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Iceland has spent a lot of time on the water. When he stays on his own land, he participates more in fishing expeditions than actual governmental work — he’s young, so no one takes him seriously, and he’s a colony, which makes it doubly so. His people treat him with a certain sort of seriousness that he’s used to, even if sometimes it seems more like they’re only humoring him.
He’s good with netting, though, and quick with it, too, so even if they’re only humoring him, they trust his fishing ability, and that’s something. He enjoys sitting on the fishing boats with the men of his land, who are hundreds of years younger than him but look thirty years older, taking in the vernal sunshine and munching on stockfish in between hauling nets.
Beyond that, he’s spent a lot of time on ships between his own land and the mainland. He spends most of his time in Copenhagen, with Denmark and Norway. And he almost always goes with Norway to Oslo, except for right after the big fire in 1624. Those voyages, between Denmark’s capital and Oslo, are shorter than the ones between Copenhagen and his own land, and a little more enjoyable because of that.
The point is, Iceland spends a lot of time at sea. Usually, however, that time is voluntary, or at least pushed on him by the men who raised him, which means he goes along with it with a bit of complaining.
This is not voluntary.
He’s over seven hundred years old, but he looks like he’s closer to ten. They hadn’t chained him, or even bothered to put him in the hold. He supposes it’s fair, because he looks like a child, and even if he didn’t, he doesn’t have any sort of weapon.
The pirates speak a language he doesn’t understand, and his countrymen seem just as confused. There are some Danes and Dutchmen aboard, too, captured from merchant ships taken by the pirates.
The pirates stop in his south, too, at Vestmannaeyjar. More Icelanders — more of his people — are forced onto the ship, and onto others. There must be over a hundred of them now, taken from their land.
Iceland likes to think he’s grown-up, but he’ll admit to being scared.
He’s not used to such long voyages, either — from his land to Copenhagen is just over a week, and from Copenhagen to Oslo is under three days. This voyage is longer. The days drag together, and the sun beats down on the deck, making the humidity underneath inescapable.
There’s some sickness, of course, and Iceland spends many days drifting in and out of consciousness, even with food and water. He half-expects to wake to news that ash has blotted out the sun, but no one comments that he’s been having fits in his unconsciousness. Small victories, he supposes, that his countrymen safe on his land should not have their farms destroyed by eruptions.
It takes weeks to get to where they’re going — the Barbari, he hears it called.
Iceland loves the sea. He grew up on it, often opts to spends his days fishing it when he has the choice, takes comfort in the smells and the sounds of rolling waves. He loves the harbors of Copenhagen and Oslo, watching ships come and go even when he himself isn’t on them. But he’s grateful to be on dry land after four weeks, even if it’s the alien land of the Barbari.
They tie his hands before letting him leave the ship, sandwiching him between the younger men of his country and some of the Danish sailors. The rope scratches at the delicate skin of his wrists, and it’s hotter in the Barbari than his own land ever gets.
As he and his people are driven through the streets like sheep, he focuses hard on what one of the fishermen told him — “Don’t tell them who you are, Ísland.” It makes sense. He is a well-kept secret from those who are not his own people, akin to the huldufólk who live throughout his land. No one who is not an ally should know who he is, especially not these pirates who mean to do God-knows-what to him.
If nothing else, he knows Denmark and Norway, will tear their way through Europe to find him. His countrymen will have no such luck, with no big brothers who would move land and sea and stars for them, and no immortality to keep them from dying prior to seeing their families again.
(On the ship, he tried to learn every Icelander’s name to bring back with him. He is optimistic for his own eventual rescue, but theirs…)
He’s never lost people to something so human as pirates, and never so close to him. And a part of him worries that it will take years or even decades for Denmark and Norway to find him. The German War has already lasted nearly ten years, and Denmark’s king has been involved for almost two.
It’s a terrifying thought. Not only will he lose countrymen to something beyond acts of God, but he could be stranded here, wherever the Barbari is, for decades.
The prison is cramped, and Iceland quickly tires of being ogled at and pitied by the native women. If they aren’t going to do anything, he doesn’t think they should bother crying over him, and besides, he isn’t actually a child.
