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Chapter Text

The Blitz picks up again on December 29th. As if to make up for lost time, the sirens blare at six in the evening and the following attack lasts for twelve hours. When they emerge in the morning, they turn on the radio to find that St. Paul's Cathedral has survived, despite heavy fire. The others have to take it from Hong Kong that this is London's own Christmas miracle.

The rest of winter isn't nearly as cold as back home, but Iceland finds comfort in the chill all the same. Hong Kong, in contrast, steals every spare blanket he can find from the cellar and piles them atop his bed. "The attic is the worst possible place in winter," he grumbles one afternoon in mid-February.

"I'm sure Slovakia wouldn't mind a roommate." Iceland flicks through his fairy tale book.

"For one night, I'm sure, before he murders me."

"What for? You don't snore."

"Maybe not, but I've been known to talk in my sleep."

Iceland closes the book. "No."

"Oh, yes. Taiwan used to kick me awake and demand to know what I was saying. She couldn't normally repeat my language well enough, though, so we'd spend half an hour awake mimicking each other's tones until China came to tell us to be quiet."

"Well, I haven't heard you say anything."

"That's because you sleep like a rock."

"What's wrong with being a deep sleeper?"

"Nothing." Hong Kong smirks. "You curl up like a kitten. It's adorable."

Iceland flings the book across the room, where it bounces harmlessly on Hong Kong's fifth layer of blankets. Hong Kong barks a laugh.

Iceland is trying to come up with some retort when they hear a high-pitched scream downstairs.

Belgium. They look at each other, all levity gone. Wordlessly they shoot out of their room, Hong Kong before Iceland, and sprint down three flights of stairs.

Belgium is sobbing in the foyer, her arms wrapped around the neck of a man almost as gargantuan as Sweden. The man falls on his knees to the floor, and Belgium kneels with him. Beside the pair stands Luxembourg, staring at the two of them as if unsure whether he's dreaming.

Behind the trio, a second stranger offers a sad smile at Hong Kong and Iceland. Upon second glance, however, he's not a stranger. Iceland has in fact known him since he was a child himself—before he was blond, before he spoke English and French, when he was the newest and most distant brother of the Norse.

"It's been a while," greets Canada. He looks down at the pair on the floor as the man on his knees slowly lifts his arms to wrap around Belgium in return. Iceland recognizes the hair standing on end, from European meetings.

"Canada," says Hong Kong. He stands on the last step, with Iceland one above him. "I see you've found the Netherlands."

Canada rubs the back of his neck. "It's been quite a journey, and Lars is hurt. Can we find him a bed?"

"Our bed," says Belgium. She pulls away from her brother and wipes away her tears. "We can make space for him. Come, Lucien," she says, reaching for her younger brother's arm. Between Canada and Luxembourg, they help the Netherlands rise again. Iceland steps off the stairs and spies a bandage wrapped around Netherlands' forehead and a limp in his step that Canada mostly absorbs.

Hong Kong steps into the kitchen to make tea. Iceland sits at the dining table as Slovakia wanders in. "What's going on?"

"Canada found the Netherlands, I think."

Slovakia nods and takes a seat beside Iceland. They stare at the pattern of the tablecloth and sit listening to the shuffling footsteps two floors above.

Belgium is the first one back downstairs. "I need water and clean cloths," she announces feebly.

"Already taken care of." Hong Kong emerges from the kitchen with a pot of steaming water. Belgium takes it with a perfunctory nod and heads back upstairs.

Canada passes her on the steps and collapses onto a chair across from Iceland and Slovakia. He's grown so much more than Iceland has; his form is thin, but with muscles as ropey as Denmark's. Without the Netherlands, he'd be the tallest person in the house. He folds his hands on the table and looks up only when Hong Kong slides a cup of tea before him and sits down beside him.

"How have things been here?" he asks.

"Not nearly as eventful as whatever you're about to tell us," says Hong Kong. He looks at Canada expectantly.

Canada sighs. "I evacuated his royal family myself. His queen has been here in London since May of last year, but a month later, her daughter the Princess Juliana decided to take her daughters to Ottawa. My capital," he clarifies for Iceland and Slovakia, although Iceland knows at least this. He wonders if Canada recognizes him. "I ran the escort."

"England was stuck in North America during the Blitz," Hong Kong says. "I presume you were too."

"I hosted him when he wasn't lobbying America." Canada examines the three of them. "He's taking the attacks pretty well, all told."

"Tell us how you found him," says Slovakia. He doesn't mean England.

Canada hunches over his tea. Both hands press against the cup for warmth, although Iceland doubts he's cold. "We last saw each other at the royal palace when my team was leading the queen and her family away. He saw them off, but he wouldn't join us on the ship. He said without the queen, there were few who could direct his troops. He hid until he was captured around Christmas."

"But you found him again."

"England's spies found him in detainment near the German border. He was due to be transported to Berlin, so my troops intervened en route."

"If he was captured at Christmas," says Hong Kong, "why did they wait all winter to bring him back to Germany?"

"My guess is logistics." Canada rubs his eyes behind his glasses. "People resist most at the beginning of occupation. Taking away someone as high-profile as the Netherlands would alert the people who know him and make them mobilize the others."

"So?" demands Slovakia. "The rest of us are away from home too. Let our people riot."

"The Germans need the Dutch as calm as possible, or else they'll spend more time stopping riots than they will setting up a military government." Canada takes a drink of his tea. "But this is something you should talk to the Netherlands about, when he feels well enough. I will say, I don't think staying with his people did him any favors."

Iceland frowns. "How so?"

Canada looks at him. "How would you feel to see them suffer just outside your walls?"

Iceland looks back down at the table. It's true that he's concerned for his people as always, but in the deepest part of himself, he knows they're safe. Feeling their suffering would be one thing, but seeing it with no escape or way to relieve it—the idea clenches his heart.

"Hey," says Canada gently. "He's here. He's safe now." He turns to Hong Kong. "How were his siblings here, anyway?"

"They were in London asking for help when the attacks began."

Canada nods. "I wonder if any of that had to do with Luxembourg."

Iceland tilts his head.

"He's the youngest," Canada explains. "Belgium and the Netherlands probably meant to protect him, and I know the Netherlands meant to keep Belgium safe too."

Iceland's stomach sinks, and he remembers the letter from Denmark in his wardrobe upstairs.

"But if you can retrieve him," Slovakia says, "then there's nothing stopping us from getting the others."

Canada turns to him. "Who did you have in mind?"

"My sister? Czech?" Slovakia looks at Canada for a moment, and then scoffs in disgust. "You don't know who I am."

"I'm sorry." Canada sounds sincere. "It's been a while since I've traveled east. I haven't had much reason to, and now we have no way to."

"You could stop one nation from reaching Berlin."

"Yes," says Canada. "The nation furthest west, one we can easily send spies and airplanes to. A nation England has a stronger history with."

"As if that's our fault?" Slovakia raises his voice. "Do you know where I was when Germany invaded two years ago? That's right, two full years before any of you western countries. I was in Paris, trying to secure relationships that you blame us for not having. You're all neighbors, but who's near us? Poland? Invaded. Austria? Annexed. Hungary? She'd be more likely to join Germany than protect us from him."

"Slovakia—" Hong Kong tries to interject.

Slovakia holds up a single finger to him and stares straight at Canada. "I'm sorry," he snarls, "that we didn't make friends with you sooner. But I'm sorrier still that Czech said I should be the one to go. They'll trust a man, she said. She said she'll keep things going at home. And now she's alone in a land that's not ours anymore, and I don't even know if she's still there. And you tell us it's our fault for not talking to you sooner?"

Canada opens his mouth, but seems to swallow whatever defense he was about to make. Something in his eyes dims.

"You western nations, you're all the same," spits Slovakia. "You talk about human rights and unity, but the minute the threat turns to you, you turn deaf to us. When France got the news about our invasion, he became so worried about himself that I was shoved out the door. My advisors and I, we took the Chunnel to England. Iceland got an airplane escort!"

Iceland sits up straighter and turns more fully to Slovakia. He hadn't realized he was part of the list of grievances.

Slovakia stands from his chair, hisses his final words in his native language, and turns on his heel to climb upstairs.

The remaining three look at each other.

"I could have said that better," Canada concedes. He closes his eyes.

"You did what you could," says Hong Kong. He exchanges a concerned look with Iceland, who returns it uneasily.

After a moment's silence, he excuses himself and follows Slovakia up the stairs. He has no plan, only an urge to make some apology for a situation he didn't even ask for.

When he reaches the third floor, both bedroom doors are closed. Behind one he can hear murmuring in the same guttural language Belgium and Luxembourg use with each other. Occasionally, however, a deeper voice murmurs back. The other room is silent. Iceland taps on the door.

"Go away," says Slovakia's muffled voice. Iceland hesitates. He hated his brothers for doing exactly this, but it's time to see why they do it: he opens the door regardless.

The room contains one bed the size of Iceland's, a wardrobe, a table with the radio he got for Christmas, and a chair. Articles of clothing are strewn across every piece of furniture; Iceland gets the sense that if Slovakia had more than what fit in his suitcase, the room would be even messier. Slovakia lays on the bed, facing the wall with his arms crossed over his chest.

Iceland picks up the chair in the corner of the room and brings it within a meter of Slovakia. They sit there for several moments, both looking at the same unfixed point on the wall.

"I don't want your pity," says Slovakia.

"I've said the same before."

By the pause, Slovakia was expecting someone besides Iceland. He turns over.

"If I could have let you have the airplane, I would," says Iceland softly. "It was small, and England took the radio to talk to his generals every moment he could."

"The Chunnel doesn't reach your tiny island anyway," mutters Slovakia. He lets out an unsteady breath.

"I'm sorry about your sister," says Iceland. He's worried he's overstepping, but the more he thinks about it, that's what he's needed to hear for himself. Not England, not Sweden, not even Hong Kong has thought to commiserate with him about his brothers. They've expressed sympathy about his own occupation, but his personal troubles feel so small compared to the shadow cast over his family.

