Iceland was not happy about this situation. The boy's brows were drawn, and a frown was set in his very eyes. There were no possible words to describe the amount of discomfort that he felt, but he could endure it. Or at least he had to endure it. Thankfully it wouldn't last very long.
He stood like a man about to be married. Knowing that the soul that he was about to add to his shoulders was someone he'd always seen as a father figure made the setting extremely awkward. Was this how every one of those allegiances had occurred? If so, then he immediately understood why Norway hated this feeling. Oh, had Norway complained about the alliances. Iceland had never understood why Norway hated these meetings, but now that he was in his brother's shoes he could wrap his head around Norway's perspective perfectly. Knowing that given circumstances, Denmark was a lesser force than Iceland at this point did not help. Part of Iceland's mind couldn't help but wonder how Denmark would have reacted. Would he have groveled on the ground, begging for help? Would he be ashamed?
Would he be proud?
Above all there hung that marital theme in the air that deterred Iceland from everything entirely. Everyone in their formal wear, the people addressing and congratulating him, the way the tie around his neck felt far too tight... all of it made him uncomfortable, yet Iceland tried to see the receival of the soul as more of a commencement of duty than a marriage. It made the thought far easier to bear than his earlier imagery.
The room was beautifully simple. It was lighted by candles found in scattered locations and all burning with an intense passion that seemed to mock the otherwise gloomy space. Their warm yellow glow illuminated the room almost entirely, yet was not enough to wean away the chill of the stones surrounding them. They were in the basement of an old building, a place that had not seen people like himself in a long time. Yet the stone of the walls and floor was eerily comforting to Iceland. It gave the situation an ancient aura, one that was reminiscent of Iceland's childhood. The stone was hard and gentle, and the flickering light cast over its nooks and crannies sending waves of light and shadow over the walls like ripples in a stream.
Sweden came forth, accompanied by the Prime Minister of Denmark as well as the Danish Royal Family, carrying a simple wooden box. These Danish officials had established a certain distance between themselves and Sweden that was only so close as to be considered polite. Iceland's own officials were not able to be in attendance given the short notice, but were expected to meet with the Danish officials within the next few days. The whole occasion was stiffly formal, the hint of freshly ironed suits lingering over the slight scent of burning wax. Iceland found the people facing him were as stiffly formal as their outfits, and possibly their egos as well. Yet over them hung an aura of melancholic weight. The Royal Family regarded Iceland with a haughtiness that was to be expected from proud people not willing to admit defeat. Dare he say it, the Prime Minister regarded Iceland with a high level of contempt. The group knew what had to be done, yet no one seemed ready to face their fate. Denmark's legacy was going to end with them and be revived by Iceland.
If only they knew how much Iceland didn't want this either. Still, this is what had to happen.
"This is only temporary," said the Prime Minister once the leaders reached Iceland. Vile dislike laced every syllable that crossed the Prime Minister's tongue, but Iceland was not intimidated. He merely nodded his head, already knowing this and fought the urge to roll his eyes instead.
Apparently it wasn't just the other Personifications that insisted on treating him like a child. He was intelligent and capable, just as much as any other young adult and he hated being treated like a child almost finishing kindergarten.
"Once you accept the role of carrying not only the weight of your people but the people of Denmark as well, you must make sure that you will not fail them," the Prime Minister continued, taking the box from Sweden and opening it. Inside was a golden ring, glowing in anticipation. There were runes etched into the metal, reminding Iceland of how to spell "Denmark." See? I can already read. Just in case you were tempted to teach me that too, Iceland thought, haughtiness slipping into comments he didn't dare utter aloud.
Iceland knew what these rings were but hated them. When a nation ceased to exist in body, a ring appeared in boxes such as these. The boxes only appeared in these situations, with the ring inside. For each nation there was a specific box unique to them, containing a ring that was even more unique. Perhaps the most difficult component to the existence of the rings was that they would appear in seemingly random places. If a nation died, their ring could remain buried under countless piles of rocks for all eternity, never to be found, or it could be as simple as turning your head to the right and seeing it next to you. It all depended on the circumstances and causes of the death of a Personification's human form. Yet even then, it was impossible to predict where the box would appear, or when. And should it happen that the box never be found, then the ring will lose meaning. The ring needs a host to survive, and without a host it cannot live. Therefore, as soon as Iceland had accepted the offer to take over the role of protecting Denmark, guards and soldiers had been released to scour the land for the box. They looked and looked, yet Iceland knew exactly where the box would be.
It had taken only a handful of hours of searching the coastline for him to find the box securely tucked underneath a rock in the sand. Say what you would about Denmark, but his true love had always been the sea. It was a common trait that he shared with Norway and Iceland, something that they had always enjoyed together. It was only natural that his soul would appear in such a location.
When others inquired how he had known where to look, he didn't lie. But there was another aspect to the search that he would never tell anyone, no matter what. He had heard Denmark's voice, out there, singing the old songs that he had sung when Iceland had still been young and everyone had rejoiced for their successes. Back then the songs had been plenty and the stories were riddled with daring and true bravery. The heroes had fought dragons, the tricksters bested their enemies, and monsters had been alive. It wasn't often that he let himself think of those days, but at that time he'd had no choice.
When he had come close enough, he had seen Denmark standing on the shore, looking out to the ocean. No matter how many times he blinked, Denmark remained standing, his eyes fixed on the horizon, the wind tousling his hair, his lips barely moving as he softly sang. When Iceland came closer, Denmark's head turned to look at Iceland and as a smile appeared on his face a gust of wind seemed to blow him away, and within a matter of seconds nothing of Denmark remained. Upon reaching the spot he had seen Denmark standing, he spotted the rock that concealed the box. And if someone asked him about the sighting, he would deny it until his dying breath.
Now he stood with that box he'd found in front of him, open and exposed. The King took the ring from the box and held it out to Iceland like he was some bride. You know, if this really was a wedding, I would hope that I could at the very least wear more comfortable clothing, Iceland thought as he observed the ring that continued to glow. The glow was a warm, welcoming, honey yellow that reminded Iceland of fireplaces and old-fashioned feasts. It emanated from the metal in a fluctuating way that was reminiscent of the waves of light on the walls. It was eerie. It was like seeing a soul.
"Do you, the Republic of Iceland, accept the role of Protector of Denmark?" The King asked, his voice booming in the small room. The words bounced off the walls over and over, becoming ever softer and more unintelligible.
Iceland extended his hand, accepting the ring on his finger. "I will protect the soul of Denmark at all costs, until he is strong enough to live once more."
And with those words, the ring's glow faded until the metal glinted on his finger with as much irregularity as a wedding band. His violet eyes watched as the band then proceeded to fade into his skin, sinking in like a child tucking under the covers at night.
There was a surging of his heart as the soul was accepted into his responsibilities, swelling just the slightest. It was like he was seconds away from exploding. His chest wasn't big enough to hold two hearts, his head wasn't big enough for two brains, his body not big enough for two bodies. And yet, when he blinked all of those disorienting feelings disappeared, leaving only a blank numbness behind.
When he looked at Sweden, the usually calm blue eyes were wide. "That's it?"
"I guess," was Iceland's response, looking to the Danish Prime Minister, who shrugged.
"The ring will reappear when he's ready," Sweden said slowly, coming closer. "You've made him proud, you know," he whispered, reverting to ancient Norse once more. "You've made him proud. And Norway, and me. Even Finland, I think. We're all so proud of you."
Iceland narrowed his eyes at Sweden. "What angle are you playing at?"
"No angle. I know they would want you to know."
"Now? Of all times?"
"Of course now. If not now, then it could remain unsaid forever. That's a risk I don't want to take." A trace of a smile crossed Sweden's lips before he moved away again, and Iceland knew as soon as Sweden had left. A part of the soul that was now carried by Iceland seemed to relax, letting Iceland release the tension in his shoulders that he had failed to notice before. It was an eerie sensation that Iceland did not enjoy, but it was nevertheless something he would have to get used to. At least until the Danish identity was strong enough again to manifest in the form of a Personification.
Please, dear god, let that time come sooner than later.
"You know," Jones said, coming up suddenly, "I bet you that the people who have Norway don't know about this. And if they do, then they're in for a treat, because you've thrown a massive wrench into their plan. Iceland's power grew overnight, protecting the Danish identity and spoiling their fun."
"We can't just keep calling them 'them,'" Iceland said, choosing to ignore Jones' excitement in their counterscheme. "They need a name."
"Well, we could just call them what they are. Assholes."
"Draugarnir?"
"That works too, I guess," Jones couldn't help but roll his eyes a bit. But then his calculating eyes searched Iceland, a smile haunting his lips. "You know what? You've grown since I first met you."
Grown? Iceland had remained at a consistent height for an extended period of time, and he had been certain that he was done growing by now. Besides, he was tall enough already! But then he noticed the cuff of his shirt, which no longer rested on his wrist and instead fell three centimeters further down his arm. It might just be that Jones was telling the truth, yet Iceland refused to believe it. Therefore the teenage Personification shrugged nonchalantly and began to trace pictures on the back of his hand. "I suppose it's possible, but I doubt it."
Jones' eyebrow peaked, and from knowing Iceland for as long as he had, he knew not to continue pushing Iceland for conversation. The officer walked away, leaving Iceland alone for what felt like the first time in a century. It was this understanding they had achieved that Iceland appreciated beyond words. He didn't have to put his thoughts to words; Jones already knew. As the cop left, Iceland couldn't help but take in a deep breath and sigh it out again.
The peace was tranquil and calming to Iceland's frayed nerves. The space gave him fresher, cleaner air to breathe. The space gave him room to move freely for a change.
Then came the crack of a gunshot.