Vaguely, he wonders who represents the Barbari. He imagines a pretty heathen woman, or perhaps a tall, dark man with a turban and beard. Whoever it is is likely stronger than he is, and older. At seven hundred fifty-three, Iceland is still small, pale, and a little pudgy — nowhere near Norway’s willowy, lithe form, or Denmark’s more muscular one. He more resembles Sweden’s awkward territory, Finland, with his baby-face and rather stout form.
Even Finland is stronger than he is, though, which makes Iceland burn with a shame he didn’t realize he had.
They mark the days by sunrise and sunset, though Iceland pays little attention. Instead, he worries at his lip until it bleeds, tries to ignore the grief and sorrow of his people, and stares out at what little street he can see as if his brothers will come crashing down it at any minute.
(Part of him is mad at them, though. He knows they had no choice but to go to the front when Denmark’s king became involved in the German War, but they didn’t have to send him to his own land because of it.)
On the third day, Iceland feels a buzz in the air, a kind of tingle down his spine. It’s not unlike what happens right before he has a fit as a result of an eruption, but it feels different. It feels less like he’s about to seize, and more like he’s being watched.
In the square, a tall man in a mask is speaking to one of the Turks. His figure is broad, and his skin is darker than Iceland’s. Even in the heat, he wears layers and a turban, but Iceland has long given up wondering how the natives stand the heat. Maybe their layers are thinner, and not made of sheep’s wool as Icelandic clothing tends to be?
Iceland squints against the sunlight, and in that moment, the masked man makes eye contact with him. Some part of him feels a need to run, but there’s nowhere to go; nevertheless, his body jumpstarts without his conscious input, and he stumbles backwards onto the stones of the prison.
There’s a familiarity in the feeling, too — it reminds him of his brothers, for some reason — but for the most part, he feels like he needs to run, and he would if he could. It’s cowardly to leave his countrymen, but his instincts scream to get away.
Before he knows it, though, he’s grabbed by the collar of his tunic and hauled from the prison roughly. This close, the large man looks even more imposing, casting a shadow over Iceland’s smaller form.
Despite himself, Iceland shakes. In his time on the ship and in the prison, he’s heard tell that the Turks look for boys like him to use for sex, and while he hadn’t thought on it too hard, fear is rearing up in his head now.
The larger Turk’s hand comes down on his head in an almost parental manner, and Iceland flinches. The man takes no notice, talking to his comrade as if he’s resting a hand on a table instead. Finally, however, he moves.
And shuffles Iceland along with him.
Iceland will not cry. He refuses to cry, but he can’t help the hot tears that threaten to fall as he’s moved further and further from the one connection to home that he has in the alien heat of the Barbari. And he refuses to look back at the group that connect him to home, because he doesn’t want them to see him as close to tears as he is.
He wants to go home.
The Turk drives him down the road like he’s nothing more than a stubborn ram, but Iceland has no drive to fight. He’s not strong enough, anyway — Norway had taught him to use a mace a century or two ago, but that’s useless without something to bludgeon with. And even if he was able to bludgeon the big Turk into unconsciousness or death, what would he do?
Finally, the Turk corrals him into a house. It’s small, but cooler than it had been outside, and much less humid. Iceland stands there awkwardly with his hands bound in front of him, and when the Turk bids him sit he nearly falls over without use of his arms for balance.
“Oh, right,” the Turk mutters, and Iceland hurts his neck from looking up so quickly. He understood that, which means the Turk is speaking Icelandic, Norwegian, or Danish. It doesn’t sound right, though — it almost gives Iceland a headache.
Without ceremony, the Turk pulls out a dagger and slices through Iceland’s rope bindings. He makes an expectant face, as if he’s expecting a thank you or perhaps an escape attempt, but Iceland doesn’t move except to hold himself. Eventually, he sits down across from Iceland, grunting a bit like Denmark does when he’s sore.
Iceland doesn’t make eye contact, but watching his shoes is almost as bad. The dirty leather looks out of place against the clean — almost overly so — stone floor.
“So, what’s your name?” the Turk asks. “I’ll admit it’s been a bit since I was in Europe, but I’ve probably heard of you.”
Iceland throws out his “human” name: “Árni Sigurdsson.”
