Norway had been reading in Denmark's library, when Iceland came in. At first the little boy had been sneaking around, trying to hide from his big brother, but after a while he gravitated towards the older nation.
Norway was sitting in one of the deep armchairs, his legs crossed and one of them bobbing in time to some unheard melody. Iceland stared at the foot wide-eyed, and slowly walked closer, hypnotized by the repetitive movement.
After a while his slow advance was noticed by the older nation, and Norway began sneaking glances at him over the edge of his book. A grin spread on his face as he watched his little brother approach like a moth drawn to the light. Iceland's face was scrunched up in the most adorably concentrated frown and his hand clenched around a wooden longship.
Finally the little boy was within reach, and with a cautious glance at his big brother he reached out to touch the bouncing leg. It moved away. Iceland furrowed his brow and tried again. He missed. Frustrated he took a small step forwards, and thus his fate was sealed.
The poor boy let out a startled 'eep' as he suddenly was grabbed, but it soon turned into shrieks of laughter when his brother tickled him. The thunk of the book hitting the floor went unnoticed as Norway struggled to keep the wriggling boy in his lap and tickle him at the same time. Laughter echoed off the walls and bookshelves, and Norway curled around Iceland, and placed an overly dramatic kiss on his brow. The he took the small hands in his own and let him slip over his knee and down his leg, until he settled on his foot.
"Hold on tight," he warned and little arms embraced his leg as Iceland stared at him in wide-eyed anticipation. Norway began singing, and bobbed the foot Iceland was sitting on in time to the song.
"Stamp fimpen, stamp fimpen,
While you're tiny and young..
When you grow old you'll be too heavy
And cannae no more stamp fimpen!"
He blinked and sighed, Iceland's laughter rang hollowly through his imagination. Sometimes he wished he could live in those rose-tinted days forever, but the golden-edged, yellowed memories would keep him going. He had many of them, an advantage of being old, he supposed, though pleasant memories were few and far between, he'd had plenty of time to create happy memories.
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Notes:
Trå Fimpen is a nursery rhyme, I don't really know what else to say about it. The translation is not perfect, but it is accurate.
The whole memory thing is simply because most nations have lived a long time, and not all of it has been very pleasant. Of course they would cherish the peaceful and happy memories they make.
Author's note:
Sorry. This chapter was not supposed to be this late, but I still haven't been able to kill the Writer's Block.
Reviews, questions and requests are always appreciated.
Until next time,
- Shrizyne