"I can't even send her a letter," says Slovakia. Iceland knows he's alluding to Denmark's letter; when he shared it after Christmas, Slovakia's silence spoke louder than his congratulations. "I don't know how she's eating, or where she's sleeping. The news talks more about America than Czech—America isn't even in the war."

Iceland nods. "It isn't fair."

"But they get to be together." Slovakia thrusts a hand at the closed door.

"They're lucky."

"They have good friends. Friends I couldn't find in time."

"You were doing what you could. I never went to Paris."

"You never needed to."

"I didn't know I needed to." Iceland sighs. "I stopped receiving ships from Denmark about a month before England's arrival. Any news came by telegram, and telegrams say so little."

Slovakia blinks. "You didn't know about the war."

"I knew Germany was expanding. Er, invading. But somehow I thought Denmark would be safe, even though he's Germany's neighbor. He's always held his own."

"So has Czech."

Iceland makes a questioning noise.

"She was always the stronger of us two." Slovakia pauses. His next sentence comes quieter. "Sometimes I wonder if she sent me away like the Netherlands sent his siblings."

"Your name is Czechoslovakia. I would think you're closer than that."

"Then why is she at home and I'm here?"

"I don't know. Bad luck."

"You're awful at comforting people. Don't you have some story about how your gods invented bad luck? Like a bird shat it out."

"That's bad poetry. Very different."

They exchange the slightest of grins. Iceland knows very little about Slovakia, but somewhere in the two months of the Blitz, they've developed a strange bond that Iceland can't quite describe. They're nowhere near siblings, but being stuck together in such dark times has helped them understand each other at an unspoken level.

"I'll leave you alone," Iceland says. "Should I turn on the radio for you?"

"Don't bother. It only plays English news anyway."

Iceland nods and stands to leave, but Slovakia holds up a hand.

"Actually," he says, "play it."

Iceland tunes it to a music station. He shuts the door of the room to the sound of quiet jazz.

The arrival of the Netherlands spurs a minor crisis in the house: there aren't enough beds.

"We can share," says Belgium at the table that night. The Netherlands is resting upstairs, but she's brought him soup.

"It was cramped enough with just us two," says Luxembourg. "We can't add a third person, especially with his head like it is."

"Don't look at me," says Slovakia. "My bed is fit for one and one only."

"Can we use England's room?" asks Belgium.

Canada and Hong Kong exchange glances. "I wouldn't recommend it," says Hong Kong.

In the middle of this debate, Iceland frowns. It seems every room has one bed, except one.

"Where did my bed come from?" he asks the table.

"Ah. We got that at a flea market," says Hong Kong.

"The movers made such noise bringing it up the stairs," adds Slovakia. "That was how I was told you were coming."

Iceland considers. "Is there room in the budget for another bed?"

Hong Kong looks chagrined. It's not that money has been tight—England's living stipend comes directly from his government—but goods have been hard to come by all the same. Between rations and bombings, the markets have been sparser. They go shopping in pairs not necessarily to get out of the house, but to cover more ground and keep more eyes out for riots or lootings. In such conditions, finding and transporting something as large as a bed would be nearly impossible.

Iceland nods slowly. He looks at Belgium and Luxembourg. "He can have mine."

"What about you?" asks Belgium.

"I've slept in camps more recently than any of you. I can take the floor," says Iceland mildly. He turns to Hong Kong. "I'll need to take some of your blankets, though."

Hong Kong looks at him with something akin to shock. Iceland raises an eyebrow at him.

"It would solve a big problem," says Canada. "With his head injuries, the Netherlands could really use his own bed. But are you sure you're up for it?"

"If a bed is the most I have to sacrifice," says Iceland, "I'll count myself lucky."

He's left thinking somewhat differently when Canada, Luxembourg, and Slovakia wrestle his mattress and metal frame down the stairs, and Iceland finds himself staring at the space where his bed once was. The others have tossed his sheets and pillow on the floor in its place, and Canada moved the bedside table and his two books to sit beside the wardrobe.

"We can take turns." Iceland turns to find Hong Kong leaning in the doorway.

"Turns on the floor?"

"Right."

"No. I volunteered—I can't bring you into this."

"Please," scoffs Hong Kong. He steps into the room beside Iceland. "You've won the gratitude of all three Benelux nations. I can't let you be the only hero in the household."

"I'd say you're spending too much time with America, but he seems to want to avoid this side of the world."

"Don't be so sure. I have some questions to ask Canada once he finishes downstairs."

"Is he staying here too?"

"He'll stay in the colony rooms that MI6 haven't taken over. He's like England—too many places to be, too many people to talk to. We'll only see him a few days, I bet."

Iceland leans forward as if to sit on his bed, but then yanks himself back. He imagines himself waking up tomorrow, looking up at Hong Kong instead of evenly across from him. Will he even be able to see him?

Hong Kong clears his throat. "There's another solution."

Iceland waits.

"Belgium and Luxembourg have been sharing a bed. It's a little bigger than mine, but. Still."

Iceland blinks at him. "You want to share a bed."

"I want you to not sleep on the floor."

"It's not a problem, really."

"I know. Never mind. It was a stupid idea."

Hong Kong turns away and heads into the hallway, ostensibly to check in on the bed delivery. Iceland stands in the middle of the room. He feels as if he's lost something, and not simply the bed.

He prepares himself for sleep without Hong Kong: puts on his pajamas, brushes his teeth, washes his face. Down the stairs he hears the clack of teacups and the distant discussion of Hong Kong and Canada. Two colonies comparing notes on the empire.

When he reenters their bedroom, he takes one look at the sheets on the floor, folds them neatly, and climbs into the sole remaining bed.

He lies there for what feels like an hour. He's not quite awake, but the electric light is too bright for him to sleep. The light has never been a problem, though, if he's being honest with himself.

When Hong Kong finally comes up the stairs, he pauses at the door. Iceland is pressed as far against the wall as he can manage, burrowing under the layers Hong Kong has collected for himself. He lifts his head from the pillow and looks back.

Wordlessly, Hong Kong rummages through his closet for his pajamas. He changes behind the open wardrobe door, leaves to wash his face, and returns so quickly Iceland can still see water on his chin. Carefully, he lifts the blankets and lays down facing Iceland.

"What changed your mind?" he whispers.

Iceland shrugs. It's just where his feet took him.

They lie closer together than even in the cellar. If he tries, Iceland can count his eyelashes, and when he shuffles, his knee knocks Hong Kong's. Hong Kong is looking back at him, one hand under his head and the other lying on his hip. Too rigidly, as if he's afraid to touch Iceland's hands nestled between their chests.

"You can touch me, you know," breathes Iceland.

Hong Kong exhales, and then the hand on his hip finds its way across Iceland's waist and presses against his back.

Iceland's eyes widen, and Hong Kong jerks his hand back. "Sorry."

Iceland looks at him. He looks…nervous. Iceland takes pity on him. "It's okay. Go ahead."

Slowly, gingerly, Hong Kong returns the hand where it was in a loose embrace. His other hand moves from beneath his head until his knuckles rest against Iceland's.

Hong Kong looks at him intently. He whispers, "You got rid of some of the blankets."

Iceland snorts. "Five layers will smother me."

"I may not need all of them. If you're here."

Iceland adjusts his head under his pillow.

"We'll see."

He closes his eyes first. He's trying to keep cool, like this is a casual decision, but the more he settles into sleep, the more he senses Hong Kong beside him. He doesn't smell like his incense: he smells like wood and fresh soil with a hint of dish soap. He breathes through his nose, emitting little puffs of air that waft toward Iceland. Iceland is overly conscious of the heat of his arm on his waist.

Hong Kong shuffles a little, and the wooden bed creaks. The sound reminds Iceland of a boat. Sometimes when making camp, his brothers used to leave him in one of the smaller longboats with a tether to shore. When he grew tired of playing, Iceland would lie in the boat and let the waves rock him and the breeze ruffle his hair. Sometimes he would wake to find Denmark carrying him to his tent, where he would fall back asleep in furs to the smell of the campfire.

With this memory and the solidity of Hong Kong's presence, he drifts asleep.

After that night, sharing a bed becomes simply one more way Iceland and Hong Kong are joined at the hip. It involves compromise: Iceland talks Hong Kong down to a single blanket, and Hong Kong has to coax Iceland from wedging himself between the bed and the wall just to put an inch more space between them. He only has to do so once, though. Iceland finds himself waking up warm and content, usually because he's woken up with Hong Kong curled around him—often with one or more limbs on top of him.

The Germans turn their forces to other cities, so the two have plenty of time to become used to each other's presence without worrying about the others watching. The rare time off from the Blitz seems to do the entire household well: with the chance to sleep through the night, the Netherlands slowly recovers from his head wound, and the others resume their chore schedules without fear of interruption.

Their luck runs out on May 10, just before midnight.

The siren wails, and Iceland's eyes fly open. He feels Hong Kong's heart rate pick up before he sees him truly wake.

"I thought we were finished," he murmurs.

Iceland bites his lip. "Let's bring our pillows."

He trusts the pillows to Hong Kong and helps Luxembourg escort the Netherlands down the stairs. The Netherlands surely can't know what these sirens mean, but he seems to accept them with stoicism.

"Slovakia, he needs the cot," Belgium announces when they've shut the door to the cellar.

"I don't," says the Netherlands. "I'm fine."

"You haven't experienced the Blitz before."

The Netherlands eyes his sister. "I've slept through German planes before." He casts a glance down to the sheets on the floor, and then looks back to her and Luxembourg.

Belgium's face falls. "Of course," she says. Silently, she directs Luxembourg so that the Netherlands can lie down with a sibling on either side of him. The sight of them twangs at Iceland's heart. He hasn't been homesick nearly as often as when he arrived, but it appears he's not immune.