The Turk frowns at him. “Your real name.”
It occurs to Iceland that the reason he’s understanding the Turk despite how odd his language sounds is because he’s speaking the shared tongue that nations know from birth. Iceland has never really had a need for it — his people, Denmark’s people, and Norway’s people all have at least one language in common, and all three of them speak each other’s languages. Even Sweden and Finland speak Swedish, which sounds enough like Danish and Norwegian that Iceland understands it.
In short, he’s completely out of practice in nation-tongue, but as it’s known from birth, he doesn’t have to try hard to grind out, “Ísland.” To him, it sounds like Icelandic, but to the Turk, it likely sounds like his own language, but slightly off.
“Denmark and Norway’s little colony?” the man asks, incredulous. “What are you doing all the way down here?” Before Iceland can reply rudely, he interrupts himself and says, “Wait, don’t answer that.” Then, he takes a deep breath and introduces himself. “I am the Ottoman Empire, but feel free to call me Türkiye.”
He’s heard of the Ottoman Empire, mostly in passing mentions of wars in Central and Southern Europe. A lot of the wars seem to be against the same guys that Denmark and Norway are fighting now, but as far as he knows, neither of his brothers have actually met Turkey.
“Where am I?” Iceland asks eventually, as Turkey doesn’t seem to know how to handle him. “They called this area the Barbari, but I’ve never seen that on a map.”
(He doesn’t tell Turkey that he purposefully avoids looking at maps most of the time, because it upsets him to see his — admittedly small — realm left off of them.)
“Ah, this is Algiers. We are in North Africa,” Turkey says with a grand sweep of his hand, as if they aren’t in some random house off the street. “But we’ll be going to my capital, Istanbul.” Iceland must make a face at the idea of another long trip, because he quickly adds, “It will be much quicker! Haven’t you ever travelled the way we’re able to?”
Truthfully, Iceland doesn’t remember. It’s a lot of work to make sure you end up in the right spot, and a lot of work to ensure people don’t try to kill you for being a witch. Denmark tends to opt for travelling like a human, and Norway occasionally “jumps,” as he calls it, but mostly without Iceland. The only time Iceland thinks he may have jumped is when he was very little, with Norway.
“We usually travel alongside humans,” he says after a few moments, “on ships and such.”
“Right, there’s a lot of water up there,” Turkey nods. “Well, I’ll have you know I’m good at this sort of thing, and I know exactly where I’m going, so you don’t have to worry about that.”
Iceland nods, but he’s preoccupied. “…What about my people?” he asks. There were at least a hundred on board that ship, and probably more in Algiers because of how practiced the pirates had seemed, and how long it took to get from Grindavík to Algiers.
Turkey frowns, “There isn’t anything I can do for them. As much as those raids were unsanctioned, there isn’t anything you or I can do about it.”
Without thinking about it, Iceland’s hands ball into fists, knuckles turning white. “I’ve lost people to a lot of things that were uncontrollable,” he says, breathing heavily. “Like famine, and plague, and volcanic eruptions. And now, the one time it’s from people,” his nostrils flare, “there’s nothing to be done?”
“It’s beyond you or me, child.”
And Iceland burns at that, but there isn’t anything to do. He’s over seven hundred, yes, but what can he do?
“Look, this is — oh, don’t cry, Iceland. I’m sorry, but,” Turkey hesitates. When Iceland looks up, through tears he didn’t realize were falling, the older nation frowns. “There isn’t anything I can do. Really.” After another moment, he says, “I’m sorry that this is how you have to learn it, but we tend to be rather powerless in the face of our people.”
“I want to go home,” Iceland sniffs, trying not to sob in front of this stranger. He’s exhausted — from being at sea for weeks, from sleeplessness in the prison, from anxiety. He wants his brothers, wants to curl up in between them like he did when he was smaller during thunderstorms.
“As soon as we get to Istanbul, I will write to your brother,” Turkey assures him. Iceland nods, admittedly still teary, and Turkey takes his arm. His hand is big and warm — it reminds Iceland of Denmark, and that makes him want to sob all over again.
