It doesn't matter what you've heard

Impossible is not a word

It's just a reason

For someone not to try

- Kutless, 'What Faith Can Do'

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.

"Make sure you don't get under anyone's feet," Norway cautioned, setting Iceland on the ground. The younger nation immediately snatched at his brother's cloak, not ready to trust his legs on solid ground after so many weeks aboard the longship. The pendant holding the corners of the cloak together dug into Norway's neck as Iceland put his full weight on the garment. Norway gave a little noise of surprise, finding himself suddenly off-balance.

A few snickers went up among the crew at the scene, but were stifled when they noticed the blonde nation glaring in their general direction.

Much to Iceland's displeasure, Norway tugged his cloak free. "You can walk on your own."

"Big brother," Iceland whined. Norway walked ahead, leaving him to run in order to catch up. He shivered as the wind picked up and nipped at what little skin was exposed on the back of his neck. The multiple layers of pelts and furs were warm, but still the cold penetrated.

One corner of Norway's mouth turned slightly upwards. "Why don't you go with Sigurd and find us a place to camp?" A glance in the aforementioned Viking's direction told him that his little brother would be welcome.

Iceland fell back to join Sigurd with an excited chirp of "Sure!"

As the youngest of the crew, Sigurd had known from the start he would be tasked with scouting for an appropriate camp among other things. He didn't mind, though, because his young age also meant that he would often be charged with keeping an eye on Iceland, and he found the boy's company enjoyable. "Where do you think we should start?" he asked.

"Out of the wind," Iceland suggested. His tone hinted that he thought Sigurd should already know this. "Maybe that wood over there?"

Sigurd nodded. He turned in the indicated direction. The trees weren't all that thick, but at least the harsh wind would be somewhat dispelled inside. "Good idea. I'll gather a few of the tents and then we'll check it out." He went over to the pile where they had - almost literally - dumped their supplies. Four of the tents were in easy reach, so he tied them into bundles of two and tossed them over one shoulder. "Say, where's that bird of yours?"

Iceland took a sharp breath, his eyes widening. He pulled a piece of dried fish from a pocket in his tunic and whistled. When the bird failed to appear, his lips tightened into a grim slash. He whistled again, holding out the fish. Finally he huffed in irritation and shouted, "Mr. Puffin!"

After a moment, a black and white shape fluttered down, perching on Iceland's wrist. The puffin seemed not to notice the fish, instead pecking at the cuff of the boy's tunic. "Hey, tough guy," he greeted. Then the scent of the snack reached him and he stretched his neck to snap it up.

Iceland stuffed the fish back into his pocket. Mr. Puffin gave an annoyed squawk. "You didn't come when I whistled," Iceland explained, quickly looking away. "Twice."

Sigurd chuckled, tousling the nation's pale hair as he passed by. "Come on," he said.

"H- hey, what are you- Ouch! Ow, ow, ow! Stop it, that hurts!" Mr. Puffin had switched perches, and was currently digging his claws into Iceland's scalp. Iceland ran after Sigurd, waving his arms around his head in an attempt to get the bird off. "Okay, fine, you can have it!" he shouted. He frantically dug the fish out of his pocket and threw it up in the air. Even after Mr. Puffin had abandoned his new perch to retrieve the snack, he continued running.

"Iceland, stop!" Sigurd threw off the tents and followed the boy. Snow flew in all directions as his boots impacted the ground. "We don't know what's in there! Iceland!" Ducking under branches, he struggled to keep the boy within his limited line of sight between the trees. "Damned bird," he muttered.

And damned Norway for dressing Iceland in only brown clothing. The young nation already had white hair; was it really necessary to make him even less visible?

"Iceland!" Sigurd yelled again. Too focused on following Iceland, he failed to avoid a particularly low-hanging branch. He staggered backwards, gasping for breath when it hit him square in the chest.

"Nice going, kid." That was the puffin. He was seated on the very branch Sigurd had run into, and had already devoured his snack.

"I don't need a bird's opinion," Sigurd wheezed. He leaned forward and rested his hands on his knees.

"You lost him. Norway's not gonna be happy."

"Shut it or I'll pluck you bald." Was he really arguing with a bird? Oh, how Erik and Leif would laugh. "Anyways, this is your fault."

"Ah, forget you," Mr. Puffin drawled. He took off from the branch and disappeared between the trees.

Sigurd shook a fist in the direction the puffin had vanished without looking up. "Same to you, Hel-spawn!" Finally able to draw a full breath again, he straightened and examined his surroundings. The wood was thicker than it appeared from the outside. He was just barely able to make out the outline of the other Vikings through the trees, and he still had to go deeper in to find Iceland.

"Well, this is just great," he growled.