Slovakia brushes past them to his cot, leaving the usual narrow space beside the bench for Iceland and Hong Kong. Iceland grabs the lantern, but the matchbook beside it is empty. Thanks to their sense of safety in the past few weeks, no one has thought to replace it.

"Light," Slovakia calls.

Iceland sets the lantern back on the shelf. "It stays on."

Hong Kong looks up at him. After a moment, he seems to guess the problem and sighs.

Iceland nestles himself between Hong Kong and Luxembourg just in time for the first distant bomb. The first of a chain, it turns out—the time between explosions has been cut in half.

Within the first hour, both of Hong Kong's hands are intertwined with Iceland's. By the second, he's lost count of how many times they've flinched. Iceland begins to think this is the heaviest fire they've ever been under, but he keeps this thought to himself.

One explosion comes too close. The lightbulb above them sputters, and the room falls into darkness.

Hong Kong lets out a single gasp.

Iceland can hear one of them—Belgium, most likely—sitting up to examine the room. There's nothing to see. The darkness is total, and it arrives so suddenly as to make Iceland think of Fenris Wolf swallowing the sun in one bite. Another sign of Ragnarök, the end of the world.

"How are you so calm?" Hong Kong breathes. If he spoke any louder, it would be a whimper.

"I don't know," says Iceland. He hears Belgium resettle and hopes the others have fallen back asleep. "I'm used to the dark."

"Not the dark," says Hong Kong. He takes a few rapid breaths, and then his shoulders heave as he forces himself to calm down. "I understand."

Iceland frowns, despite that it goes unseen. "Understand what?"

"If you discorporate, you go home." Hong Kong squeezes one of his hands. "So you're not afraid."

A humorless laugh startles out of Iceland. "I'm afraid."

"Not of this."

"I am."

"Not like me."

"You don't have to be," says Iceland gently. "Imagine going home to your people." He wants to continue the thought but finds he can't. He swallows. "That's discorporation. It's going home."

"It's leaving. That's the difference," says Hong Kong. One of his hands withdraws from Iceland and into his own chest, and the second curls in Iceland's grip. "You want to leave, but I want to stay."

"I…" Iceland takes a shuddering breath. Whatever response he might come up with is swallowed by the rattling sound of gunfire.

Does he want to leave?

He feels Luxembourg's back pressed against his. If he strains, he can hear Belgium's whispered chanting—prayer, he thinks. He imagines dissolving into this darkness and opening his eyes again in a land he recognizes, free to wander anywhere among people who speak his language. England can hardly spare the resources to come back for him; he'd be safe for long enough to let his time here fade into a dream.

His finger caresses the back of one of Hong Kong's knuckles. He'd be back, but he'd be alone.

Hong Kong once remarked that the irony of this war is that it brought so many nations together. The more Iceland turns the idea over in his head, the more he realizes: his kind don't fear death—they fear distance. Distance from their people when they're away, distance from their kind when they're home, and discorporation resolves only one problem of the two. It took Denmark months to retrace the steps to his family even when his people ruled unchallenged in the land. With the world as immense and chaotic as it is now, it may take years for Iceland to reunite with any of the nations he's met and grown close to.

And he has grown close. He used to think that he could only feel kinship with his brothers, but his months of exile in England have formed deeper bonds with his kind than any meeting ever could. He hasn't made allies, strictly speaking, but he's made friends.

And none greater than Hong Kong, who apparently expects Iceland to forget all they've done together once they've parted.

"I want to stay," Iceland says so quietly he can barely hear it himself.

"What?"

"I want to stay. I don't want to leave you."

"…Then why aren't you scared to discorporate?"

Iceland shuffles forward and reaches out until his hand finds the line of Hong Kong's jaw. He guides his forehead to press against his.

"Because now that we know each other, I plan to find you again."

Hong Kong takes a single shuddering breath. He presses his forehead once, deliberately, into Iceland's before he angles his chin down.

His lips brush against Iceland's so lightly that it feels like an accident. The bottom drops out of Iceland's stomach. When Hong Kong shifts like he's going to move away, Iceland raises his chin and meets Hong Kong's mouth—gently, but firm enough that the touch can't be anything other than what it is.

Hong Kong's lips part minutely, and he returns the kiss.

They part but don't separate, sharing air between them. The hand that retreated into Hong Kong's chest finds its way to Iceland's cheek.

"I thought you had a word for this," Hong Kong breathes.

"Hmm?"

"Argr."

"Oh." Iceland breathes out a laugh. "Remind me to tell you how my brothers changed that word singlehandedly."

BOOM. Hong Kong startles so hard he knocks his forehead into Iceland's. Iceland shifts himself upward so that Hong Kong's head tucks under his chin, and he wraps an arm around his chest to hold him steady. Iceland's heart is beating wildly, and he's not sure for what reason. He chooses to believe it's because he's cradling Hong Kong like he never has before.

Hong Kong holds onto him tight. "What are the names of those two people?" he murmurs into Iceland's neck. "The ones who hide during Ragnarök."

"Lif and Lifthrasir."

"Let's be them."

Iceland nods and moves his hand up to stroke Hong Kong's hair. He sees the image Hong Kong is summoning for them: two survivors, cocooned together while the world ends around them.

The all-clear siren blares at six in the morning, and while Iceland would like nothing more than to return to bed, he sobers and properly wakes at the sight of smoke in the air. London has never been more wounded: the sky has darkened with thick black smoke, and the houses across the street have turned to rubble. Survivors gather their possessions from the wreckage. Iceland watches one woman emerge with a houseplant in each arm.

The six nations in the house look out the parlor windows but make no effort to step outside. When Luxembourg raises a complaint, Hong Kong reminds them that they're refugees themselves and can't take on anyone but their own kind.

The Netherlands stays by the window the longest, his expression unchanged but the air around him mournful. Of them, he's the most powerful nation and he's seen the most of war. Iceland brings him tea in the afternoon but doesn't dare to ask what's going through his mind.

The Netherlands tells him anyway. "Denmark would be helping them."

Iceland sets down the tea tray more shakily than he means to. "You're friends?"

"Of course. He's introduced us once or twice, when you were young." The Netherlands keeps his eyes trained outside. "I'm not surprised he chose to stay behind."

"I wish he were here."

The Netherlands glances at him. "Belgium tells me he's going to make you independent."

"He is."

"Do you think he would teach you anything, if he were here?"

"Yes," Iceland says.

"Hm."

"What?"

"Seems to me he's taught you all he can."

"What do you mean?"

"He raised you." The Netherlands picks up a cup. "He's shared everything he knows just by being near you for so long. But you'll need to know more."

"How did you learn?" Iceland recalls that before England, the Netherlands was the preeminent empire of the world. He'd have more insight than most.

"I went out and saw the world, and what it could do for me."

Iceland considers. His island has always been so small and distant. He has little to trade except fish. "I don't think the world will do much for me."

The Netherlands nods. "You've already learned the first lesson."

"What's the second?"

"Protect what you have."

Iceland wants to ask more, but the Netherlands' jaw has set. Iceland thinks of the path he took to stand in this room, what he lost and had to watch be taken. He leaves to find Hong Kong in England's study.

"Hey," he greets. Hong Kong is examining England's globe in the corner of the room. He turns to Iceland with a small smile.

"It's May eleventh," he says.

"So?"

"As of yesterday, you've been here one year."

Iceland blinks. "Lucky me," he says.

"Was that sarcastic?"

"A little. Mostly because last night was the worst of the Blitz so far."

"Not any other reason?"

Hong Kong presses his lips together. Iceland belatedly puts together some of Hong Kong's thoughts about Loki: how, whether good or evil, he at least lives true to himself.

"None comes to mind," he says. He returns Hong Kong's growing smile.

They stir at eleven o'clock that night, tangled up in each other, to the cursed sound of sirens.

"I'm not going," says Hong Kong.

"Don't be ridiculous." Iceland catches the serious expression in Hong Kong's gaze. He apparently hasn't fallen asleep at all since Iceland drifted off. "Why not?"

Hong Kong glances at their ceiling. "There's no electricity."

Iceland sighs. "We can't just stay here."

"Why not?"

"We'd be discorporated."

"We haven't been so far. And if it happens, I refuse to let the last voice I hear be Slovakia's."

"We still can't stay. We'd worry the others."

"Let them worry." Hong Kong pulls up the blanket tighter around his shoulders.

Iceland yanks it back down. "We won't sleep if you don't want to, but I won't stay here."

After some grumbling, Hong Kong lets himself be dragged down the stairs. They sit on the steps to the cellar, much to the relief of Luxembourg, who gets to sprawl into what was Iceland's spot on the floor.

They trade stories in whispers until the all-clear siren calls, only an hour and a half later. The household stumbles back upstairs and falls back into relieved slumber.

When they listen to the news the next day, the announcer shares news that leaves them speechless: the Germans have focused their air forces on an invasion of Russia. No further attacks are expected.

After eight hellish months, the Blitz is over.

In mid-June, a black car comes for Iceland. He hasn't ridden in one since he arrived in England.

He rides through the streets at a snail's pace. The reports say sixty percent of the city has been rendered to rubble, and much of it hasn't been cleared from the roads. Camps have been erected atop parks, and scores of men and boys are at work building temporary housing beside the destroyed properties. Still, after a month of relief and good sleep, the Londoners go about their day with casual conversation. The only sign of anything amiss is in the luxury stores near Parliament: the windows are broken but the buildings are untouched, and much of the merchandise is missing.

Iceland knows he's reached Parliament only when he sees Big Ben. He knows it from postcards and Hong Kong's illustrations, and he stares up at it thinking that while it's not as large as the Eiffel Tower, it'd be a behemoth in Reykjavik.

He steps out of the car and is ushered by two MI6 agents down the halls to a room with England and—Iceland gulps—America.