Between one blurry blink and the next, the scenery changes. Where before they were in a small, dim house on the street, they are now in a grand room with large windows. It’s surprisingly bright, and Iceland has to squint for a moment before his teary eyes become used to the light change.
“I didn’t realize you were going out conquering,” a voice says, sounding amused.
Turkey looks less than thrilled at the man lounging in the room. He looks like a pleased cat, sitting in the sun. His hair is longer than Iceland’s own, and a pretty shade of strawberry blonde. His eyes are the deep red of lingonberries.
“Those pirates in Algiers kidnapped him,” Turkey says with a sigh. “So he is staying here until Denmark and Norway can get him.” He gestures to the man, and then says to Iceland, “This is Wallachia. He is one of my vassal states, and he is extremely annoying about it.”
Wallachia just grins, showing off surprisingly sharp-looking canines.
“We are in Saray-i Cedid-i Amire, the New Palace,” Turkey continues, “these are my apartments, though the Sultan lives within the palace as well.”
“And me, and my brother, and Egypt. And Greece, and Cyprus, and Bulgaria, and sometimes — Ow!”
Iceland blinks. Turkey has thrown his shoe at Wallachia, but it was so quick that he hardly saw it.
With a sigh, Turkey turns back to Iceland. “Please behave yourself. If it is something Wallachia would do, don’t do it.” Having imparted that rather cryptic knowledge, he leaves the apartments through the door. Iceland stares after him, his tears long having given way to confusion.
The days pass in a meaningless clockwork. Turkey assures him that his letter to Norway has been dispatched, but also cautions him that it will take time to reach him. Wallachia reads his fortune on a set of playing cards, but only when Turkey isn’t around.
“It’s haram,” he explains one day as he tosses out cards in front of Iceland and Moldavia. “Forbidden. But we’re not Muslim, so I don’t care.”
Muslim seems to refer to the heathen religion that Turkey and his people practice, along with Egypt. The rest are Christians, like Iceland, though their practice differs significantly. Like him, however, they don’t seem inclined to attend church with any regularity.
Mostly, Iceland counts the days by how many times Turkey goes to pray.
“He goes to the Ağalar Camii,” Wallachia tells him when he asks. “The Muslims have to pray five times per day.”
“Seems like a lot,” Iceland replies. The sun is shining through the window, so he can’t see past the divan that Wallachia is sprawled on without squinting.
Iceland sleeps on that same divan, because Turkey doesn’t want his sultan to know that he has another nation in his care by using another room. Mostly, he doesn’t sleep; he lays there awake, knowing humans are bloodthirsty, which means he can’t use a room, and that Norway might take a long, long time to get him.
He also doesn’t sleep because the divan is located in the central room that Turkey and Egypt need to pass through on their way to the mosque at dawn. Turkey, for as much as he tries, is not really a quiet man. If it wasn’t for him, Egypt could probably glide past silently.
“Sorry,” Turkey whispers when he notices Iceland’s eyes are open early one morning. The sun has barely risen, though creamy beige streaks across the sky. Iceland blinks tiredly at him, and in between one blink and the next, he and Egypt are gone.
Over breakfast, Turkey apologizes again, but Iceland just shrugs as he picks at his breakfast of kaymak with honey. It reminds him of skyr, though the texture is different. The thought makes him blink away tears.
He wants to go home.
After a moment, he realizes Turkey is watching him — for what reason, Iceland doesn’t know. He doesn’t rise to whatever Turkey is waiting for, instead reaching for a flatbread. At the other end of the table, Wallachia, Moldavia, and Bulgaria are having a spirited conversation, while in the middle, Greece is asleep, and Egypt and Cyprus are focused entirely on their own breakfasts.
Finally, Turkey clears his throat, “It’s been about two weeks… My letter may have reached Denmark-Norway by now. It’s likely we can expect your brother within the month.”
“A month?” Iceland asks. By the way the rest of the table stops to look at him, he was louder (and probably angrier) than he meant to be.
“It takes a while to get from Northern Europe to here,” Bulgaria comments, though his placating tone grinds on Iceland like a pebble in his shoe. “I’m sure he’ll leave as soon as he can.”
Iceland rolls his eyes, “Sure, if King Christian can spare him from the stupid German War.” There’s a pit in his stomach in the admission that he might not be important enough to the king to justify letting Norway leave right away.