Several minutes had passed before Iceland finally realized that Mr. Puffin was no longer on his head. Now that he had calmed, he was embarrassed that he had acted so immaturely in front of Sigurd.

Physically, he was a child, but in reality he was far older than every member of the crew aside from Norway.

Oh, gods.

Norway.

Iceland froze mid-step as the revelation hit.

His big brother was going to murder Sigurd, and it wasn't even his fault. If anyone was to blame, it was Iceland. He was the one who had overreacted, after all. And then there was Mr. Puffin, who had incited the small nation's reaction in the first place.

But Sigurd had doing just fine until Iceland ran off. He didn't deserve to have Norway angry at him.

Iceland spun around, hoping to see the Viking close behind him, but he was confronted with a mass of barren trees instead. His jaw slackened and his eyes widened in dismay. He turned in a quick circle, only to find himself surrounded by leafless trees on all sides.

"Sigurd?" he squeaked. The snow-laden landscape seemed to absorb the boy's already quiet voice, preventing the call from reaching more than a few meters.

A familiar squawk of "Tough guy!" reached his cold-numbed ears, and Iceland gasped, throwing his head back to stare at the winter sky. He licked his lips and whistled, but the sound petered out almost as soon as it began.

Odin's beard! Why did he never whistle loud enough when he needed to? Sure, when it was only for fun, Norway would politely ask that he stop because he was too loud or too shrill, but when he actually needed to whistle for his puffin, he could never get the sound out.

Nevertheless, Iceland attempted to whistle another time. The shrill note was still too weak to reach any further than the nearest trees.

"Hey, tough guy, you down there?"

If he could whistle loud enough, maybe - just maybe - Mr. Puffin would acknowledge for once that he was indeed the nation's pet instead of his equal.

Iceland licked his lips, took a deep breath, and whistled.

And he waited.

His patience was rewarded with a black shape streaking down from overhead. He gave an excited cheer, grabbing Mr. Puffin out of the air before he could perch on the boy's wrist. "You listened!" he exclaimed, hugging the bird to his chest and pretending he couldn't hear the objections thrown at him. "You actually listened!"

"Yeah, I listened, now gimme some more of that fish. I'm hungry," Mr. Puffin complained. He flapped his wings indignantly, squirming in the nation's grip.

Iceland held the puffin at arm's length, his brow furrowed. "I don't have any more."

Mr. Puffin snorted. "I can smell it on you."

"I don't have any," Iceland insisted. To prove his point, he set Mr. Puffin on the ground and dug in his pockets. Nothing turned up. He plopped down in front of his pet, leaning his chin in one hand. "Where's Sigurd?"

"Don't know, don't care," Mr. Puffin said.

Iceland grabbed him again, staring intently into his shiny, black eyes. "Big brother's going to murder him if he finds out what happened," he snapped. The dramatic effect he had been aiming for was negated by the high-pitched squeak of his voice as he grew more and more anxious.

Mr. Puffin squirmed free of Iceland's grasp and nonchalantly pecked at his hand. "If you're going to keep acting like this, I'm leaving."

Iceland snatched at the bird, but missed. "No, you're not. We're going to find Sigurd so big brother doesn't murder him."

Mr. Puffin hopped a few feet away, prompting Iceland to get up and chase him. Once the white-haired nation was within grabbing distance, the puffin fluttered off deeper into the woods and set down in the soft snow. Iceland huffed, but followed the bird anyways. This time, he didn't wait to come into arms reach, opting to leap at Mr. Puffin while he was still a good distance away.

Iceland found himself spitting out snow and shaking it from his hair. Infuriatingly, Mr. Puffin was now on his head, as he had hopped out of the way at the last second. He felt his hair being tugged, and he stood, swatting at the puffin.

Mr. Puffin flapped to a nearby tree branch, and then from there to the ground. When Iceland continued to follow him, he moved further and further away. The final time, he was in mid-air when something tackled him. He was about to yell at Iceland, but realized that the nation was standing right in front of him, not holding him down.

As his pet began to screech, Iceland snapped out of whatever stupor he had been shocked into by the bear's arrival. He looped his arms around its neck, trying to pull it off of Mr. Puffin. "No, that's my bird!" he shouted. "Let go of him!"

A set of footsteps approached amidst all the chaos. "Kuma," scolded a quiet voice. The rest of the sentence was unintelligible, at least to Iceland and Mr. Puffin.

The bear shrugged the white-haired boy off his back and retreated.

Iceland picked up Mr. Puffin and cradled him close to his body. For once, the puffin did not object.

The speaker was a boy a few years younger in appearance than the island nation, dressed in leather and pelts decorated with beads and bits of bone. His blond hair reached to just above his shoulders. One strand - looped in the middle - hung down in front of the boy's face.

