Norway breathes in the still air of his attic, boxes and paintings surround him on all sides, trinkets from the past- memories. At one point he tried to date his boxes but found that there were just too many years in his long life to do so. There were a couple with dates though, years too prominent in his life to just let blend in with the rest.
His eyes scan over these boxes, 874- The year he found Iceland all alone in his forests, 1536- The year his union with Denmark started and… 1814- The year his union with Sweden started. Of all the years in his life, that one might be the most painful. His hand shakes at the thought of having to go through that box. Maybe he shouldn't, maybe reliving that point in his life isn't worth the potential things he could donate to his museums.
Despite his better judgement, he opens the box and memories come flooding back just from the smell. The violin Sweden carved for him his first couple years at his house laid at the top. Norway chuckles a bit at the memory. He had been crying again in the woods, under his favourite tree when Sweden approached him cautiously. Things had been awkward between them since he got there, so much so that they barely spoke.
"I know you're not happy here, Norge. So I… I made you this, since you weren't able to bring yours... " He had said as he held out the violin, even then he was proficient in woodworking. It was beautiful, and the thought of being able to play music again quelled his tears. The gesture had meant so much to him, Norway remembers, he played it constantly.
Under the violin, were clothes and a few pictures of nothing. Taken before he realised no one could see the forest creatures but him. He liked it that way back then, it was nice to finally have something of his own after being forced to share everything with someone. The clothes could be donated to a museum, they were too outdated and tattered to go anywhere else. As he lifts up the clothes to put at his side, a thick stack of paper falls from between the pieces of grey fabric.
The letters he used to write to Denmark.
Now sitting at his kitchen table, the bound stack of letters lay before him. They had kept him sane back then, even if he was never allowed to mail them. His subconscious must have pushed the memories of writing these letters to the depths of his mind. The blank spots is a sign most people wouldn't ignore, reasoning if your brain can't even handle storing the memory then it must be something worth forgetting. A less curious man would throw the letters in the garbage and go about the rest of his day, Norway thinks. But one of his greatest flaws is his untamable curiosity and so he decides that the best thing to do is brew some coffee… and read the letters.
