Den Standhaftige Tinsoldat / The Steadfast Tin Soldier [2/?]
The night was cool and the small rays of light from the moon outside filtered through the window illuminating the ballerina, making her look like some type of supernatural being; a beauty incapable of being created by this world itself. And he stared. He stared at her with half lidded eyes and a lazy smile upon his lips, whilst perched on a long forgotten building block in front of him.
He didn’t know how much time had passed, an hour… maybe even two or three, but it wasn’t like he really cared. What use was time for a toy? He had his ballerina and for all the time in the world he would throw it away just to gaze upon her tiny frame. The small closing of her eyes told him that she was asleep and somehow she was even cuter then than she was when awake. There was no look of annoyance that she usually held and no deadness to her eyes… only the calm of rest and small blush of her cheeks adorned her face.
He sighed and if he closed his eyes he could still see her. He could imagine that they weren’t toys, that they were real humans, real people… with brains and bone, muscle and hearts. That he could hold her in his arms- he would be taller than her; that was for sure. In his dreams she was always small, barely coming to his shoulders so that her head would always rest gently against his chest when they embraced.
She had a name; Norge. A strange name, he decided, but best not to dwell on these things because it was her name and as long as it had something to do with the ballerina it was perfect. The way it would have rolled off of his tongue, should he have one, and the way he would whisper it over and over into her ear, “Sweet Norge, beautiful Norge, darling Norge, perfect Norge” All the words he wanted to say to her, to spill his heart out and lay his life at her feet would come out and end with her name.
He too had a name, as far as he was aware at least; Den. At least that was what the toy maker had always called him. Delicately repainting his worn out exterior he would mumble to himself things like, “Let’s get you all cleaned up now, Den.”, “Look at your poor leg, Den, it’s all bumped! Did you fall over again?” And so he assumed that this was his name and even if it wasn’t it was what he had come to recognise himself as- Den the soldier. Den the guard. Den the fool in love.
And he was in love. So desperately was he in love that he’d been getting more and more bold in his attempts to be noticed by the ballerina. He’d hopped to the front of his shelf and balanced dangerously on the edge, deciding whether or not he could make the jump, before realising that it was effectively suicide. So he’d retired for that night- settling upon the abandoned children’s toy to rest his chin in his hand and watch his love sleep. Even if he couldn’t physically protect her, couldn’t reach out and touch her or even introduce himself… he could at least watch over her until the morning came.
Behind him Den vaguely registered a creaking sound, followed by a bang before being repeated once again. A quick glance over his shoulder alerted him to the presence of one of the other toys awake at this hour- a troll doll. A large ugly thing it was, with beady eyes, a snapped horn, large, yellow teeth and a surly expression. The troll stared at him and Den offered a small wave of greeting before turning his attention back to the ballerina.
“Stop looking.” Came the gruff bark from behind him, heavily accented in Norwegian and filled with annoyance.
“I can’t.” Den replied. And it wasn’t a lie. He couldn’t turn away for every moment he spent without the small dancer in his line of vision his imaginary heart pined for her and his mind sent him visions of her dancing silently to the sad tune of her music box.
“I said stop looking at her.” He barked again.
“Why should I?” Den sighed, leaning ever more forward on his perch to gaze at Norge’s sleeping frame, and then turning to face the troll. He wished he hadn’t- the troll’s face was covered in only the utmost rage and hatred towards Den. Sure he could be annoying at times with how he would go on and on about how in love he was, much to the other toys’ amusement, but was there really a need for such anger?
“She’s not yours.” The troll growled at him. Den cocked a finely painted eyebrow at him,
“The whose is she?” The annoyance in his voice was obvious, which was odd as Den had never openly displayed annoyance before now. Was this a side effect of love, he wondered. He saw the troll doll bristle and let out an angry huff,
“Not yours. So stop looking.”
“You didn’t answer my question.” Den said, looking the troll dead in the eyes.
“I don’t need to.” Was the trolls simple response, nothing more and nothing less. His body was still and his eyes were calm but the annoyance and avoidance was clear.
“Then I won’t stop admiring her if you don’t tell me why I can’t.” Den shrugged, voice calm but still obviously irritated.
“I won’t warn you again.” The troll grunted and Den could tell now that the troll doll was getting more and more angry- body language showed that he was debating between moving forward to square up to him or move back to his original place just opposite where Den usually spent his days.
“Then don’t.” Was all that Den said, turning his back on the doll and returning to his vigil over the moonlit ballerina. Like a troll with a bad attitude was ever going to stop him doing what his “heart” told him…