"So here's the little guy, huh?" says America. "How've you been? I hope England's treating you good."

Iceland raises an eyebrow. America is younger than him. Indeed, he's seen America as a child before, albeit not as often as Canada. Yet here he towers over England, his former big brother, wearing a bomber jacket and looking as if he decided to hop across the pond for a chat.

A sardonic thought occurs: maybe one day when he's independent, he'll be taller than Denmark.

"Yes, Iceland, hello," says England as he rises from his desk. He gestures for them to sit, England and America in armchairs and Iceland at one end of a sofa across from them. There's a table between them, but no one brings tea. "You've been well, I trust?"

"Well enough," says Iceland. He looks between the two nations, arguably the most powerful in the world. He straightens his posture. "Are we here to discuss my independence?"

England blinks. Iceland realizes after a beat that England has forgotten. "Er, not quite," he says, exchanging a look with America. "On the contrary, we're here to discuss your occupation."

"I'm still living in your home."

"Yes, it has gotten a bit crowded, hasn't it? And I imagine the Blitz made it no better."

"That's why you're going with me," says America.

Iceland blinks. He shakes his head, as if he has water in his ears. That, or he might be hallucinating. "Pardon me?"

"America's current military capability…well, exceeds my own at the moment," admits England. "I need to devote resources to fighting the Germans, and America has ships to spare. My delegates have a meeting tomorrow to discuss with your Allthing—"

"His everything?" says America.

"His government," says England pointedly. He rolls his eyes and looks at Iceland apologetically. "I haven't fully briefed him yet, but I will have by tomorrow. I expect your Allthing to accept my proposal, but it's only courtesy to let you know so you can say your goodbyes."

"My goodbyes?"

"Of course. Since you'll be transferred to America's care, you'll be returning home with him. I should say it'll be much safer there than here in London," England adds matter-of-factly. "Unless you have any questions, then, that's all from me."

"Me too," says America. He turns to England. "Hey, so have you talked to Australia this week? Last I heard, he was…"

And just like that, Iceland has been ejected from the conversation. The walls of the room feel narrower than they were only moments before. Just like a year ago, England hasn't given him a question so much as a command, and barely a polite one at that.

Iceland turns his head between the two of them. They're so preoccupied with this war—a war they have forces enough to fight in, a war they can expect to win rather than endure. Iceland is little more than a pawn to them—this, despite that he's going to be an independent nation. He doesn't feel independent. He feels small.

He thinks of retrieving his suitcase from the bottom of his wardrobe and filling it. This time, Hong Kong will watch him do it. The Benelux siblings and Slovakia will see him off at the door. He'll fly across the ocean and be the only one of his kind apart from this loudmouth coward who hasn't even entered the war but sits here as if he leads it alongside England.

"No," says Iceland.

America interrupts himself and turns to look at Iceland. His expression is curious, but his glasses glint in a way that looks unconsciously menacing. "What was that?"

"No," he says with a swallow. "I won't go with you."

"Well," says England, slightly flustered. "You haven't got much of a choice in the matter, with your navy the size it is."

"I didn't say that. I said I'm not going with America." Iceland turns to America. "I'll be grateful for your protection, just like I am for England's. I've met the others who are hiding from Germany, and I'm glad I'm not one of them. But I want to stay with them here in London."

"Yeah?" America cocks his head. "Are you sure? I hosted Lithuania a while back, and we had a good time. He made the best coffee."

Iceland exhales. He knows the rules: any nation occupied by another comes to live with them. Most become servants. It strikes him how unique a position he's been in: occupied but essentially free. Independent but not. Without family, but supported regardless.

"Suppose America needs something from you?" says England. "Permissions or morale visits or the like."

"You haven't needed that from me yet."

"We don't know what we'll need in the future. This war has turned everything topsy-turvy."

Iceland shakes off the bizarre word. "If the war is changing everything," he says, "then me staying should be a very small change. You're allies, aren't you?"

England and America look at each other. "We're as close as can be for one of us staying out of the war," says England. America rolls his eyes at the jab.

"So, if one of you occupies my land but both of you use it, does it matter which of you I stay with?"

England frowns. Iceland's stomach sinks. If nothing else, England is a man of tradition. He's fought in more wars than Iceland can imagine, and his empire carries on a custom that's been honored among their kind since ancient times: to the victor come the losers.

"Aw, let him stay if he wants," says America. "You've already got so many others here."

"Yes, because their governments came here in exile. Iceland has no legal grounds to keep him here."

"There's no reason to make him go, though," says America. "He can probably do his thing faster from here than from D.C. anyway, right?" He tosses a wink at Iceland, who tries his best not to look flabbergasted. "Besides, don't you have his brother's government here?"

"That's hardly the same—"

"Look, I know he's not the same as Norway." America holds his hands up in surrender. "All I'm saying is, it's no skin off my back if he stays. Our bosses have bigger things to worry about."

Iceland might take offense to the implication that he's not worth the debate if it weren't for America's congenial tone. As friendly as he may seem, though, his voice has an edge to it. America uses the firm tone of a nation coming into his own—one who cares not as much about preserving the world order as about changing it in his favor.

Iceland can see it now: down the road he'll owe some personal debt to America for his protection and indulgence, and he'll have to repay it. By the tilt of his frown, England is in a similar boat. In exchange for more resources—ships, airplanes, rations—England will give larger and larger chunks of control to America. America may not be in the war, but he's navigating politics as if his presence is inevitable.

Let him play these games. Iceland has more to learn if he's going to join in.

England sighs. "Lad," he says to Iceland, "I can't guarantee your safety here."

"We've survived this long."

England quirks an eyebrow at his choice of pronoun. "Alright then," says England. "You should expect the treaty tonight. It'll require your signature."

"I understand." This time, Iceland obeys the dismissal. He stands and nods to them both. "Thank you," he says. It's mostly directed to America.

"Anytime. Let me know if you change your mind," says America. Not us, as in him and England. Me.

Iceland exhales, then straightens his shoulders. "I won't. But thank you anyway."

November 1941

"You say you've been to Hong Kong."

The art vendor examines Iceland. It's the same man from last year, who gave Iceland the idea to make a paper lantern. Like so many members of the market, he's only restarted selling now that the Blitz seems truly over. And good thing, too—Iceland needs him again this year.

"Briefly, I have," says the vendor.

"Good. If I pay you, will you draw something for me?"

"A commission?"

"I suppose."

The vendor cocks his head. "I remember you. You were with the boy from Hong Kong."

"I was."

"Is he with you now?"

"Nearby, at the bakery. But I don't want him to know we're meeting. It's meant to be his Christmas present."

The vendor folds his arms. "How do you know him? I always see you together."

Iceland squints. "We share a house," he says.

"A house for foreigners?"

"More or less."

"I see." Before Iceland can wonder what kind of small talk this is supposed to be, the vendor leans against his table. Part of the Colosseum postcard is covered by his forearm. "What sort of drawing did you have in mind?"

"Last year I saw your art of the Chinese Venice. Can you make some drawing of Hong Kong like that?"

"Supposing I can, what's your budget?"

Iceland names a price, and the vendor shakes his head.

"I wouldn't normally go so low," he says, "but these are hard times. Give me your address and I can deliver it by Christmas."

Iceland breathes a sigh of relief. He thought that would be much more difficult. He scribbles the address on the back of one of the papers the vendor uses as a receipt, and saunters away just as Hong Kong catches up with him.

"I got these," he says, holding up a paper bag. "The closest I could find to butter rolls, given the lack of butter."

Iceland grins minutely. "Lux—Lucien's going to be so jealous."

"Only if he smells them on our breath. Come on."

Hong Kong leads them to the same park he brought Iceland to on their first shopping trip together. They don't have ice lollies this time—even in summer, the market didn't have the resources to sell them—but all thoughts of frozen cherry syrup leave Iceland's mind the moment Hong Kong opens the bag and they're hit with the steam of fresh, doughy bread.

Iceland grabs one of the rolls and bites into it. He nearly moans. Although the bread lacks much flavor, the warmth and softness of it bring back a nostalgia that's almost a flavor in itself. When he swallows, he says, "It feels so much more like a proper winter than last year."

"The weather's still all wrong for you, I'm sure." Hong Kong hitches his coat up and cups the warm bag with both his hands.

"I'm beginning to appreciate the lack of ice."

"Oh, sure. It's just replaced by nothing but rain."

"You like the rain."

"No."

"No, I know you do. When it rains at night, you're always so calm."

"That's because I'm safe from it in bed."

With you lingers between them unsaid. They're sitting side by side, the grocery bags to either side of them on the bench. Sodomy is illegal here, but nations take a broader view of it; after all, with so few women among them and humans so short-lived, the odds are against a more "traditional" pairing to begin with.

Iceland doesn't feel untraditional, though. This kind of relationship is…new, certainly, but being in it with Hong Kong feels as natural as eating or sleeping. It helps, of course, that they do those things together anyway.

Occasionally they get on one another's nerves. Hong Kong likes to chat at times Iceland prefers quiet, like when reading or gardening, and Iceland in turn annoys Hong Kong with his less refined eating habits. But for every annoyance, there's at least one thing about Hong Kong that Iceland's never known or appreciated in anyone else. He doesn't tease Iceland for clinging in his sleep, unlike his brothers; he only leans into him without even rousing. He seems to read Iceland's moods better than Iceland himself, giving him space when he's annoyed or disheartened by the news on the radio. He's sarcastic and wry, but he always lets Iceland in on the joke.

And then there's this: the times where they sit enjoying the grass and the chill and each other's presence.

Sometimes, Iceland thinks to himself, Hong Kong is so good to him that he wonders what Hong Kong is getting in return. Iceland has asked questions about Asia, about his family, but they've never gone into the same detail as with Iceland's mythology. Then again, there's quite a lot he knows about Hong Kong's present, if not his past. He knows they take the path they do so Hong Kong can check in on his favorite teashop, closed since before Iceland arrived. He knows Hong Kong used to feed ducks at St. James's Park, long before he felt comfortable in England. He knows he takes extra care to nod at the Londoners without English ancestry.

