(no subject)
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.
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