"B-but Norway said I was unique," Iceland stammered. His gaze was locked on the stranger's violet eyes, which were identical to his own.

The other boy chirped something to his white bear. The bear turned and asked something in reply.

Iceland fell back in the snow. The only animal he knew of that could speak was in his arms right now.

Both the bear and stranger turned in his direction. The boy moved close to Iceland, knelt, and offered one of his hands. He smiled, whispering what sounded like a greeting.

Grasping the boy's hand, Iceland responded, "Hello." He moved Mr. Puffin to his shoulder as he was pulled back to his feet. He gestured to himself. "Iceland."

The boy touched his free hand to his own chest. "Kanata." He let go of Iceland's hand and pointed to his bear. "Kumichino."

The bear shook his head.

Kanata's smile faded slightly. "Kamaji?"

Again the bear shook his head.

"Kumako?"

Iceland struggled not to laugh as the bear once more shook his shaggy head.

"Kumajiro," the bear corrected. He then asked some question, to which the blond boy buried his face in his palm.

"Kanata..." he whined. This time Kumajiro shook his head aggressively. Kanata grabbed the bear's ears and forcefully made him nod. "Ka-na-ta!"

Iceland cleared his throat, waiting for the others to look in his direction. When they did, he indicated the black and white bird now perched on his shoulder. "Mr. Puffin," he declared. "Now that we know each other, do you mind helping me?" Heat surged to the nation's cheeks and he found himself staring at the snowy ground. "I'm kind of- I'm kind of lost."

Kanata cocked his head, lips parted to ask a silent question. Next to him, Kumajiro bore a similar expression.

"I'm kind of lost," Iceland repeated. Sigurd is going to die. Norway's going to find out before I can get back and he's going to murder him.

Kanata spread his arms in a shrug, face apologetic.

Frustrated, Iceland kicked the snow beneath his feet. It's not even his fault. I was the one who panicked. He addressed Mr. Puffin this time. "Are you sure you don't know where Sigurd is?"

"Don't know, don't care," Mr. Puffin replied. He tugged on his owner's hair. "Tough guy, I'm hungry."

"What part of 'I don't have any more' don't you understand?!" Iceland demanded. Sometimes Mr. Puffin had a one-track mind. "I'm starting to think I should've left you with Denmark and Sweden!"

"Ic-Iceland...?" Kanata was hesitant in saying the name, as though he were afraid of mispronouncing it. He casually knelt in the snow, trailing his fingers through it. What he drew formed a half-circle with lines going horizontally across it. He glanced up at Iceland, who watched with palpable interest, before continuing to work on his drawing.

Finally, he stood and beckoned Iceland over. The other boy's violet eyes lit up. "A knarr!" he exclaimed, taking Kanata by the shoulders and shaking him. "You saw my brother's longship?"

Kanata leaned away from the other boy. He touched his lips with one hand and then slowly shook his head.

The elation on Iceland's face faded as he remembered that they couldn't understand each other. He pointed to the drawing and made a show of examining the area around them. Then he faced Kanata again and waited for a reaction.

At first, the blond boy seemed just as confused as before, but slowly a smile stretched his lips and he nodded. Grabbing his companion's hand, he started walking through the thick woods. Kumajiro and Mr. Puffin followed, one padding along and the other flying, respectively.

"Nor!" Iceland broke away from Kanata and crashed into his older brother's legs. "Nor, Nor, Nor, Nor, Nor!" A sound that was not quite a laugh and not quite a sob erupted from his throat.

Caught off guard, Norway was forced to quickly re-sheath his sword in order to prevent Iceland from being injured by it. He picked his little brother up in a fierce hug, but his features were set in a scowl. "I have only one question for you," he said. Iceland swallowed, clearly aware of what was coming. "What were you thinking?"

"Mr. Puffin- He- um... I don't know," Iceland mumbled, attempting to hide his embarrassment by burying his face in Norway's shoulder.

"Do you understand that if you had truly been lost, your country and your people would fall into chaos?" Norway set Iceland back on his own feet and knelt so that they were on eye level. "Not today, not tomorrow, but when you didn't return. We embody our citizens, and we can only leave them be for so long. I've felt the pangs in the back of my mind when a raid runs too long. I've once gone back to my house after a few years to discover the beginnings of unrest among my people."

Suddenly Iceland remembered his new friend. "Big brother-"

"Let me finish," Norway interrupted. He rested one hand on Iceland's shoulder. "You remember the outbreak of sickness in my house a while ago, don't you?"