He knows these things because Hong Kong is a person of multiple heritages, and that's something Iceland can never understand completely. He can only appreciate the person he's become because of it.

"What are you thinking about?" asks Hong Kong.

Iceland considers. "How you're a Londoner."

"Oh?"

"Or maybe just a city person. But if you haven't been to Hong Kong in as long as you say, then at what point do you become a Londoner?"

Hong Kong shrugs. "I don't know that I need a label for it. Both places are home."

"Hmm."

"Unless you have a different idea."

"No, it's just…" Iceland shifts so he's facing Hong Kong more than the park. "I don't know that I could have multiple homes like you do. I'm comfortable with my brothers, but I always knew it was their home. Our lands were always so different."

"Ah, there's your problem. Home isn't about land."

"Isn't it?"

"Home is people, and memories. You have so many memories of Iceland that it feels like your only home. But being with your brothers—doesn't that feel like home too?"

"I mean, we have good memories together. Mostly." There were a few dark periods, most notably when Norway left to live with Sweden for a while.

"That's why you're still here in London," says Hong Kong. "You're waiting for them, instead of going home. Because they're home." He takes a final bite of his roll.

Iceland frowns. "That's not…entirely why I stayed."

Hong Kong raises an eyebrow at him.

"Yes, I'd like to see them again. If Den—Matthias has his government here, and Lukas has his king, then maybe they'll come here one day. But I could have waited for them with my own people."

"Then why stay here?"

Iceland looks at Hong Kong levelly. "You know."

They hold one another's gazes for a few moments. Then suddenly, as if a hint of sunlight has slipped through the clouds, Hong Kong smiles.

"I know. I just like to hear you say it."

Iceland elbows him in the ribs, but he's smiling too.

December 7, 1941

Per tradition, the household sits in the parlor to listen to the evening radio news. Against tradition, the news is already midway through an urgent report the moment Hong Kong turns on the radio.

"—have attacked the Hawaiian naval base of Pearl Harbor at eight o'clock in the morning local time. Hawaii, a protectorate of the United States of America, was targeted by the Japanese without declaration of war—"

The six nations listen in stunned horror. Iceland's body erupts in chills. America—with the confident, dangerous glint in his eyes—can't ignore this invitation to war.

Of them, the Netherlands looks the least surprised. "He's naïve," he murmurs to Iceland. "He isolated and then overreached. Japan knows war, but he doesn't know America."

"And you do?" Luxembourg interjects.

The Netherlands only shakes his head.

Hong Kong has blocked out the entire conversation, focusing only on the radio for the ninety minutes it takes for the attack to finish. The news trickles in slowly. The attacks began at seven in the evening London time, and while information is scarce even when the attacks end, the reporter reports each piece with a breathlessness not present even during the Blitz.

Eventually, around ten in the evening, Belgium stands and turns the radio off. "The morning newspaper will tell us more than they can," she says firmly. "We should be rested for it."

"No amount of rest will prepare me for whatever American plans to do in return," says Slovakia. All the same, he stands.

The nations bid each other terse goodnights, but Iceland hears the Benelux siblings murmurs even as he shuts the bedroom door. He turns to Hong Kong, who hasn't said a word since the radio turned on.

"Are you alright?" asks Iceland.

Hong Kong takes a shaky breath. "Belgium is right. We need to sleep."

Iceland wants to push, but Hong Kong appears so weary that he can't make himself ask. Instead he settles himself in bed and gently guides Hong Kong's head under his chin, like he did in the Blitz. He hopes his own steady heartbeat will settle Hong Kong's. By the grip Hong Kong has on his waist, he needs it.

Iceland has only just drifted off when he jerks awake. Hong Kong is screaming.

Iceland stares wide-eyed. Hong Kong thrashes on the sheets as if swarmed by invisible insects. His scream is piercing—it rings in Iceland's ears. Hong Kong opens his eyes but remains blinded by terror.

"Hong Kong?" Iceland says sharply. "Hong Kong!"

Hong Kong falls to the floor. To the side, the door flies open and Belgium rushes in in her white nightgown. She kneels on the floor besides Hong Kong, who has stopped screaming but continues to writhe and twitch. Iceland sits up at the edge of the bed and looks on helplessly.

"What's happening?" he pleads.

Belgium looks down at Hong Kong, and then up at Iceland. She bites her lip.

"—leads the counter-attack, but even with the assistance of the Hong Kong Volunteer Defence Corps, his troops appear vastly outnumbered against Japanese forces. Bombs fall on Kai Tak Airport a brief four hours after those of Pearl Harbor—"

Slovakia is standing at the bedroom door, holding the portable radio he received last Christmas. Beside him, Luxembourg turns away as if the sight is too painful. The Netherlands appears as he did beside the radio that evening: in quiet mourning, knowing what will happen now that they're on the path.

"It's Japan," says Belgium softly. She smooths back Hong Kong's hair. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" Iceland says. "Why—what do you know?"

Luxembourg shoulders past Slovakia and sprints back down the stairs. The door to his bedroom bangs shut.

"We went through this too," says Belgium. "The attacks. Iceland, there's nothing we can do for him."

"No. No, Japan can't be attacking now, he just attacked America, what use does he have for—"

Hong Kong's eyes fly open, and he gasps. After a few pants, he looks around the room. The radio is still blaring, but Iceland can't hear it. He can only hear Hong Kong, breathing as if he's just run across London.

"I hope it's short. Our battle lasted four days," says Belgium. She looks to the Netherlands, who nods in confirmation.

"I've been invaded before," says Hong Kong weakly. "It's never felt like that."

"It's never been with airplanes," says the Netherlands. "Not with modern bombs. We suffer with our people, but also with our land."

Hong Kong looks at the Netherlands disbelievingly. His head falls back and hits the wooden floor. "Four days. Do you think Japan will stop at four?"

No one speaks. Silently, Slovakia steps forward and sets the portable radio beside Hong Kong's hand. With a bowed head, he turns and leaves for his own room.

"Your brow," says Belgium. "Netherlands, get a cloth."

"No."

Belgium looks at Iceland.

"He's… I'll do it."

"Are you sure?" Belgium looks at Iceland so gently he might cry. "Do you know what this will be like?"

Iceland presses his lips together. "No. But I'll do it anyway."

Belgium looks down to Hong Kong, who pats one of her knees. He tries to sit up, but grimaces and half-collapses back onto the floor. Another wave is coming, and Iceland was asleep and didn't see the buildup to the first one.

Belgium stands and steps to the doorway. She grabs her brother by the arm, and Iceland feels a chill akin to first hearing the words "Pearl Harbor". By the time he's helped Hong Kong back into the bed, Belgium returns with a cool moistened washcloth.

She touches Iceland on the cheek. "You're not alone, you two," she says quietly. "We're here."

Iceland only looks back at her in what he hopes is gratitude. She seems to intuit it, because she presses a kiss to his forehead and closes the door behind her.

Iceland tries to cede the bed to Hong Kong, but by the end of the night, Hong Kong has made it clear he won't stay in it alone. When he wakes up, bleary for newly horrifying reasons, and sees Iceland curled up asleep on the floor, he hoists himself off the bed and nearly falls on him.

Iceland startles awake and curses, but Hong Kong's rasp stills him: "I don't want to end like we started."

End.

"When this ends," says Iceland, tossing his blanket over Hong Kong, "we can share again."

Hong Kong looks at him steadily. "Humor me until then."

He falls asleep there on the floor, exhausted from a night of shivering and moaning, and Iceland thinks by nightfall that he's forgotten their conversation. He hasn't.

"Bring that over here," says Hong Kong. He points to the bedside table where Iceland has kept his books. Iceland scoots it over. "Now put the radio on it."

Iceland picks up the radio from the floor. "So bossy."

Hong Kong smiles wanly. "The one thing I can control."

"Me?"

"No, my bossiness. I couldn't control you if I held your puppet strings."

Iceland snorts, and sits beside the table so he and the prostrate Hong Kong are facing each other.

Hong Kong frowns. "No. Up here with me."

"If I'm against the wall like usual, I can't get you things."

"We'll switch."

Iceland raises an eyebrow.

"I'll be good, I swear." Hong Kong bursts into coughs, and for one second Iceland thinks he's doing it to underscore how pitiable he is. Then he frowns and turns up the radio for a news explanation.

"This is how it started," says Hong Kong when he catches his breath. "You really do sleep through anything."

Iceland's frown deepens. "Don't let me sleep. Not until you're fine again."

Hong Kong only sighs.

Iceland looks at him, and then sighs in return. "Move over."

The attack does not end after four days. It's not an attack, really—it's a battle. News swirls around the room invisibly, drifting in and out of focus with talk of Commonwealth forces lending their soldiers, rerouting their destroyers, and evacuating citizens of note. For every minute spent on the Battle of Hong Kong, though, two are spent on America: his declaration of war on Japan, Germany's declaration on America, the sheer size of America's military, the intentions America has for Britain and Allied Europe.

Iceland doesn't care. He technically belongs to America himself, but America could be—and is—half the world away. Hong Kong is here, beside him, and he's miserable.

The radio mentions Hong Kong neighborhoods Iceland has only heard in passing and countries Iceland has never met. India, Singapore, and Canada are among the nations defending Hong Kong, but it becomes apparent that they're vastly outnumbered. The broadcaster reassures listeners that a British Crown Colony has never fallen to an enemy before. Iceland worries there's a first time for everything.

As with the Blitz, their routine deteriorates into a blur of days that slowly turn into waking nights. Daytime attacks in Hong Kong happen in the middle of the night in London. As such, Hong Kong spends days sleeping feverishly and wakes in the night to suffer through whatever Japan has planned next.