A small part of him wonders if Norway will jump from wherever he is right to Istanbul. Surely Turkey told him exactly where Iceland is?
The whole conversation leaves him with a sour taste in his mouth that even the sweetness of honey and fruit preserves can’t wash out. He doesn’t care for any of these fancy breakfasts; he longs for the salty taste of stockfish and the comfort of his brothers over the platitudes and pitying gazes of strange nations.
Seemingly endless days pass, and for Iceland it’s a haze of humidity and heat he isn’t used to. He spends most of the days sitting and waiting, or else being drawn into having his fortune read by Wallachia. He longs to be on the water again — preferably in view of land, his own land — being kissed by a cool sea breeze as he hauls nets in and shares stockfish with the fishermen.
At the very least, he’d like to be on one of those hellish ships, captained this time by Icelanders, or even Danes, closing in on his own land, with no one lost to the Barbari’s slave trade.
He doesn’t spend too much time on that sort of fantasy, though. Iceland has never been an optimist, likely because Norway is such a cynic. Even Denmark tends towards worry over optimism, though compared to Norway and Sweden, he seems like a ray of sunshine in that respect.
As the weather cools, his only activity is listening greedily for any news from the continent. There isn’t any good news, though: the German War rages on, and Denmark has been invaded. Iceland spends days pacing, but even Istanbul’s cool weather is warmer than Reykjavík’s average summertime weather, so he sweats a bit, too. The Holy Roman Empire has forced King Christian back to the islands, apparently, with all of Jutland occupied, and all Iceland can think is What does that mean for me?
(He can’t imagine Norway prioritizing Denmark, but then he can’t imagine Denmark brought low by an invasion to his continental land, either.)
Unceremoniously, as the hours of sunlight taper almost unnoticeably, Iceland’s sleeping space changes from the divan in the common room to a bed that is apparently normally Moldavia’s. Moldavia and Wallachia assure him that they don’t mind bunking together. The idea of the two sharing a bed as the nights grow chillier just makes him miss his own brothers more, even if the Istanbul nights are hardly as cold as those further north.
(They’re getting colder, and Iceland fears he’s been forgotten entirely in favor of the German War.)
He catches Turkey frowning at him a few times, in the spaces where his tanbur is silent during afternoons. Short spaces, to be sure, but more than enough for Iceland to be aware of the man’s eyes on him in between the twangs of the instrument’s strings.
One day, when all of his vassal states are out, Iceland speaks in between the sound of one note being strummed and the next. “What does being invaded feel like?”
Turkey frowns outright. “Not good,” he says, clipped and not inviting any questioning. “But with the amount of wars he’s had with Sweden, I’d imagine Denmark is used to it by now.”
“Did you ever get used to it?”
(Denmark’s always said that both Norway and Iceland have a talent for bluntness.)
“I’m usually the one doing the invading,” Turkey replies. It’s a non-answer, but he smiles as if satisfied with it. It doesn’t reach his eyes.
Iceland doesn’t ask any more questions, and eventually Turkey returns to slowly strumming out notes on his tanbur. If he asked anything else, it might be whether the long pauses are part of the song, or just a product of Turkey’s mind being slow to compose any original music.
By the time Allhallowtide passes, Iceland has resigned himself to spending untold years in Istanbul. He languishes in bed, and then hates himself for it, because for all he knows his countrymen who were taken along with him are doing much worse — enslaved or dead. He picks at meals, the sweet foods he favors unable to relieve the growing pit in his stomach, the nausea secondary to his anxieties.
Sometimes, he considers trying to find his own way back, but he dismisses it quickly. He’s never been without another — even when his country was independent, before the Old Covenant, it had been thought that he would be better off growing up with his own kind. Whether his people, Norway’s people, or Norway himself had decided that, Iceland doesn’t remember, but whatever the case, there’s not a chance that he can cross the continent by himself.
Moldavia’s bed is warm, more comfortable than the divan, and here, Iceland can pretend that he’s at home, waiting for Norway to nudge him awake. It’s not a fantasy he can keep active for long; Turkey and his vassals allow him to sleep much later than Norway ever would. He misses sleepily eating porridge as the sky lightens from creamy gray to blue.
