Sometimes, it is all too hard for Iceland to grasp things. He stands at the top of the mountains in his land, breath coming out in short, ragged puffs (they always did tell him not to exert himself too much, ah and smoke and dust rendering his lungs weak). He stands and he looks out at the broad expanse of land, thinking.
Iceland is young, younger than Norway or Sweden or Denmark or even Finland, Finland with his odd names for all of them— he is young and in a way he has been sheltered. That is not to say that he has not seen battle, after all, he has been in several, but there are stories Norway told him about the end of the Earth that he still carries. He hopes desperately to see them one day. (There are others, not stories, memories that he reads in Norway's eyes and the glances exchanged between Norway and Sweden when Denmark becomes too drunk. He really is smarter than they give him credit for).
The ones that he cannot picture are not the ones of Denmark's cruelty, of Sweden's rebellion, of Norway's quiet, burning hatred, nor Finland's wars in his own right. The ones that he cannot see are the ones with all of them mixed together, the ones where Sweden wipes blood from his lip and Finland, Finland crouches, gun held close as he picks others off with deadly accuracy. He cannot picture Norway as he fights, cuts his hair short, turns and runs towards Denmark with gestures not of love but instead a sword held high. He does not have the ability to see Denmark with his axe, slicing the air as a maniacal laugh slips out of him.
Battles now are different than they were. For Finland, the change does not come so hard, but Iceland's stomach twists when he remembers last week, when he found Norway running a hand over his sword, Sweden examining his old pair of glasses that were crushed, Denmark taking a cloth to his axe and wiping it free of any traces of dust.
He himself is not exemplary at controlling his temper. The eruptions are testament to that, so when he finally snapped, finally asked why in the goddamned world they were looking at these things as though hey were the most precious things in the world, as though they missed those days... he didn't wait for an answer. Instead he ran, back to his mountains, back to the place where he feels secure knowing that there is nothing to damage his fragile, fragile peace with the world.
An island by geographical rolls of the dice, he is used to isolation, welcomes the chance to let himself sink down in the grass and rest his head on his knees and link his arms around himself. There is not enough patience that he can possess to let himself listen to whatever explanations he will face when he returns, a rationalization that it's something like how he keeps a small American flag tucked away under his bed, in a small box, with the key on a nail by his dresser. He knows that it is anything but.