Ports held great memories for everyone, but to him who had lived a thousand years they held naught. He was more interested in the faint trails left on the sand by the rolling waves. It was among them that he had met the first of the many persons entwined in his life, and also perhaps, his first shoe.
“You look like a caterpillar”, the stranger had said and it was then he knew he had justified reason to detest him. Looking up, he was greeted with unfamiliar scent and peculiar clothing. Are you a girl, he wanted to ask, but was promptly cut off with pointed finger.
“Who are you?” As he opened his mouth to complain, he was stopped once again.
“See, over there is my home.” He followed the stranger’s gesture to the barely visible land in the distance. “I suppose we are neighbors.”
Centuries later, through little walks in the forest, through clashing sword and bloodied limbs in trenches, he would realize that they were much more than neighbors and learn that Calais is seven leagues from the tip of his shoulder.
But he never admits this.
IV
Most of them he first met gazing curiously from behind palm trees or jutting rock, running away at the splash of his boots on the water. It was always these moments he remembered the clearest: the sand crunching beneath his feet and the excitement of discovering another one of his kind. More than that though was the thrill of finding a colony – his little children he simply adored, whom he would woo and lavish with gifts to raise under his care. His house was a blissful home, even for a while.
It pained him of course when they started leaving, when the childish laughter gave way to angry riots and gunfire. He always feared that they would completely abandon him, in thought and heart as well. But he never wished them ill and loved them all the same. His lords begged to differ, yet amidst the wounding words in pouring rain, tense talks and signed papers that threatened to tear him apart, throughout every rebellion and every fevered glare sent his way, they did him proud. He figured he had raised them well enough.
He missed the sand and the sailing, but the airports did as well. Their brightened curious faces peeking from waiting crowds and luggage reminded him of the tender days of long ago. His house had become empty, but this was only because his home lay somewhere else.
V
The sea, he’d like to think, was a jealous mistress who never freed him from her tempest. Even now, in the years past empires and wars laced in sulfur and fire, her grip held deep and strong in his heart. It was maddening but he thought of it fondly. She kept him, he realized, like a lady would a pretty trinket – selfishly hidden and guarded in a box on her dresser. He imagined he had some sort of worth; after all, it was she who kept him away from all those he loved.
It was her as well, who had given him passage to explore the grandiose world (and on a particular late afternoon in June, maybe, to conquer it). Like her, he wanted to feel the whole world around him and revel in the great expanse of varied cultures and varied lives. It was a gift, her best one and his most cherished. His mistress could be trying at times, but she had brought him his children, his beloved and his friends. For this, he adored her.
____________________________________________________________________ Hope you enjoyed! Also, it is June for a reason, but the reason is not that important. c:
England Contemplates His Navel Over Tea, On a Late Afternoon in June (2/2)
Ports held great memories for everyone, but to him who had lived a thousand years they held naught. He was more interested in the faint trails left on the sand by the rolling waves. It was among them that he had met the first of the many persons entwined in his life, and also perhaps, his first shoe.
“You look like a caterpillar”, the stranger had said and it was then he knew he had justified reason to detest him. Looking up, he was greeted with unfamiliar scent and peculiar clothing. Are you a girl, he wanted to ask, but was promptly cut off with pointed finger.
“Who are you?” As he opened his mouth to complain, he was stopped once again.
“See, over there is my home.” He followed the stranger’s gesture to the barely visible land in the distance. “I suppose we are neighbors.”
Centuries later, through little walks in the forest, through clashing sword and bloodied limbs in trenches, he would realize that they were much more than neighbors and learn that Calais is seven leagues from the tip of his shoulder.
But he never admits this.
IV
Most of them he first met gazing curiously from behind palm trees or jutting rock, running away at the splash of his boots on the water. It was always these moments he remembered the clearest: the sand crunching beneath his feet and the excitement of discovering another one of his kind. More than that though was the thrill of finding a colony – his little children he simply adored, whom he would woo and lavish with gifts to raise under his care. His house was a blissful home, even for a while.
It pained him of course when they started leaving, when the childish laughter gave way to angry riots and gunfire. He always feared that they would completely abandon him, in thought and heart as well. But he never wished them ill and loved them all the same. His lords begged to differ, yet amidst the wounding words in pouring rain, tense talks and signed papers that threatened to tear him apart, throughout every rebellion and every fevered glare sent his way, they did him proud. He figured he had raised them well enough.
He missed the sand and the sailing, but the airports did as well. Their brightened curious faces peeking from waiting crowds and luggage reminded him of the tender days of long ago. His house had become empty, but this was only because his home lay somewhere else.
V
The sea, he’d like to think, was a jealous mistress who never freed him from her tempest. Even now, in the years past empires and wars laced in sulfur and fire, her grip held deep and strong in his heart. It was maddening but he thought of it fondly. She kept him, he realized, like a lady would a pretty trinket – selfishly hidden and guarded in a box on her dresser. He imagined he had some sort of worth; after all, it was she who kept him away from all those he loved.
It was her as well, who had given him passage to explore the grandiose world (and on a particular late afternoon in June, maybe, to conquer it). Like her, he wanted to feel the whole world around him and revel in the great expanse of varied cultures and varied lives. It was a gift, her best one and his most cherished. His mistress could be trying at times, but she had brought him his children, his beloved and his friends. For this, he adored her.
____________________________________________________________________
Hope you enjoyed! Also, it is June for a reason, but the reason is not that important. c: