Notes:

Erik the Red went to Greenland, settlements were made, eventually they started paying taxes and stuff to Norway. Due to a variety of reasons after a few hundred years the entire Norse population (aka these settlements) were wiped out. This happened right around the time the Kalmar Union was formed. Later on Denmark recolonized Greenland. Something at one point suggested that one of the last ships to visit Greenland before the settlements died out was an Icelandic one.

Timeline in the fic ranges from around 980 to the 1400's. Headcanon says Greenland was a baby and died when the Norse population was wiped out. I realize that there were some people living on Greenland even after the Norse no longer were, however. The last line refers to start of the Kalmar Union, of his dislike for Denmark, and when things just generally start to go to hell for Iceland.