A/N: aka the chapter full of Butter's headcanons…

One thousand years had gone by since Iceland's birth. In that time, he had risen from literally nothing — as no other nation had been before him in his land — risen to greatness in a golden age in which he was the envy of others, fell, continued to fall until one could say that his life should have ended, and began to bounce back. He had not tasted power like those around him, but instead felt the humiliating pain of being taken advantage of by the others who did know power. But he survived. That in itself said something worth taking note of.

The nation had been stagnant for centuries. While the surrounding world advanced, Iceland remained practically medieval. The culture, the language, the everyday living had stayed nearly the same under isolation. As if time had been frozen over the remote and barren island. Of course, the faces and names changed, people were born, lived and died, but as a whole, there was no change, they were all the same.

The child had watched every scene, the monotony of life play out. Only he remained, and it was unpleasant. It would be lying to say he didn't hold blame against others for what happened to him and his people, to say he had let go of an ages' old grudge. No, he clearly remembered how he got this way. The 'Bróðir' that had sworn to be by his side since his birth, he was mostly responsible for this. His feelings were bittersweet. Norway had been the one he had always been closest to, the one who'd been with him as they both slid to nothingness, but he had to blame someone, had to have a place to point to to answer the question of 'why?'. Now that had been gone, it was much easier to reject him and push his anger onto him. If Norway had left him alone so long ago, who knew where Iceland would be now? That Norway was no brother. Maybe it was just because he wanted a little brother…but it couldn't be real. Blood bonds would have surely deferred to allow the child his freedom.

Egill had long pushed away the debate in his mind because Sigurd had been there for him. There could have been no way to tell him that he had been wrong all this time. Surely, the truth was that Egill had only been naive and would have believed anything a 'brother' told him. But when faced with his own stories and legends, he found a much different picture. He was no family to them. Maybe a little, but he begun to believe he wasn't even totally of their human blood. For years, he had passed himself off as the 'spirit' of his people, but now he fully believed it. If he wasn't Norway's brother and according to legend — which he confused and mixed to his own comfort rather than logic — he was the descendant of another realm. Maybe a mixed child, part human, part elf, and bestowed upon the burden of the nation's representation when it bloomed. He didn't need to reason why he believed it, he didn't have to tell anyone of the belief anyway. One's bloodlines are hardly important to those who have hurt you. For all he cared, let Sigurd continue to call him his brother, let them pretend to be his family.

One thousand years later, he still firmly, though quietly, believed his land was a land of gods. It was so much easier to believe that, given what the land was. It was inhabited before any human came, before the Irish, before the Norse. The other-worldly was more deserving of the term 'native', and so that had to be his blood. But this was a belief he kept to himself.

Besides the newfound and complete rejection of those he remembered growing up with as 'family', so many other factors had played over a millennium to shape his character. After so many years of rulers cutting him off from the world, the thoughts of meeting others frightened him. He missed those he had known before, but after so many years of darkness, he had no way of knowing how they had grown, what they had become or if they still lived. By now, every nation he had known had to be complete strangers. There would be no surprise if they didn't even remember his name. It was a crushing idea, but entirely possible.

And he was afraid of what would happen to him. Everyone he had been close to had had a hand in his suffering. There could be no way for him to trust another again, for fear that they too would destroy his life. Once bitten, twice shy, as they say, a burnt child fears fire.

In the wake of the fight for independence, this burden of anxiety weighed heavy on him. Time had proven that Iceland could never survive in isolation, and so freedom meant to be left out to fend for himself in a now unknown world. He knew he'd have to push himself through that fear, to prove himself again, to return to his life as it had been. No matter which way he looked at it, as he looked back over his life, the will to live would have to push aside any fear.

"Stand up tall, Island?"

Egill looked up sharply, his train of though broken, and straightened his back as he had been told.

Denmark crouched to look at the boy from a similar height. "You've definitely grown, kid!" he grinned, making a small smile appear on the boy's face.

They were walking down an old street, at the back of a fair-sized and important group of people. After having just reached an agreement the past year on Iceland's constitution and this year's nation-wide celebration of their millennial, Denmark's king was visiting the island so many of his predecessors had ignored. Oh, what a difference a century can make…

"Mm…" Mathias stood up again, looking at the boy from multiple angles. "Two or three centimeters? But still, I can't remember when you last grew!"

Egill almost couldn't believe that this was the same man he had sworn to hate before. He must have finally noticed everything, and he had recently become very aware being sure that Egill was well. He had been asking for years now about the people and the way they lived, happily comparing them to the memories of his own youth. It was true that the national awakening in Iceland had an impact on Denmark. Many of the Danish court had grown enamored with the culture and tenacity of the destitute island nation. On the trip with his king to visit the island, Mathias had rambled endlessly, asking after certain places, recanting how much he admired the child and the people, past and present, he represented.

"And look at your face out in the light! It's not so ashy and ill, it's got color!" Mathias pinched the boy's thin cheeks.

"Don't make such a fuss over me," Egill finally spoke sharply, swatting the hands away.

"Egi-"

"No."

While this was all true, it seemed unreal to Egill. He couldn't forget the past, he forced himself to bring it back in constant memory. He knew Denmark would never simply allow him complete freedom and independence, so even though there were forward steps, this was still a struggle to reach that goal. As he snapped at this man who treated him kindness, he swore to himself to cling to the pains of the past until the Icelandic Free State was a reality again.

A/N: I would have posted this yesterday…but instead I made an AMV for Icey…which you should go look at (the link to my youtube channel is on my profile). Yeah.

Okay, because I feel like I need to explain this. I do have the headcanon that the 'phantom natives' that Iceland wished he were descended from were…the huldufólk (ELVES). Yes, I know that Himaruya was most likely referring to the Celtic monks who claimed they found Iceland first, but that really did not make sense to me, so thus the headcanon was born, and then fed and grew on the souls of numerous things I have watched and read. /prepares for people telling me how random and stupid it is, but hey

Yeah. Everything else I think I explained well enough in the chapter. Idk, ask me stuff if you're confused. I'd love to cram my readers' brains with my lovely ideas.

I should really get on top of updating faster again, but…so many beautiful things I want to write more. Well, there's only two more chapters left in this fic… I would say that I dare myself to finish it before 2013, but I know I likely won't do that.

~Butter~