The white-haired boy nodded. "Yes, but there's something-"

"I was only affected because the majority of my citizens were. The same way they are connected to us, we are connected to them." Norway gestured around him with his free hand at the crew, who were a mix of his people and his brother's. Sigurd, curiously enough, wasn't among them. "Distance and time affects that connection. It's easier for you to sense Erik than it is for you to sense the citizens you left behind. That's because Erik is here, and the others are more than a month's journey away. You hold your people together, but if something were to separate you from them for long enough, the connection would be severed, and they would no longer be able to function effectively as a whole." He halted, eyeing the boy carefully to ensure the message was received.

Iceland pushed Norway's hand off his shoulder. "Norway, listen to me!" he pleaded.

The blonde nation pulled away in surprise. But before he could question the use of his full name, something caught his eye near the tree line. He stood, sweeping past Iceland and grabbing the back of the blond boy's leather clothing. The stranger tried to wriggle free, but he was still just a child, whereas Norway was a full-grown nation.

Iceland ran over and tugged on his brother's arm. "That's what I was trying to tell you about!" he shouted. "His name's Kanata; he... He helped me get back."

Norway looked from Iceland to Kanata. The corners of his lips quirked upwards in that odd way of his. "You helped my little brother?" he asked, his voice uncharacteristically gentle.

Kanata began to whimper and cry, still struggling to get out of the nation's grip.

"He doesn't understand." Iceland put a hand on his new friend's shoulder. "Kanata. Kanata, it's just my big brother." His tone was light and he did his best to smile.

Norway waited until Kanata stopped struggling before loosening his hold on the boy's clothes. He gestured to himself. "Norway," he said. Unlike Iceland, he did not smile. His expression matched suspicion more closely than it did reassurance.

Pointing behind him, Kanata announced, "Kumachio."

"Kumajiro," corrected a before-unnoticed white bear. Kanata shot the bear a glance, asking a question. Norway didn't recognize a word that passed between them, but he was fairly certain it had something to do with mispronouncing each other's names. He scanned the area for faye and nisse, believing that the talking bear was perhaps a spirit or had been granted the ability by someone with a connection to the supernatural, as was the case with Mr. Puffin.

After all, where one could be found, others were never far behind.

More to his disappointment than surprise, he found none.

A gasp sounded in his ear. Iceland released his friend and yanked on his big brother's cloak. "Where's Sigurd?" His voice climbed in pitch with every syllable. "You didn't kill him, did you?" The question was loud enough to carry to the rest of the Vikings.

There was a hearty round of laughter, causing Iceland to look around him in utter confusion. How could they be laughing if Sigurd, one of their own crew, was in mortal peril?

Norway stood, signaling to one of the Vikings. "Bjarni, bring Sigurd out here," he ordered. There was just the barest tremor to his voice as he spoke, hinting that he, too, had been amused.

Bjarni swallowed the last of his laughter and started in the direction of the boat. "Sure, but I might need someone to help me drag him!"

Torn between the sound of laughter and the look of distress on Iceland's face, Kanata glanced at Kumajiro for help. The bear responded with the same question as before. "Kanata," the boy replied.

When Bjarni returned, one of the younger Viking's arms across his shoulders and his own arm providing extra support, Iceland let out a breath he had been half-aware he was holding. Sigurd was half-limp, his head lolling as though he couldn't hold it up.

"Are you okay?" Iceland asked, running up to pull on the young man's tunic.

Bjarni chuckled and pulled Sigurd into a straighter position. "Norway cracked him over the head with his sword when he found out he lost you," he explained.

"Not supposed to run off, kid," Sigurd added in a dazed slur, smiling ever so slightly. He pushed away from Bjarni, only to stumble and require the older viking to support him again. "Even if it's that damned bird's fault."

"Shows what you know, punk!" screeched Mr. Puffin from atop his owner's head. In truth, Iceland had completely forgotten he was up there, so he jumped several feet in the air out of shock.

Norway massaged his temples. Sometimes he regretted how weak he was to Iceland's begging. If he had only been a little bit stronger, the puffin wouldn't be able to talk, and it would have died more than a century ago.

"Come on, you almost had it that time!" Iceland prompted. Opposite him, Kanata made a face, his head tilted to convey his doubt.

"Sn- snow." Kanata dragged out the word, exaggerating the sounds to ensure he said it right. At the affirmative nod from both his friend and their current overseer, Leif, he tested the word again. "Snow? Snow." He scooped a handful from the ground and held it out, beaming. "Snow!"

Leif chuckled to himself and shook his head. "Children," he muttered. With the way Kanata acted, it was easy to assume he had never seen another human being before them. The boy was always eager to see the furs and weapons that had been brought along, and marveled at each with the same fascinated curiosity. He had been particularly taken with the tools fashioned from whale bone, running off only to return with something similar, presumably from one of the native tribes.

"Leif!" Kanata called. He beckoned the Viking closer. Once Leif was kneeling in front of him, he dug a piece of bone from the folds of his clothing. It was carved into the shape of a bear. Kanata gazed expectantly up at the man.

A moment passed before Leif realized that Kanata wanted to know the word in Norse. "Carving," he translated, making sure to enunciate clearly.

"Carving," Kanata echoed. He then mumbled a thank you in his native tongue and replaced the bone piece.

Unaware of the exchange that had just occurred, Iceland pointed to the broadsword strapped to Leif's hip. "Sword."

Kanata nodded. Of course he knew the word sword by now; the crew used it often enough for it to be as familiar to him as their names. He grabbed Leif's hand and pulled him in the direction of the beached longship. "Knarr?" he guessed.

"Knarr," Leif confirmed.

Behind them, Iceland took the opportunity to slip a whale-bone knife out of his pocket. The hilt was decorated with various inscriptions, but the blade was sleek and unmarked. He glanced at the other two to make sure they weren't looking before returning the knife to its hiding spot.

Anyone in their right mind would have looked away by now. Even Sweden - as freakishly intimidating as he could be - would have found some reason to drop his gaze after the first fifteen minutes.

No human should have been able to stare directly into Norway's deep blue eyes for this long.

But Kanata had been sitting patiently in front of the Norwegian for the past hour, unblinking, as devoid of expression as Norway himself. Neither of them had said a word, instead studying each other in perfect silence. Kumajiro, Mr. Puffin, and even Iceland had left after a while. They didn't have a clue as to what was going on.

And to be honest, Norway really didn't either. From the moment he had set eyes on Kanata, he knew there was something odd about the child.

He had violet eyes, a trait which - as far as Norway knew - only Iceland and Finland possessed.

Then there was his talking bear, Kumajiro. Not only could it talk, but it did so in the apparent absence of faye, nisse, or other enchanted creatures. Additionally, although less importantly, it never remembered Kanata's name. Then again, Kanata never seemed to pronounce Kumajiro's name properly.

When some of the crew happened upon a tribe of natives, the young blond boy was among them. The head of said tribe had deferred to Kanata before agreeing to trade with the Vikings. Norway suspected that it was not solely due to Kanata having had first contact with them, or the fact that he understood some of what the foreigners were saying.

Ah, and then there was that matter. Kanata picked up Norse faster than anyone else Norway had come across in centuries. Granted, he stuttered through every word at first, but once he had the grasp of it, he never needed reminding of the pronunciation or context.

Thinking back to his encounter with the natives, it struck Norway just how different Kanata looked than them. His blond hair, fair skin, and violet eyes were in stark contrast to the black hair, deeply tanned skin, and dark eyes of the native tribes. The facial structure was, for the most part, identical, but one had to look closely to notice it.

Norway exhaled slowly, his breath billowing in a visible cloud before him. Kanata mimicked him, right down to the slight sag of his shoulders as the exhale drew to a close and he prepared to take a breath in.

I really would like to know what triggered this staring contest. Norway restrained himself from fidgeting or shifting position. If a child could maintain composure for this long, then surely so could a nation hundreds of years old.

Then there was the matter of his reaction to the name agreed upon for the new land. Vinland. Erik had suggested it when he and Bjarni discovered vines untouched by snow. Although they lacked fruit, it was plain that they bore berries useful in making wine. Kanata had taken the suggestion as if it were a personal offense. He had tried to explain something to Iceland, but unfortunately his Norse wasn't quite good enough yet.

Kanata continued to mimic him as he exhaled and inhaled in a smooth rhythm.

Suddenly, Norway's breath hitched. He saw Kanata stiffen in response. How could I have not noticed? A tiny smile - the sincere kind typically reserved for his little brother - spread across his face.

He pulled Kanata close, whispering into the boy's ear. Kanata hesitated before whispering a reply.

Norway chuckled silently when Kanata took hold of his hand. He exited the tent, walking over to where Iceland stood. "Ice," he said.

Iceland looked up. "Hi, big brother. Hi, Kanata," he said, adding the last part when he noticed the boy clinging to his brother's hand.

Norway shook his head. "Not Kanata," he corrected. "Vinland."

Sigurd was one step away from throwing his knife at that bird. Every single time he tried to watch Iceland and Vinland, it hurled insults at him nonstop. At least Vinland's bear was somewhat polite.

Thankfully, Mr. Puffin was quiet for the moment, perched contentedly on Iceland's head and tearing into a piece of fish he had been given.

Sigurd should have known the relative peace wouldn't last.

"What do you think you're staring at, kid?"

"Shut your beak, bird," Sigurd snapped back. He fingered the hilt of his knife. It was possible that he could hit the puffin without injuring Iceland in the process. Then again, maybe that was a bad idea.

Iceland glanced up at Mr. Puffin. "Be nice," he scolded.

Mr. Puffin pulled his owner's hair, causing the boy to hiss in mild pain. "Come on, tough guy, why are you siding with him?"

Sliding the knife out of its sheath, Sigurd glared at the black and white bird. There was about six inches between the top of Iceland's head and Mr. Puffin's neck. It was extremely unlikely he'd miss. After a few seconds, he sighed and re-sheathed the knife. Iceland loved his bird; it wouldn't be fair of Sigurd to kill it just because it annoyed him.

Vinland fidgeted uncomfortably, hiding behind Kumajiro's soft fur.

Iceland noticed the change and patted the other boy's back. "They're always arguing," he said. "Mr. Puffin doesn't like Sigurd for some reason." Vinland nodded, not entirely convinced.

"I don't like him much, either," Sigurd muttered, one hand still resting on the knife hilt. He refrained from looking at the puffin, hoping that if he pretended it wasn't there, it would leave him alone.

Mr. Puffin ruffled his feathers and resettled himself on his owner's head. He turned his head in the Viking's direction, chirping in a way that almost seemed petulant.

Sigurd ground his teeth as he stole a glance at the bird. The puffin was glaring. The puffin was glaring at him. That Hel-spawned bird was glaring at him. His grip tightened around the wooden hilt. "Relax," he breathed. "It's just a stupid bird."

"Hey, kid, if anyone around here's stupid, it's you!" Mr. Puffin shouted. With that, he flapped from Iceland's head to an overhanging branch near the frozen river.

Sigurd growled, pulling out his knife. Iceland and Vinland protested, trying to calm him down, but he ignored them. Mr. Puffin huffed and adjusted his position. "Whatcha gonna do with that?" he taunted.

There was a hiss and a muffled thud, and the puffin screeched, flying over to a branch on the other side of the narrow river. Sigurd ran to the tree Mr. Puffin had just abandoned and snatched his knife out of the snow.

"No! Sigurd, don't hurt him!" Iceland dove for the Viking's legs, but ended up face-down in the snow instead.

Vinland remained where he was, his eyes tracking the path Sigurd was taking. He would have to cross the river to reach Mr. Puffin.

The realization set off several events. First, Vinland dropped Kumajiro - something he had never done before. Second, he ran to Iceland and practically yanked him to his feet. Third, he attempted to explain in a garbled mix of Norse and his native tongue.

Although Iceland did his best to make sense of what the younger nation was saying, he was ultimately too preoccupied with saving his pet. He whistled and made his way to the riverbank. His foot was about to make contact with the ice when Vinland tackled him into the snow.

"Iceland, no! Thaw!" the blond boy panted. His eyes were wild and his breath was staggered. "Br- break! Too thin!"

Another hiss, this one followed by a clattering noise, interrupted whatever reply Iceland might have made. Both nations looked up. Sigurd had thrown his knife again, and this time it landed on the ice, skidding to a halt near the opposite bank. The Viking immediately moved to retrieve it.

Vinland waved his arms, trying to attract Sigurd's attention. "Too thin! Won't hold!" His voice overflowed with desperation as he shouted unheeded warnings. How could they understand if he wasn't sure of the right words? "Th-"

The ice buckled underneath Sigurd just as he picked up his knife, delivering him into the clutches of the freezing water below. A surprised scream tore from the young man's throat in the millisecond before he vanished.

Iceland and Vinland scrambled to their feet, half-sprinting, half-stumbling over each other back to the main camp. "Norway!" Vinland yelled, his panicked voice overlapping with Iceland's. "Norway!" The older nation whirled around from his conversation with Thorfinn, an eyebrow raised.

"What is it, little brother?" He scanned the area for their designated overseer. "Don't tell me you've ditched him again."

"The ice broke!" Iceland exclaimed, pulling Norway in the direction of the river. Vinland grabbed the edge of the Nordic nation's cloak and helped. "Sigurd fell in!"

Norway motioned for Thorfinn to follow and ran in the indicated direction. He was somewhat aware of Vinland and Iceland following as well, but at the moment, it didn't matter much.

Snow, twigs, and dead leaves scattered under the leather-bound boots of the Vikings, sent flying backwards into the boys' faces.

Once they arrived at the edge of the riverbank, it was clear they hadn't run fast enough.

The water was still.

Vinland clutched Kumajiro closer to his chest, burying his face in the white fur to help stifle the whimpers escaping him.

His people were upset. Their anger burned in the pit of his stomach as if it were his own, so fierce, so intense that it took all he had to prevent it from bubbling up into his mouth and releasing itself.

The tribes agreed to trade so easily not a season ago, near the start of winter. What was making them change their minds?