Iceland waits for England to come back to his house. Surely England can take a break from his nonstop strategy meetings with America to see his own colony—the one suffering for lack of defense. But aside from food deliveries from Belgium, no one enters their room.

Hong Kong never screams again, but Iceland doesn't doubt he's in just as much pain. He expresses it in clenched fists that Iceland pries apart and shuddering breaths expelled into Iceland's chest. Sometimes he whimpers, and when he does, he doesn't show his face for several minutes. As if Iceland could be ashamed of him, as if he wouldn't give away his Edda to make the pain stop.

Roughly a week after the first attack, someone knocks on the door just as they're about to settle in for the night.

Luxembourg stands in the hallway. He seems to pretend there's nothing behind Iceland to see. "We wanted to give you your Christmas present early."

"…Alright."

"Where's that lantern you made him?"

Iceland turns to point to the top of the wardrobe. Luxembourg doesn't follow his finger. Is it some sort of politeness, Iceland wonders, not to see Hong Kong in this state?

Luxembourg reaches into his pocket and pulls out a matchbook and a single candle, the kind you might light in a church in memory of someone. Iceland's stomach turns; that's probably exactly where he got it from.

"To light it," he says, gesturing vaguely in the direction Iceland pointed.

"This is a present for me?"

"You two get a shared present this year," says Luxembourg. He tries for a grin, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Since you share everything else."

Before Iceland can thank him, he turns and makes his way down the stairs.

Iceland makes short work of lighting the candle, and slightly longer work of depositing it safely at the bottom of the lantern. He has a feeling he was supposed to do it in the opposite order. Carefully he deposits the lantern beside the radio and moves his books to the floor.

Hong Kong looks at the lantern and then up at Iceland. "It's beautiful."

"Is it like home?"

Hong Kong pats the spot on the bed beside him. Iceland settles down, probably half blocking the lantern from Hong Kong's view.

"Now it is," says Hong Kong.

They turn off the electric light, and the room glows pale yellow. In a way it reminds Iceland of the cellar, but with the comfort of the bed they share rather than the hard floor. He presses his forehead against Hong Kong's. It's not yet feverish; it's not yet morning in Asia.

"Imagine we're hiding in Yggdrasil," he says. "Like Lif and Lifthrasir."

"What happens to them when the world stops ending?" whispers Hong Kong.

"It doesn't end. It restarts."

Iceland regrets his choice of words only a minute later. The world restarts, but so do its pains. Hong Kong's arms tense, and he tries to control his breathing.

Most nights he only stays tense with an occasional gasp or moan. When the radio reports the North Shore of his main island attacked, he breaks into a sweating fever. The word "execution" becomes a regular part of the reports, and Iceland needs only one or two examples to understand its meaning. By December 20th, Hong Kong Island is cleaved in half, leaving the British side without water or—increasingly—hope.

Iceland increasingly thinks back to Hong Kong's words: "I don't want to end like we started." The heavy weight in his stomach knows what ending he's referring to. Every time the thought tries to surface, he holds Hong Kong a little tighter or dabs his forehead a little more. Once or twice, when Hong Kong looks at him with some amount of clarity in his eyes, they trade soft kisses. They stop after a few, as much because of Hong Kong's health as because of the lump in Iceland's throat.

Iceland is running on three hours of sleep and drifting off in the morning when someone gently taps his shoulder.

Iceland turns, half expecting he'll need to explain himself to England. But it's not England. It's Luxembourg.

"There's someone downstairs for you," he says.

Is Sweden repeating his Christmas visit? Is it even Christmas yet? "Tell him to come back later."

"She asked for you by name."

She? The mystery of the word sits Iceland up. Hong Kong stirs for a moment before settling back down. "Send her up. We can talk in the hall."

Luxembourg looks at him worriedly, but leaves. Iceland rests his elbows on his thighs and waits hunched over. The next footsteps he hears belong to two people, and before he can stand to greet them, the visitors step through the open door.

He recognizes them, but in very different ways. One is the artist vendor from the market, looking grim. The second he knows to be a nation, but one he's never met before. She has the same dark hair, eyes, and complexion as Hong Kong, and like Hong Kong she wears simple yet somehow elegant Western attire—a gray dress, in her case. Iceland imagines her with a flower in her hair, and then realizes where he got that image from. His eyes stray to the drawing pinned above the bed.

"You must be Iceland," she says. Her English is accented, but clear.

"Taiwan," says Iceland, quietly so that Hong Kong won't stir. He stands, and Taiwan makes no pretense of peering around him. She examines her brother's face, his shallow but steady breathing, and sighs.

"This has gone on long enough," she says, turning to Iceland.

Iceland sputters. "We haven't—I mean, there's no way you could—"

"Japan has called for surrender twice," says Taiwan. "Both times, my brother's people have refused." Her eyes flicker to him again. "He must have been in such pain."

"No thanks to Japan," says Iceland. He's surprised by how acidic his tone is, but he stands by it.

Taiwan examines him. "It's time for him to come home," she says. "Japan anticipates the surrender of Hong Kong tomorrow, and his presence"—she nods to Hong Kong—"will make it complete."

"Even…even so, he belongs to England."

"He won't," says Taiwan tranquilly. "He'll be transferred to Japan."

"That's why you're here," says Iceland. His eyes widen. "You're here to escort him away." His eyes dart between her and the vendor, who has stood behind her staying nothing, his hands behind his back and his legs apart. Pieces fall together, but he asks anyway: "How did you find him?"

"This man was caught trying to sell intelligence to the Germans. An address," says Taiwan. Iceland suddenly feels lightheaded. "But Japanese spies found him before he could make his report. It seems England has developed a habit of breaking the rules of our kind."

"To protect us. Ask the Netherlands downstairs what Germany would have done to him."

"If my brother cooperates, I won't have to." Taiwan clasps her hands before her, looking for all the world like a businesswoman instead of a concerned sibling. The phrase "model colony" passes through Iceland's mind in Hong Kong's voice. This girl has had almost fifty years of Japanese rule; she identifies as much with Japan as Hong Kong does with England.

"Japan is not overly concerned with the fate of the Europeans," says Taiwan. "He only wants what he has won. If Hong Kong returns home, we will ensure that this man"—gesturing to the art vendor—"never shares the address of this home."

"How do I know you will?" Iceland raises his voice. He hopes the others can hear him through the open door.

Taiwan looks at him levelly. "I told you. Japan only wants what he's won. England may choose to ignore the rules of occupation"—she raises an eyebrow at him—"but Japan has more honor than that."

From behind Iceland, Hong Kong murmurs something in Cantonese. All eyes in the room turn to him as he sits up.

Hong Kong asks a question in what Iceland guesses to be Mandarin, or whatever dialect Taiwan speaks. Taiwan returns with a longer sentence, likely an explanation. As she does, Iceland sees her soldier's pose melt bit by bit. She's speaking to her brother for the first time in half a century.

Hong Kong, for his part, looks at her with a sort of resignation. He should be happier to see her, but Iceland supposes this isn't the sister he knew. A niggling part of his brain wonders if this is how he might next encounter Denmark or Norway; he shudders to think of either of his brothers speaking for the Germans who brought half of London to rubble.

The exchanges become shorter. Hong Kong squeezes his eyes shut for only a moment, as if to steel himself. "Iceland," he says.

"You don't have to go," says Iceland immediately. He doesn't know if it's true, but he feels it. If he can stay out of America's hands, why shouldn't Hong Kong stay out of Japan's?

"I do," says Hong Kong.

"No. You're England's, right? For another fifty years."

"That's not how it feels." Subconsciously, Hong Kong wraps an arm around his stomach. "It feels like it did in the Opium Wars. Plus or minus a few bombs," he says, eying his sister, who frowns sympathetically. "I didn't know what it meant then, but I do now."

"You don't have to listen."

"Even if I didn't," says Hong Kong, "what about you? Me in exchange for everyone else in this house. We'll all be safe."

"These past two weeks haven't looked safe." Iceland's eyes sting. He hasn't told Hong Kong how ashamed he is of crying, but they're past that now. They're past so many things. "We'll be fine, but only if you're with us to manage the house and—and garden, and—"

"Iceland."

Iceland meets Hong Kong's eyes, and a tear slips down his cheek. His stomach roils as if he's being attacked himself, but it's only this—only heartbreak.

Slowly, cautiously, Hong Kong stands up. He's shorter than Iceland by an inch, but in that moment, it feels like he's the one looking down on Iceland. One hand finds his waist and the other his cheek, and he pulls Iceland in to place one lingering kiss on his lips. His thumb wipes away another of Iceland's tears.

When he breaks apart, he rests his forehead against Iceland's and breathes in. "I'll see you when I fall asleep."

And then his hands are gone, and he's looking around the room in one slow swivel, and then he nods at Taiwan.

Taiwan turns to the vendor, who in one smooth motion draws a pistol and shoots Hong Kong in the chest.

Iceland shrieks once, as suddenly as the gunshot. Distantly he hears thundering footsteps, hears the Netherlands roar and wrestle the gun from the man's hand, hears Luxembourg gasp, but all these noises are extraneous against the thud of Hong Kong's body onto the mattress. The bullet wound blossoms on his chest, but it's the blood pooling on the mattress that strikes Iceland dumb. Hong Kong's eyes cast around sluggishly until they meet Iceland's. His lips quirk upward, once, and then his eyes are glassy, empty.

In the span of a minute, Hong Kong's body fades, leaving only a puddle of blood and a pile of the nightclothes he was wearing.

Iceland stares at the spot where Hong Kong has disappeared. His chest heaves. He realizes vacantly that the vendor is gone, that the Netherlands and Luxembourg have wrestled him down the hall and locked him in the bathroom. The vendor makes no noise, doesn't pound at the door, but the Netherlands and Luxembourg are still yelling at him as if he's resisting.

Only Taiwan is left, standing beside Iceland.