Iceland honestly had no idea why so many guns had suddenly invaded his life in the past few months.
He instinctively ducked, pulling his hands over his head and praying that no one had been hit. His eyes stared at the stone that made up the floor, focusing on every little crack and dent possible, any detail, regardless of size or significance. Anything that gave him an excuse to procrastinate looking up a second longer.
Seconds felt like hours.
They kept ticking by, one after the other.
Shuffling. Muffling.
The noises sent shivers down Iceland's spine and the only thought he allowed himself to process was don't look don't look don't look.
A hand fell on his shoulder.
Iceland shook slightly as he forced his body to straighten and look into the piercing gaze of Sweden. "It's okay, Ice. No one was hurt except him," the Personification explained, nodding his head in the direction of a man who was on the floor with handcuffs binding his arms. A makeshift bandage was wrapped around the man's leg, blood forming a flower in the inefficient fabric.
Jones was off to the side, speaking with another police officer. All Iceland could do was thank any and every god he could put to name that Jones would live to see another day.
Sweden's hand persisted to rest on Iceland's shoulder, both making him uncomfortable and solaced. Iceland couldn't decide which was worse.
"He had a knife. Luckily, Jones has a gun," Sweden further clarified, his eyes telling Iceland that only a few moments ago Sweden had been just as–if not more–terrified as Iceland. He was newer to this life than Iceland, after all.
Iceland looked at the man yet again. He was dressed in a black suit, similar to most of the other men present. His skin was white and his hair was pale, thin, wispy. He possessed green eyes that pierced almost further into Iceland's soul than Sweden's ever had, and it sent shivers down his spine.
Again Iceland was filled with complete and utter rage. He wanting nothing more than to reach over to this man and strangle him until his neck snapped or he suffocated; whichever one came first would be enough for Iceland. This would only ever be a fantasy; Iceland knew he'd never be able to follow through with such dreams, but they were still pleasant to dwell on every now and then. Iceland's raging heart would be enough to terrify any person, immortal or mortal, and it pleased him to spot a flicker of fear behind those harsh green eyes.
"So, what are we going to do with him?" Iceland inquired, pointedly directing his gaze toward Jones.
A flash of menacingly vicious aggression crossed Jones' face. "We're going to get some answers. And once we've found out as much as possible from him, I'll simply report that he obtained a weapon and I had no choice."
Try as he might, the green-eyed devil could not hide the fear that slipped into the most intricate parts of his expression. It was delightfully entertaining for the Personification.
"And if the answers are misleading?"
"Oh believe me, we're validating his answers before we get rid of him." Jones grinned at this point, thrusting his thumbs into his pockets. "And should his answers be false, he'll wish that I'd shot his ugly head instead of his leg."
They filed out of the building in small groups to a private and secured parking lot where they packed into the cars and began their travel back to the precinct. Their new lead sat numbly in his handcuffs, shoved in between two police officers who were instructed to kill the man at the first sign of attack. When Iceland glanced back, the man's eyes lacked any sign of emotion. There was nothing in his expression that forfeited any secrets. There was nothing in the curve of his mouth, the arch of his brow, the twitch of his nose. Iceland only hoped that this man was scared. He wanted their captive to regret living through the capture. He wanted this man to understand his pain, to experience it first-hand. Then justice would be served.
Iceland glanced down at the finger that had worn the ring before it faded. There was a line just barely visible that remained as evidence, a faint scar that wrapped around his finger. Other than the mark, Iceland couldn't exactly say that he felt any different. He had expected so much more change to occur that the reality seemed too simple. His bones didn't feel heavy, his mind wasn't occupied by the hustle and bustle of Denmark's commentary, there wasn't a sudden weight on his shoulders.
He did feel a bit taller. Once again he let his eyes fall to his shirt, looking at where the cuffs rested on his wrists. It was as though the fabric had shrunk in on itself despite having fit him perfectly only a few weeks ago. Naturally he cast a glance down at his ankles, noticing a more sizable gap between where the pants would usually land around his ankle and instead seeing the rim wrap around the base of his calf muscle. No matter how insane it sounded to him, he couldn't deny that he was going through a period of growth. And with that thought came memories of aching joints and bone pains from the preceding months. When they returned to the precinct Iceland would have to catch up on the news. Reading it would be painful, yes, but it might contain clues to explain his growing height. There would be a meeting the following morning to discuss the new alliance between the leaders for the press to gorge themselves on, and once that was released there would be an angrier, more aggressive target on his back that he wouldn't be able to ever shake off.
Iceland couldn't help but hate the modern day. He hated the added layer of danger that laced his every move. He hated to feel watched, no matter where he was or who he was with. He hated the feeling of having a tracking device implanted in his brain. He hated knowing that a gun could shoot him from so far away that he'd never see his assassin's face. Perhaps it might sound strange to you for someone to wish it was the medieval era again after having already lived through it, but to Iceland, the notion was a cruelly happy dream.