The child was physically weakened to the point of being frequently bed-ridden. As the islanders suffered, so did he. So many didn't have enough to eat, and so, he refused. The rationale was that starving couldn't kill him unless the starvation could kill off the rest of his people first. He wouldn't eat as long as they couldn't, stockpiling the food he was given and giving it away to other children on his visits to his land. He could keep them alive, and by doing so, keep himself alive, even if his personal health fell to pieces.
Egill lay in a bed, wrapped in blankets as different physicians called by his worried brother gathered, all taking their turn to look over him, try to treat him, speaking in hushed tones with an uneasy Sigurd. Fully enveloped in his own misery, the boy smiled at the invisible, screamed when approached by others. They said he was delusional, the self-starvation had begun to destroy his mind. He would babble about what seemed to be nonsense, but were actually stories of the current happenings that he saw mixed with memories and tales of the past. It was this world that he created in his mind that kept his spirit from sinking into grave depression.
For the first time in his life, he'd given up the will to fight for himself, for what he believed in, for the right to rebel. They thought that rebellious nature of his had finally died, but he had actually just grown despondent on any good it would do for the time being. When he was strong enough, he would be constantly curled up in his brother's lap, clinging to his waist, riding on his back. Gone were the arguments of why the others did everything wrong, why they were to blame for every disaster, why they were simply incapable of doing right.
Instead he retreated within himself. He imagined that he might receive thanks from some Danish high-classmen for the sacrifices he made to keep their country stable, or recognition from the merchants that so freely took without thought. Previously, he would have scoffed and pointed out that he was forced into it unwillingly, but now he imagined that he wouldn't react at all if it ever happened. Besides, those humans never saw the state he was thrown into, they would just take from him as if his things were theirs to take, they would never see the disaster they caused. Not even Denmark noticed, with all that he entangled himself with. Egill had simply decided that he was worthless to Mathias, and no outrage would change that.
There were some days in early summer that he began to strengthen again, those were the days he disappeared off to go home, taking with him a basket carrying as much as he could handle to give away. The people usually lived on the leftovers of what they didn't sell or simply what was unsellable to begin with. The things Egill brought, he'd only give to the children, because they were the ones who couldn't understand why they starved and they were the ones who wouldn't in turn sell what he gave them. This was the youngest generation, the one with the most chance of seeing quality of life restores in their lifespan and the one with the greatest outlook of hope.
The little villages were scattered across the land. Small groups of children could be found in most, and Egill could fit in easily with them. He would arrive in a place, search out the playing grounds of the local children and meander into their group. This particular place had only four children in total. He grabbed out some pieces of sweet bread, enough for just those four, and stumbled down the hill to meet them. He only stayed long enough to introduce himself, distribute the gifts and disappear again. He'd journey off, stopping in deserted places to rest. Bróðir would scold him again when he returned home for exerting too much energy, wearing down his tire body even more. The spark of fight left in him was enough to sustain him on these trips, but he was slow, easily wearied and frequently resting.
The human children would tell the stories. A strange, silent child came and fed them, nothing more. The details were consistent everywhere, he was malnourished himself, fair colored but pallid, with brilliant yet tired blue eyes. And every witness called him by the same name: Egill, the spirit of Iceland.
The Little Ice Age had brought another danger to Iceland besides the famines and cold. As the island's ice didn't melt as far back in summer, the unshrinking glaciers and permafrost slammed a lid down on the boiling pot underneath. The volcanic eruptions grew substantially in power, as more force had to build below the ground in order to erupt past the ice. But the people didn't understand what was happening, only accepting the events as an uneraseable facts of life, and so, missed the signs of an unchangeable future.
As the boy was no longer full of energy and life, it became apparent how the unusual land influenced him. He had an unnatural connection to it, as it greatly affected his mind, his personality, and even his body. It became noticeable, even obvious, how he would suddenly stop everything and stare glassy-eyed into thin air, only to have no recollection of it, or how his muscles would quiver as if in rhythm with the frequently quaking earth. Under close supervision through his ill state, the link became clear that during those times of volcanic activity, Egill grew more ill tempered, violent even to himself, as well as deepening his lethargy, making his entire body ache and subjected him to spells of incurable coughing and wheezing. He himself had become so used to it that it didn't worry him when the symptoms grew in intensity. His brother, knowing full well from all these years of the connection, did all of the fretting one could do anyway. It didn't matter, a worried heart could never change a future like the one that lay ahead.
And oh how the citizens struggled for their nation despite it all. Generation after generation after generation, for centuries they passed down the unwillingness to give in, even if it cost them their lives. One could almost say that the will to be free was born into the Icelanders.
As a personified image of a nation, Iceland, despite it all, was still the rebel, defying any and all authority over him, even if was silent, and the stubborn drive to do things his own way, developing almost a prejudice against anyone unlike him. Every passing year got darker, every decade sunk the society a little farther into tragedy, but Iceland wasn't an innocent victim of foreign rule. Scorn toward the foreigners, insolence and defiance would only worsen the situations.
When Denmark came into autocracy, as predicted, Iceland would never willingly give up autonomy to the Danish monarchy. It was distrust, and not unjustified. Through leaving Iceland to its own defenses over the years, the nation learned that the aversion to kings and princes was warranted, those overseas rulers only looked out for their own and would always turn a blind eye to the far away islanders, those that they couldn't see the life they led nor have to hear the cries of. If they were to hand over entire rule to this institution, what would become of them?
Nonetheless, they had to accept it. Under a threat of arms, they were forced to accept the autocratic rule of Denmark.
Eyvindur Jónsson was a man who almost symbolized his nation at the time. A poor man in a poor country, Eyvindur had resorted to thievery to survive, and soon had to face the penalties of an outlaw. Rather than submit to the foreign and suppressive authority, he became a man on the run, a man of the mountains, gaining the nickname Fjalla-Eyvindur. For years, no, decades, he found ways to survive the unsurviveable, to escape and defy the stark reality of this life, becoming a hero in his own right.
A/N: The return of the text walls! Or…I could call this chapter "Butter's overly partial and somewhat awkward rambles". I mean, I like this chapter and all, I just don't find it very apt to actual events (which, like usual, I skirted around mentioning directly XD). And it is somewhat contradictory in places, but hey, it makes sense if you don't think too hard about it. That's the way this part of history reads to me.
You all can expect the next update really soon. For one, it's THE thing I've wanted to write about seriously for ages (I've written a lot about it to some of my friends, very informally and very helter-skelter XD), and it deals with a subject that I'm (according to a lot of people) overly educated about. Anyone who can guess what the topic of this very exciting (for me at least) chapter gets…chocolate. Yes, chocolate. Chocolate is good uwu /shutting up now
~Butter~
P.S. I hate the fact that certain things referred to in this chapter are so hard to find English articles about. Oops.