"I couldn't do it myself," she says quietly. She turns to Iceland and seems to anticipate what he'd say, if he could, if he dared. "And yes, he did have to go this way. The ceremony is tomorrow, right around where he'll reappear."

Reappear. She says this so casually, as if Hong Kong hasn't just died. No, not died—discorporated. Iceland tries to think of some other way this could have been. Where Hong Kong is escorted into a waiting black car, the same as Iceland arrived in, while Iceland screams his name. Where Hong Kong is kidnapped at the market when Iceland's back is turned. Where England turns over Hong Kong himself, instead of leaving him to suffer alone and be collected by a girl who surely can't be his family anymore.

All that hiding in the Blitz, and one of them discorporates regardless. All his negotiations to stay, and it's Hong Kong who leaves first.

If Iceland had the breath, he'd snort. Protect what you have—he can't even do that.

MI6 arrive at the house around the same time as Belgium and Slovakia return from shopping. They take away the vendor for interrogation, but with Iceland in shock and the Netherlands and Luxembourg occupied with the vendor, Taiwan slips away without capture.

After an hour nursing a cup of tea in the parlor—not the bedroom, not back to the blood, not back to the lantern with its guttering single candle that hasn't yet been extinguished—Iceland speaks enough to explain that their location has been compromised. The MI6 agents look at each other in a way that suggests the vendor already told them this, but they thank him regardless. When Iceland explains who gave the vendor the address that compromised their location, they don't thank him twice.

The six—no, five—nations are given ten minutes to pack. Slovakia goes upstairs on Iceland's behalf and returns with his suitcase. Iceland doesn't give any instructions and accepts the case wordlessly.

They're brought by car to the colonial residences near Parliament. They're less a house than a dormitory; each floor has six bedrooms and a common area with kitchen. Most of the floors have been converted into spillover MI6 operations, but several of the colonies' rooms are vacant and suitable for a temporary placement.

They give Iceland Hong Kong's room, and there he stays.

The next day, Belgium knocks on his door. "Iceland?"

Iceland doesn't respond.

"Iceland, it's alright." She seems to think he's ashamed he displaced them. "We're still together. That's what matters."

A second hissing voice doesn't quite break through the door.

"I'm sorry," she calls more sheepishly. "I know Hong Kong was special to you."

Iceland doesn't respond.

"We'll be celebrating Christmas down the hall. You're welcome to join us."

It's Christmas, then. Iceland pulls the covers up higher. A waft of Hong Kong's incense reaches him.

"Think about it," says Belgium more faintly. Then, footsteps.

When Iceland's side falls numb, he turns away from the wall and looks around the rest of the room. The decor has an unsurprisingly Asian flavor, although it would probably be even more so in Hong Kong. The wardrobe is black with swirls like on his wall scrolls, and everything that can be colored is red. A paper screen with painted flowers that look like lilies stands by itself, partly hiding the one wall with a window. Iceland vaguely wonders why Hong Kong would cover his own window.

Once, late at night, he rolls out of bed, lights a fragrant candle, and kneels beside the bed to open his suitcase. In the candlelight, something glints at him; the metal clasp binding of a large book hidden under the bed. He gingerly pulls it out and sits cross-legged to open it in his lap.

It's Hong Kong's sketchbook. Iceland has never seen it before; most of the drawings he's seen from Hong Kong have been done on separate sheets of paper.

Hong Kong doesn't date his drawings, but Iceland can see his multiple attempts to draw items from what might be his childhood: hairbrushes, spoons, an orchid in a vase. Past the practice pages, the drawings widen into rooms, likely the flat he had in Hong Kong, or else a home he shared with China. He draws less nature than Iceland would expect; he spends the most time on flowers and ferns.

Gradually Hong Kong becomes braver about drawing people. He starts with hands and then delves into faces, and when he sees his first full portrait, Iceland understands why: most of China's personality lies in his expressions, varied between peaceful and animated, and the way his hands always have something in their grip. Taiwan, in contrast, has a wide smile and open palms. Iceland sees illustrations of others, probably more family but possibly simple passerby. Hong Kong occasionally writes names, but only in his own mystifying characters.

It becomes clear when Hong Kong comes to London: he begins to draw Western technology—sewing machines, radios, automobiles—as it becomes commonplace. He becomes interested in clothing, based on his multiple attempts to capture the shading of a top hat. Iceland has to turn several pages before he finds a simple depiction of England frowning as he reads.

Iceland flips to the end, wanting to see what he'd been drawing before he came to play host at England's house. The last image stops his hand.

The drawing is of Iceland. Iceland kneeling and looking softly downward, a lantern illuminating him from the floor. Hong Kong has captured his hand, poised and secure, as it holds a lit match away from the larger light of the flame. He clearly doesn't remember that that night in the cellar, that same match burned Iceland's fingertips.

Iceland's expression in the illustration is serene, with gently open lips and a tilt to his head that nonetheless looks benevolent. Regal, even. Like a bringer of light, rather than the bringer of Hong Kong's death. This is how Hong Kong saw him before he betrayed him.

"Where are you?" he whispers into the darkness.

The darkness doesn't reply.

Iceland closes the book as gently as he can and tries to keep his breathing steady.

The next day, Slovakia brings him breakfast and tosses a folded newspaper on top of him.

"You'd better look at it or I'm not going to leave."

Iceland rolls over and unfolds the newspaper to read HONG KONG SURRENDERS. Below the headline is an image: a Japanese officer in a white uniform signs a document while a man of European descent looks on. Standing among the generals and reporters, looking wan and impassive, is Hong Kong.

"He's fine," says Slovakia. He knows when Iceland sees him. "Now eat."

Iceland looks up at Slovakia. He thinks he might protest—how can he be fine, half a world away, when Iceland did this to him?—until he sees the hard look on Slovakia's face.

"Don't say anything I haven't heard before," says Slovakia. "And thank your gods we have photography."

Iceland swallows. Once again, he's managed to get something Slovakia hasn't: a picture of someone he cares about, alive and somewhat well even after capture.

"Thank you," says Iceland. His voice feels scratchy, and he clears his throat.

"Thank me by eating."

Iceland half expects they'll have some heart-to-heart, but Slovakia leaves and saves him the conversation.

He finishes the meal Slovakia leaves him, and while his body regains some strength, he still feels hollow. He spends the rest of the day staring at the ceiling.

Some nation he's going to be. That's a thought he hasn't had in some time. The war, his independence—with the Blitz finished and Hong Kong there, both have slipped his mind. He reviews the lessons the Netherlands imparted on him. He'd been focusing so much on lesson two—protect what you have—that he'd forgotten lesson one, the one he internalized upon being ripped from his brothers and brought to London against his will: the world won't do anything for you.

Well, he thinks bitterly, he hasn't done himself any favors either.

He had the best of intentions: a Christmas gift for Hong Kong. That he gave away their address was a childish oversight. Even if he'd withheld it, though, Japan would still have invaded Hong Kong, and Hong Kong would still have suffered those two weeks. Iceland simply made it so that he'd be delivered into the hands of Japan faster.

Delivered by his own sister, Iceland thinks with a shudder. Taiwan was indoctrinated to Japan enough to do his bidding, but not so much that she could pull the trigger. He likes to think of Hong Kong as stronger than that, but who knows how long this war will last? Who knows how long Hong Kong will remain in Japan's fist?

How strange—two years ago, he wouldn't have cared an inch about anything in Asia. The world was so distant and, when he went out into it, so confined. His world was his family.

He looks again to the newspaper, propped up against the glass and plate Slovakia brought him. He won't go so far as to say he's gained a new family. But he's expanded his world.

With that thought, he drifts into an uneasy sleep.

He wakes hours later to the pale light of dawn. Someone must have come in the night, because the dishes beside his bed are gone and his door is left partway open. He hears a low voice down the hall. Odd—he shouldn't be able to hear that distantly. But something about the voice beckons him.

He rises out of bed and decides to stumble into new clothing. He hasn't changed since Hong Kong died—discorporated—left—…since Hong Kong, and he's starting to smell.

The voice becomes clearer. "—trusted you, I asked you for one favor, and you couldn't even keep him home. I trusted you with my king, but I didn't know my brother was your limit."

"I'm sure I don't know what you—"

"Or even with you, England. I know you, I know your spells, but I don't know America and I don't trust him as far as I can throw him."

"We need America if we're going to—"

"Did America get me out of Nazi hands? Did America escort me here? I've seen America confuse Sweden with Switzerland, and you think—"

"I know you're upset, but if you'd let me finish, I think you'd be—"

Iceland steps out and pads down the hallway in bare feet. He can see the kitchen, unoccupied but with a kettle on the stove, but the living area is blocked from view. He steps into the glaring electric light to see England and—

"Noregur?"

Norway's head snaps from England to look at Iceland.

"I was trying to tell you," says England weakly. "His land went to America, but he's still here."

"Ísland," breathes Norway. He stands up, sweeps around the coffee table with his usual grace, and locks Iceland in a tight embrace.

Iceland takes one breath—full of pine and sea salt and ale and barley and home—and lets out a single sob.

"Ísland," Norway repeats breathlessly. He yanks Iceland back by the shoulders to examine him. Iceland immediately turns away, trying to hide his tears. Norway feels over his head, his cheeks, his forehead, his shoulders, checking for injuries and finding none apart from a broken heart. He pulls Iceland back into his chest and lets him muffle his second sob.

"Why are you here?" he murmurs into Iceland's hair. He speaks in Icelandic, and the sound of it draws out another sob and a hiccup. "Why didn't you go home?"

Iceland only shakes his head against Norway's chest. He sniffs loudly and thinks of what a mess he'll make on Norway's shirt if he doesn't pull himself together. Hong Kong would tease him for it. The thought makes his shoulders shake.

"The lad's had a loss," says England, closer than before. He must have stood. "He grew close to Hong Kong, from what I hear. He's staying in his room, if you'd like some privacy."