As far as Vinland knew, Norway had made it clear that he and his crew were not here to raid. If they were, Vinland would know it. He would sense it and feel the pain from it. But the only pain he'd felt since the Viking's arrival was the usual outbreak of sickness from a far away tribe.

Seven of his people had come to him today, bombarding him with complaints about the outsiders. Yesterday only five approached him. Tomorrow there would be more. And the complaints would be the same each and every time.

"They are dangerous."

"They intend to conquer us."

"They are fishing in our rivers, hunting in our forests. Can't you see the damage they've caused?"

Vinland had to concede to the last point. Since Norway, Iceland, and the Vikings arrived, it had become progressively more difficult to hunt and fish. No offense meant whatsoever, but the burly, lumbering Vikings were prone to scaring away most of the prey when they tried to hunt in the wood. They stumbled over everything, lacking the fleet step needed to overcome the landscape.

Kumajiro squirmed in his owner's grip. "Who are you?" he asked.

The question was said in Norse, further deepening Vinland's state of despair. A season ago, Kumajiro would not have known anything other than a few names in the foreign tongue. Now he - and Vinland himself - spoke Norse so often he had begun to forget his own laguage. And then Vinland realized he had no idea how he was supposed to answer. Was he still Kanata, or did Kanata die when Vinland came into the picture?

"I don't know," Vinland admitted. He wanted to be Kanata, free and spirited, the lone boy wandering from tribe to tribe.

... But he also wanted to be Vinland, safe and cared for, Norway and Iceland's younger brother, though not by blood.

A little girl had been among those that had come to see him today, barely old enough to be left unattended.

She had spoken to him in Norse.

Vinland searched the folds of his clothing for the bone carving of a bear. He turned it over and over in one hand as he thought.

After a while, he came to a conclusion: no matter how happy it made him to be Vinland, his people came first.

Norway stood in silence behind his little brothers - Little brother, he corrected himself - as they watched the last of the cargo being loaded onto the longship. He gave Iceland's shoulder a squeeze. "We leave immediately," he said. His eyes trailed to Vinland. The blond boy's shoulders were hunched, his hollow gaze fixed on his clenched hand.

Iceland nodded. He whistled for Mr. Puffin, who was either play-fighting or actually fighting with Kumajiro, and the bird streaked over, perching on his owner's head. He reached into his pocket for the whale-bone knife, holding it out to Vinland. Once the other nation accepted it with wide eyes, he said, "I carved the inscriptions myself. Norway showed me how."

"Thank you," Vinland whispered, and held it close. He held out his clenched hand, opening it to reveal the bone carving. "It's the bear spirit. It's supposed to- to guide a-and protect you."

Awed at the gift, Iceland could barely stop his eyes from watering as he accepted it. He curled his hand around it and held it over his heart before lunging forward to hug Vinland. "Bye."

Vinand tensed from surprise, but after recovering, he hugged right back. "Bye."

Norway turned away from the younger nations. "Is everything secured?" he called.

"As it's going to be," replied Erik. "We're ready to set off."

Iceland let go of Vinland and backed away to his older brother's side. Like the other young nation, his violet gaze was fixed on the ground.

Kneeling in front of Vinland for the last time, Norway knew he could not afford himself the luxury of long-winded parting words or assurance that the gods would cross their paths again. He let out a sigh and spread his arms. Vinland ran into them and pressed himself as close to Norway as was possible. Thin but strong arms wrapped around the young nation, holding him tight. They remained this way for a long time. "Odin watch over you, Vinland," Norway murmured, rising and starting towards the longship. Iceland followed, albeit reluctantly. "I have a feeling you'll grow strong."

Iceland was starting to wonder why he even bothered to attend these meetings. No one listened to him. As a matter of fact, the Nordics as a whole were ignored. It was only when Denmark did something that warranted Norway strangling him with his own tie that any eyes turned to them.

Today was no different. So far, the only thing that had happened since the meeting's start was America, England, and France bickering. England had been in the middle of his speech when his former colony interrupted with some comment about superheroes. Naturally, this started an argument - about what, exactly, no one really knew - between the two. France had tried to step in, but received a whack in the forehead for thinking that saying "Ladies, you are both pretty" would solve anything.

And although Germany was trying to restore order, no one was paying attention.

Scratch that, the nations that needed to weren't paying attention.

Iceland sighed and reached for a piece of salmiakki, handing another one up to Mr. Puffin. If he was going to be stuck here for another three hours, he wasn't going to be stuck here hungry.

To his left, Sweden was reviewing a stack of papers - likely pages from a speech he would never get to deliver - and altogether making Finland uneasy. The smaller blond nation shifted restlessly in his seat, ducking his head whenever Sweden cast a glance at him.

