[Table Challenge] - Romania/Norway - Random/3, 17, and 10 (three drabbles)
Title: [untitled]
Author: Kahlan Aisling
Claim: RomNor
Character(s): Norway
Table/Prompt: Random/3 -- Box
Word Count: 720
Rating: G
Summary: There are times when Norway doesn't understand his own thought process, but he's glad things ended the way they did.
It's old, wooden, and was probably painted at some point in time but now is just horribly chipped and faded. There are old runes carved around the edges and top, words he barely remember writing out a spell to keep prying eyes from accessing it. The box itself is only about a century old, if that, well-preserved and important to him. But that's a given, of course it's important -- Norway only puts things he's afraid of forgetting in there.
It's full of mostly negative memories right now. There's a tiny bird's nest; a lock of Iceland's hair; a charred wand snapped in half; a locket with the picture of a pretty teenage girl. He doesn't know her name anymore, though it's written behind the paper, he only knows that he's never supposed to let what happened to her happen again.
There are positive memories, too. One of his old hairclips that he can't wear anymore because it's about to rust apart. The knife he used to kill his first dinner. A small journal detailing every mythical creature he's found in his own territory (it's old and worn and he has an updated version downstairs).
There's a ribbon.
It's different from the rest of his memories in that it's a bright, vibrant, shimmering red. Where everything else is faded, dirty, old, this remains shiny and new and slightly ragged -- the ends are frayed, and there's a gash at one end where the threads are unravelling, and it's too short right now to do anything with. But it has potential.
It's one of Romania's old hat ribbons.
Norway took it in 1923, the first time he went over to the other nation's home. They didn't do much that evening, or perhaps they did a lot; Bucharest in the twenties was lit with gaslamps and French architecture and not quite as much to do as London or New York but that was to be expected. But despite this Romania was probably the strangest nation he'd met to date -- despite being in a good place and having all the right in the world to finally gloat and talk about himself, he'd kept diverting the conversation back to Norway.
"What is your home like?"
"Who are your friends?"
"What's your opinion?"
"Do you know any good stories?"
Stories. The man loved stories, even more than Denmark did. The way he'd listen, eyes glued on yours while with rapt attention, was something Norway hadn't seen since Iceland began putting himself to bed. It was nostalgic and something about it was a little beautiful.
Hours and hours later Norway was trying to get out of the country without taking all of Romania's belongings with him, which was much more difficult than at first it'd seemed. Romania was determined that he take practically the entire country with him, it seemed. Eventually, after much debate and negotiation and illogical arguments on Romania's part, he left to return to Oslo with only a red ribbon.
The ribbon had frayed over the years. In 1965, it'd gotten caught on a nail and torn almost all the way through -- that was when Norway had put it away, into the box, and just about forgotten about it.
He remembers it when a small piece of paper, a letter, comes in the mail. He remembers it, and wonders if any insects or rats have gotten to it (they shouldn't have, the box is protected after all), and writes a brief reply.
The next time he sees Romania, the nation doesn't have any ribbons at all. Just a hat with some threadbare strings. But the strings are twisted into braids, red and white for Matisor, and he says he's going to have ribbons soon. Not now, but soon.
Norway stares at the ribbon for a minute. Torn, frayed, but still bright, still with potential for something.
Denmark and England and everybody else had thought he was crazy for giving Romania the funds the Balkan asked for. America wasn't risking investment in such a newly-born independent country yet. And even Norway couldn't quite explain why he'd done it. He just. . . had.
He puts the ribbon back in the box. It's still good, for a while. It ought to be good forever.
It is magical, after all.
Title: [untitled]
Author: Kahlan Aisling
Claim: Romania/Norway
Character(s): Norway, Prussia
Table/Prompt: Random/17 -- Ground
Word Count: 322
Rating: G
Summary: Why does he play cards with this guy again? Sequel to Limits (second) and Dark (third).
A/N Okay I have no clue what this drabble has to do with the prompt. At all. So. . . yeah. Also, credit to my awesome Prussia mrslroxfor Traian's nickname.
"So, how are things with Trainpire, anyway?"
Lukas says nothing, continuing to stare down at his cards. Gilbert's poker face melts into a smirk as he waits for Lukas to play. "Come on," he prods. "I know something's up."
"Nothing's up."
"Something's always up with you guys, it just happens to be negative this time. Come on man, you're throwing me off my groove."
Lukas raises a thin eyebrow, carefully putting a card down on the table. "Since when do you have a 'groove'?"
"Since I just won again," Gilbert says, dropping his set and leaning back in his chair. He uses his hands to talk, big gestures to match his personality. "Seriously, I never win this much, there's a situation and I'm not liking it."
Lukas tosses the rest of his cards at the deck. "Why do you make me talk."
"'Cause otherwise you'd never say anything at all. You always just sit there and glare at everyone, it's no wonder your boyfriend feels like you don't do anything for him."
"That's not true."
"Does he know that?"
Lukas suddenly has no idea where this conversation is even going -- the problem, if there is one, isn't with him. It's with Traian. The Romanian is always having problems that require work to solve; Lukas has found that if he ignores it, it generally goes away. But this is all assuming there is a problem, which there isn't.
Or rather. There's the other problem. The problem Lukas isn't going to tell him about because it doesn't matter, really.
Gilbert barks a laugh. "You guys crack me up," he says. Lukas throws an apple from the fruitbowl at him, reaching for another when he just barely dodges.
"We're not a soap opera for your amusement," he retorts.
"You should be, the ratings are skyrocketing."
Well, then, Lukas is going to have to see to it that they don't get any higher.
Title: [untitled]
Author: Kahlan Aisling
Claim: RomNor
Character(s): Norway
Table/Prompt: Random/10 -- Own
Word Count: 325
Rating: G
Summary: This, then, is why neither a borrower nor a lender be.
The problem is that Norway doesn't know.
He lends money to Romania for a few reasons. In the beginning, it was because he wanted to see what the nation would do with it. A little while later, it was because he was used to it. Now, it's because he cares.
Yes, he cares. There's no point in trying to waltz around the point when it's obvious to everyone nearby. Denmark knows it, Bulgaria knows it, even Hungary knows it. It's no longer a secret, if it ever was.
But Romania's poor. He needs that money. Which in Norway's mind begs the question,
Why is he here, anyway?
He prides himself on considering these things with a straight face. He considers all things with a straight face. Romania accuses him (teasingly, because everything Romania does has a slightly cocksure snark about it) of turning back into ice when he'd just warmed himself at the fire, but it's a metaphor and Norway isn't fond of metaphors. They're too difficult to figure out.
"Be careful," Hungary had warned him, years and years ago now, "he'll do anything to achieve his goal." Her green eyes had been serious. "Anything."
Bulgaria, the one person who knew Romania better than Romania himself, wasn't any more supportive. "He's the kinda guy who'll drown you to save himself if he gets desperate enough, and we're all desperate right about now."
Prussia, or East Germany, or Gilbert Beilschmidt, or something like that, had spelled it out entirely: "Man's a gold digger. An honorable gold digger, but a gold digger just the same. He's got gypsy blood and he ain't afraid to use it."
Romania gives him a kiss and doesn't show that anything's wrong, that anything ever has been wrong. But his eyes are glittering, and Norway doesn't trust eyes that always seem like they're playing some elaborate joke.
In the end, he really just doesn't know.