"Thank you," says Norway in a heavy tone. They don't move for another five minutes, and when Iceland finally looks up, England is gone.

Norway and Iceland sit side by side on the bed while Iceland explains the past two years. He should have so many questions for Norway in return, but telling everything to someone new—someone who knows him but not his past two years—is such a relief that the words bubble out of him. He talks about the invasion, his shared room with Hong Kong, the Blitz, the Christmas exchange, Sweden's visit, Denmark's letter, the Netherlands's advice. He interrupts himself only once, to check that Slovakia packed the Poetic Edda in his suitcase. He hadn't even thought to check.

His throat feels like it closes when he reaches the part where he gives the address to the vendor. Norway frowns in confusion until Iceland explains his reappearance.

Iceland gets as far as "he shot him" before he has to stop and take a wavering breath.

"You've never seen a discorporation before," says Norway softly.

"I remember Denmark discorporated once."

"I know. I think I made up some task just for you to go away."

"Collecting arrows."

Norway snorts. "Of course you remember."

Iceland doesn't see the humor. He looks down at his hands.

"I know Hong Kong would have been taken anyway," says Iceland. "But maybe if we'd stayed hidden a little longer…"

"Stop," says Norway. He reaches over and places his hand over both of Iceland's. "You hid for two years. Don't tell England, but that's more than I expected of him." His gaze hardens. "More than he should have left you alone for, if this Blitz was half as bad as you say."

"Sweden said I was brave."

"Sweden needed to justify himself."

Iceland blinks. Of the two of them, he expected Norway to be the one to defend Sweden. Iceland feels a sad sort of mature, that he can understand Sweden's sacrifice for Finland at the cost of the rest of his family.

"Did you see Denmark?" asks Iceland.

"What?"

"I imagine that's why you were gone so long." Iceland re-crosses his legs. "I thought you went to see him."

Norway sighs and looks at the wall. "I wanted to. But I knew there'd be no point to it."

"No point? For all that Denmark would go through to meet up with us?"

"That's different. Denmark's an idiot."

"Denmark loves us. If that makes him an idiot, I'd like to know why you can't be an idiot too."

Norway taps one of his fingers against his thigh. He sighs and looks at Iceland. "You say the Netherlands gave you two pieces of advice about being independent. The world won't protect you, so protect what you have. Right?"

Iceland nods.

"Here's a third lesson. It's been hardest for me to learn, but the truest: what you lose will come back to you."

Iceland scowls. "You're just saying that."

"I mean it. Maybe it won't come back as soon as you think, and maybe not in the form you know it as, but it comes back. Sweden and I came back to you. Denmark will come back to us."

"And Hong Kong too? From halfway around the world?"

"He's done it once, hasn't he?"

"But Japan has him."

"And before that, England, and before that, China. And China probably expects him back, right? He'll come back Western, but he'll return all the same. It's part of our lifespan." Norway folds his legs and turns to face Iceland fully. "You've learned so much, but only over two years. You're a thousand years old, but you haven't seen the world change at that pace because we've kept you away from it. Maybe we shouldn't have."

"Denmark said something similar."

"Denmark said it first. But don't tell him I told you that."

Iceland snorts softly.

Norway leans in. "He and I learned from all our voyages, and now it's your turn. The more you see of the world, the more diverse it seems. But the longer you see it, the more you see things repeating. Like a cycle."

"Like Ragnarök," Iceland says suddenly. For nearly anyone else, this would be a tangent. Norway only nods knowingly.

"Like Ragnarök. The gods change, but they return."

Iceland nods slowly. "I suppose this is why you're Odin."

"Oh?"

"That was how I explained it to Hong Kong. You're Odin, and Denmark is Thor."

"I see Denmark, but why am I Odin?"

"Don't make me say it," Iceland groans.

For the first time in this conversation, Norway grins. "Older and wiser than you?"

"No."

"That usually means yes," says Norway. He sits back with a chuckle. As Iceland takes a moment to recollect his dignity, Norway frowns. "If I'm Odin and Denmark is Thor, then who are you?"

Iceland shrugs.

"Hong Kong never asked you?"

"I never told him."

"Fine. Now I'm asking you."

Iceland sighs. "I always wanted to be Tyr, except with both my hands instead of the one. But I felt like Loki."

Norway makes a questioning noise.

"But then Hong Kong said he was Loki first. Mostly because of…" He trails off, but Norway guesses it.

"Argr."

Iceland nods.

"And you felt that too."

Iceland looks away.

"Despite everything you know about me and Denmark?"

Iceland shrugs again. It's hard to erase several centuries of demanding manliness.

Norway leans forward again. "Let me tell you who I think you are."

Iceland looks back at him.

"You're Baldr."

Iceland raises an eyebrow. "Baldr whose main story is about dying?"

"Baldr whose death the gods prevented in every way they could. Baldr who brought light and joy. Baldr who returned at Ragnarök's end when all other gods perished." Norway takes Iceland's face in both his hands and kisses his forehead. "Baldr, the best of us all."

Iceland can't speak for a moment. When he does, his voice is thick. "So you say everything comes back? Every time?"

"I say it," says Norway softly, "but I can't teach it to you. It's another lesson you'll learn as an independent nation."

Iceland nods slowly. Distantly, he hears the squeak of hinges and footsteps in the hallway. His eyes flicker to the door. "If that's so," he says to his brother, "I'd like to introduce you to the ones who taught me everything so far."

Epilogue
April 21, 1971

Iceland stands at the port of Reykjavik, his hands behind his back. The spring air still has a chill, and the wind whips at his back. He's awaiting a ship by military escort.

Really, this should have come much sooner. He's been an independent nation since 1944, a full year before what has been dubbed the Second World War ended. His government has been stable and his people, if not prosperous, then safe and content. War has not shaken his land nearly as much as it has the rest of the world.

Beside him stands Norway. "You're sure you don't want to wear something more formal?"

"At home, I can wear whatever I please."

"It's an important occasion."

"And I'm independent," Iceland intones. "That means no older brothers have been able to tell me what to do for—"

"Twenty-seven years, yes, I know." Norway rolls his eyes. "You remind me of the number every time I visit."

"Am I long-lived enough for another nation lesson?"

"You're long-lived enough when you don't need any more lessons."

It's Iceland's turn to roll his eyes.

The Danish ship comes into port, and the people around him—Icelanders, mostly, with a mix of Danes and foreign press in the minority—begin to cheer. All around them wave the blue, white, and red flag that Iceland has claimed since the end of the First World War. He's been ready for this moment for so long.

The naval escort keeps a respectful distance while the main ship comes to dock. The first man bounds down the gangplank and all but collapses onto Iceland.

"Big day, huh?" says Denmark when he pulls away from the hug.

"It's taken longer than it should have," says Iceland.

"I know." Denmark's smile turns a little wistful, and Iceland decides to go easy on him. He's relatively unscarred from the war, but no nation has truly recovered—not even the one Iceland once thought of as mighty Thor.

"Thank you," says Iceland. "I'm ready to have it back."

"I know," says Denmark, lighter this time. "You didn't have to send that many pictures of the museum, you know."

Iceland blushes, and Denmark laughs and ruffles his hair. He focuses his grin on Norway, who's been watching the exchange silently. Almost invisibly, Norway returns his smile.

The three of them stand to watch the crate wheeled gently down the gangplank. The crate itself is unremarkable, but Iceland's heart flutters anyway.

"The gods in Ithavoll meet together," quotes Norway in the old language they once shared, "and the mighty past they call to mind, and the ancient runes of the Ruler of Gods."

"Yes, I'm pretty sure that's in there," says Denmark.

"The Codex Regius," whispers Iceland as the crate passes him. The document containing the original Poetic Edda. The copy he shared with Hong Kong has grown worn and tattered, but he can't bear to replace it like he's done so many other copies. Having the original document here—home, after four hundred years in a Danish library—makes his chest swell with pride.

The crate is escorted to a waiting car, where it will be driven to the museum and installed in an exhibit. There will be a reception at the museum itself, but the entire nation of Iceland will celebrate.

Iceland makes for his own car to follow—he's expected, after all—but Denmark holds him back with a hand on his shoulder.

"I told you things return," says Norway at his other side, "but Danmark thought he might underscore the point."

He nods back to the ship. Iceland pries his eyes from the disappearing car to see two figures at the top of the gangplank, waiting for the signal to walk down.

The first is England, who stands with all the balance and grace of the former pirate he is. His thick eyebrows are unmistakable, his small smile and nod less familiar but welcome all the same.

To his side, standing shorter but still proud, Hong Kong examines Iceland with folded arms. When he realizes Iceland is looking back, his shoulders jolt and still. Slowly, a grin spreads across his face.

Iceland is halfway up the gangplank before he knows it. Hong Kong meets him halfway down, and without even a moment for inspection, they fall into a kiss.

For a moment, Iceland can't breathe. The gangplank sways unsteadily—or maybe he does, from the rush of blood to his head.

When they separate, they exhale shakily.

"This is unfair," Iceland murmurs. He nods to Hong Kong's feet on the higher part of the gangplank. "You can't be taller than me."

Hong Kong snorts a laugh, and that's the moment Iceland knows he's unchanged. So many things have been altered by the war, but not this, not them. They were forged by it.

"So," says Hong Kong. His eyes flicker to the streets of Reykjavik, where the Poetic Edda is finally returning to its people. "Aren't you going to show me what all the fuss is about?"

"You're right." Iceland leans in once more and pecks Hong Kong on the lips. "If I'm not careful, you might start to think it's about you."

"Isn't it?"

Iceland closes his eyes and smiles. The people on the streets don't know, but somehow the celebration is imbued with even more meaning.

"Come on," says Hong Kong. "Tell me what I want to hear."

"You know."

"I know."

Iceland meets his eyes. "I'm glad you're here."

And then he leads them to shore.