A stab of pity struck Iceland. He half-emptied his bag of salted licorice onto the table and not-so-discreetly slid the rest in the Finn's direction. Finland looked up, then down at the candy, and finally at Iceland, who was quietly munching on another piece of salmiakki as if nothing had happened. With a tiny nod, he lifted a piece to his own lips and bit into it.

To Iceland's right, Denmark was downing his fourth bottle of beer, effectively distracting him from irritating Norway, however unintentional it would have been.

But like all good things, it had to come to an end sooner or later.

Setting the empty bottle on the table, Denmark leaned back in his chair so that it was balanced on only two legs. He yawned rather loudly - this may or may not have been deliberate - and settled his chair back on four legs. "Hey, Nor-"

"No," Norway cut him off.

"But I didn't-"

"You're loud." The stoic Nordic straightened his pile of papers without bothering to look at his companion. "Russia can probably hear you from his seat."

Denmark huffed, but moved on from Norway. He leaned in Iceland's direction, a familiar gleam in his eyes. He was about to say something when Sweden shot him a downright murderous glare.

"D'nmark," he said, somehow managing to make his thick mumble more threatening than usual. "No."

The spiky-haired nation held up his hands innocently. "I wasn't even going to say that," he protested.

Iceland slouched in his seat a little bit. He could have told Denmark off on his own; he didn't need Sweden to do it for him. He was a fully grown nation, completely independent, and didn't need the others to step in whenever they felt like it.

Mr. Puffin tugged on his hair lightly, as if to remind him of his presence. Iceland offered another piece of salmiakki, but it wasn't snatched out of his hand like it typically was. "Look over there," Mr. Puffin ordered.

Iceland turned in the indicated direction. He saw England, America, and France were still fighting, and America was trying to talk them down.

Wait, what?

Iceland blinked. "Two Americas?" he muttered. "That's not possible."

The first America was, well, obviously America. Bomber jacket? Check. Rectangular glasses? Check. Obnoxiously loud like Denmark? Check. Stupid grin like Denmark? Double check.

So that left the second America. Instead of a bomber jacket, he wore a bright red hoodie with a white maple leaf on the front.

Kid must be begging to be a target, Iceland couldn't help but think. Such a bright color, and the leaf would make a good bulls-eye.

His glasses were also more rounded than America's, helping draw attention to his slightly softer features. And while America had a cowlick, he had a strand of hair with a loop in the middle that hung directly between his violet eyes.

Iceland gripped the edge of the table. That little detail - the curled strand of hair - brought back time-weathered memories from what seemed like a lifetime ago.

While his owner was frozen, Mr. Puffin had taken the opportunity to hop down onto the tabletop and pecked at Iceland's wrist. He wasn't interested in the glove, rather, it was what was under it that he wanted. Finally gaining a grip on the cuff of the glove, he pulled it up, which revealed the bone carving of a bear secured with a thin metal chain. Mr. Puffin grabbed the bone bear in his beak and flapped his wings as he yanked on it. The chain snapped after a few tries.

The sound seemed to bring Iceland back to the present. "What are you doing?" he demanded, snatching at the puffin.

Mr. Puffin flapped to the end of the table where the fight was going on. "Helping." Iceland shot up from his chair - scaring the heck out of any nearby nations in the process - and gave chase, shouting in Icelandic all the way.

Not-America suddenly yelled, "Kumachi, don't take that!" A polar bear scrambled onto the table, a knife gripped between his teeth. Not-America dove for the bear, ending up sprawled halfway on the table. He managed to snag his target, though, and triumphantly recovered the knife.

Mr. Puffin landed on the polar bear's head, and without thinking, Iceland leaped for him. Both animals somehow moved out of the way before the impact, resulting in Iceland colliding with the blond man.

"Maple," whimpered Not-America.

"Oww," Iceland hissed.

The entire room was staring at them now. Some were openly questioning their sanity, but most were wondering who the blond was, or who had just said "Maple."

Mr. Puffin fluttered back to his usual perch on Iceland's head. He dropped the bone carving, triggering a startled gasp from Not-America. At the same time, the polar bear padded back and yanked the knife - a whale bone knife with inscriptions on the hilt - out of the blond's grasp. He dropped it, nudging it close to the white-haired nation.

After a few seconds, Iceland swallowed back his shock and met the other's violet gaze. "Vinland?"

AN: Believe it or not, this started out as historically accurate. Now you can barely tell. I definitely could've executed this better. And just to be clear, yes, I chose those specific names for the Vikings for a reason.

Oh, and funny thing, there's this magnet I've had since I was a little kid - it's a seal holding a letter and it says "With love from Iceland" on the bottom. I never even realized it said that until I learned about Hetalia.