It’s mid-November. He’s getting ready to mentally cross off another month when Moldavia sticks his head in. Suddenly, Iceland feels ashamed of how he’s hogged the other boy’s room, but ever cheerful, Moldavia doesn’t comment on that.
Instead, he says, “There’s someone here for you!”
Iceland spends a stupid amount of time staring at Moldavia like he has three heads. Then, he runs past the other boy, uncaring that he’s barefoot and still in his nightshirt. His feet slide on the rugs a bit, and he trips into the common room.
And Norway is finally, finally there.
He looks harried, but otherwise unchanged, and he’s prepared when Iceland barrels toward him. It does knock him off balance — Iceland hears him grunt with effort to stay upright, just as he makes contact — but he’s quick to hug Iceland tight.
“Noregur!” Iceland cries, tucking his face into his older brother’s vest. He can’t get any other words out — any organized thought leaves him the second he starts sobbing, but he has a feeling Norway knows anyway. He’s always had a talent for that sort of thing.
When Norway speaks to him, he knows it’s Norwegian, not that funny nation-tongue that Iceland has grown used to hearing. He relishes in the lack of a buzzing in his ears so thoroughly that he nearly misses Norway murmuring how sorry he is.
“I wish you hadn’t left me in Grindavík,” Iceland mumbles in response, but he’s long past angry about it.
“We left you in Reykjavík, first of all.” Despite his correction, Norway is smiling fondly. It’s not an expression Iceland sees on him often, but he also understands why Denmark is always doing silly things to try and evoke that rarely-seen expression.
He knows it’s useless, but Iceland still asks, “My people…?”
Norway only holds him closer to his chest. The collar of his shirt tickles Iceland’s head a bit, though he’s glad at least that Norway hadn’t shown up covered in blood. “There isn’t anything we can do, Island. We aren’t able to interfere in that way.”
Turkey had told him as much, but Iceland had been hoping that Norway — his big brother who fixes all his problems, or at least doesn’t scold him too hard if they’re really his own fault — would have some trick.
But Norway doesn’t lie to him, so he can’t help that his tears, so recently stopped, start falling again. Norway doesn’t tell him it will be okay, just holds him close, dries his face with his sleeve. Iceland grips tightly at his vest, taking comfort in the rough material.
“And Dan?”
“He’s fine,” Norway snorts. “A little bruised up. King Christian has given him leave from the battles, considering how he hobbles.” Immediately, Iceland can picture Denmark — perhaps limping, with bandages visible on his arms, maybe covering his forehead — harassing the king into letting him fight again.
“Don’t leave me again, Nore,” Iceland says, instead of relaying that particular mental image.
Norway doesn’t lie, which means he doesn’t promise Iceland anything. Instead, he silently smooths back Iceland’s bangs, grown long in his time in Istanbul. Finally, he stands, bringing Iceland with him.
Even nearing the size of a ten-year old — scrawny though he is — Iceland is apparently still light enough for Norway to carry. It’s a relief, frankly, because his legs still feel weak.
“Thank you for keeping my brother safe, Tyrkia,” Norway says politely. This time, he speaks in the nation-tongue, and the words — Icelandic, to Iceland’s ears — scrape against his mind unpleasantly.
“He’s a great kid,” Turkey says in reply. “Only sorry he had to be here so long.”
There are no protracted goodbyes, though Iceland gives a sniffly wave to Turkey, who returns it with a large grin, and his vassal states, who have mostly congregated in the doorway through which Iceland tripped in his hurry to get to Norway, and who either wave back or cheerfully wish him well.
Finally, as Iceland has wanted for months, Norway takes him home. Between one step and the next, Turkey’s apartments disappear, and in a fraction of a fraction of a fraction of the time it took for him to get to Algiers, he’s already halfway home.
And in the space between Istanbul and Copenhagen, where everything is dim and Iceland thinks he can see softly glowing shapes, he clutches Norway tight and asks, "Can we go fishing, when we get back?"
Above him, as he steps onto the worn boards of the kitchen of their home, Norway smiles, a rare thing that only Iceland succeeds in consistently eliciting. "Of course we can."