#never bluff the dawn herald

[cinlat]

OC Kiss Week 2020: Day 3 (Theron/Zolah/Vector)

Sadly, I have no kiss pictures for any of them, much less where they are all together. The Theron romance bugged when I went back through with Zolah on the expansions and wouldn’t let me play it again. Maybe one day I’ll run her through the story again since I never expected any of them to become such major characters. For now, have them standing around being cute.

Day One (Balic/Elara) • Day Two (Fynta/Jorgan)

Prompt: Rest Word Count: 764 (these are steadily becoming less micro. oops)

Theron woke to a foul taste in his mouth. It was evidence of his poor lifestyle choices that he could identify the exact brand of narcotic used to incapacitate him. His head flopped to one side, suspicions confirmed at the sight of a familiar and naked, blue back. He’d been warned that this would happen, they both had.

“We see you are awake.” Vector stood at the door, two mugs of what Theron hoped was caf in his hands and fresh clothing draped over one arm. He looked like a butler coming to rouse his obstinate wards from bed after a long night of partying. 

Pushing himself up on wobbly arms, Theron blew air through his lips. “You drugged us.” It wasn't a question. Theron smacked his lips and frowned. "Where'd you get--"

Vector tisked, a strange clicking that only a killik joiner could manage. “You two left us with no choice.”

Theron chuckled, letting his question die and unable to find it within himself to be annoyed. Vector had given him and Zolah three weeks to request a leave of absence or he would take matters into his own hands. Both spies had called his bluff. Lesson learned. 

Vector leaned down to offer Theron a mug and placed a gentle kiss to his forehead. “It was a small dose, only enough to ensure we could move you aboard the ship without resistance. You’ve been asleep no more than an hour.”

Theron grinned, impressed that Vector had not only managed to drug two of their government’s best spies, but then move them, launch the ship, and have everything prepared to stave off a hangover when they woke. "An hour, that's all?" It really was too easy to underestimate the sedate man.

“What about her?” Theron asked with a nod towards Zolah's still unconscious form while sipping his caf. It was perfect, just the way he liked it. Of course, it was.

“We had to give her a larger dose,” Vector admitted, moving to his wife’s side and waving the caf beneath her nose. Theron felt offended that he was easier to incapacitate that a tiny woman like Zolah. Then again, her implants were more sophisticated, leading to more blood scrubbers. He'd judge it as a score for the Empire's technical superiority more than his failing. That took the bitter taste of inadequacy from his mouth.

Zolah snorted, coming awake all at once instead of gradually as Theron had. She sat up, blanket falling from her naked body and snatched the mug from Vector. Theron’s brows rose as she proceeded to down half the cup's contents, heedless of the heat.

When Zolah lowered the cup with a shiver, her red eyes settled on Vector in that silent way the two had of communicating that made Theron feel like the third wheel. “Damn you,” she growled, but the corners of her lips twitched up. “I should never have shown you that trick.”

“You knew that we would only use it in times of great need,” Vector replied with a wave of his hand. Zolah laughed. That sounded like a story that Theron needed to know more about. 

“Well,” Zolah purred, bending her knees to prop thin forearms on them. “You’ve taken us hostage, whatever will become of us?”

Vector’s black eyes slid first over his wife, then traveled conspiratorially over the rumpled sheets to where Theron’s bare leg peeked from beneath the sheet. “We have a few ideas.” He leaned forward to kiss Zolah with a lot more passion than he’d offered Theron. Of course, Theron hadn’t had caf yet.

Any doubts that might have started forming about Theron’s invitation to join vanished when Vector’s hand slid beneath the blanket to rest on his thigh. When the joiner pulled back, it was with a satisfied smirk. “We’ve prepared a day of rest. You’ll both be released to your duties after a solar rotation. Wait here while we fetch a proper meal from the galley.” 

Pulling out of Zolah's grasp, Vector started for the kitchenette. Not before shucking his jacket and draping it over the back of a chair first. There was a promise in that action. After he'd seen to their health, Vector intended to ensure they wouldn't try to sneak off the ship. Theron looked forward to that.

Theron leaned back in the bed, fingers meshed behind his head as Zolah curled against him. “Best hostage situation I’ve ever woken up to.”

Zolah hummed in response, and he felt her cheek move against his chest. “Yes. We should return the favor sometime. I’ll bring the handcuffs.”

[novamm66]

Red Sky in the Morning

Chapter 5 – Always Afraid

*Updated*  I am sorry to bombard you with these posts.  I but I wanted to get all of the updated chapters up before this weekend, well just cause.  Enjoy.

The moment Kiaya had arrived back in the cabin she sat on the bed and tore open the bundle that was all she had left of her belongings. The robes were nothing more than scraps of cloth holding the bundle together. Her leather breeches were completely serviceable, and her shirt was fine beyond a slice in the arm and some blood stains. It would be nice to have a change of clothes. Her sketchbook was gone, but she had expected as much. It was too easy to lose, and there was so much to learn in its pages.

Kiaya was stalling as she tried to fight off the panic about the necklace. The last thing in the bundle was her coin purse. At the sight of it, Kiaya’s eagerness suddenly turned cold and her hands shook as they hovered over the small leather bag.

“What are you waiting for?”

You are always afraid.

“That’s stupid and sort of untrue.” Kiaya’s voice trembled as she spoke aloud in the empty room. “What is the worst thing that can happen? You don’t get it back? It’s just a locket.”

Kiaya sat frozen as she trembled with an internal battle.

“Open. The. Damn. Bag.” Kiaya growled through gritted teeth as the mark throbbed, tinting the leather green.

In one move she opened the bag and dumped the contents on to the bed in front of where she sat. She held her breath as her eyes roamed over the metal pieces pooled together, trying to distinguish the right shape and colour of her locket. The moment her eyes focused on it and her fingers wrapped around the familiar object, the air whooshed out of her lungs as she fell on to her back, tears of relief streaming silently down her temples and soaking into her hair.

She had fallen asleep like that, fully dressed, clutching the locket in her hand.

---

Kiaya opened her eyes after barely enough sleep. As she lay there listening to the sound of a sleeping world, the early hour and the solitude began to release her demons.

It had taken ages for Kiaya to speak of the anxiety she didn’t understand or the darkness in her mind that forced her to believe the worse of herself. With the events leading to her arrival at the circle and those horrible first few years, the only thing keeping her alive was Evie and the promise she had made long ago.

Kiaya shook her head and forcefully rolled off the bed, the familiar pattern of her thoughts leading her down to the dark hole that she so often found herself trapped in. She fastened the necklace around her throat and quickly changed into the breeches and shirt from her old life. She added the lightly armoured coat she had chosen instead of robes. Kiaya hated robes with a passion, and she had decided while struggling up the temple valley that she would rather run around this country of ice and snow butt-ass naked than try to run and fight in robes ever again. However, the poor selection of lighter armour in the Inquisition supplies had almost called her bluff. Thankfully, it had been decided that she, Cassandra, Varric, and Solas would not leave to meet this Mother Giselle for a few days, to give all of them time to recover. She had taken advantage of the chance, and had spoken to the blacksmith, placing an order for light armour that would actually fit.

If I’m going to do this I’m going to do it as comfortable as possible. 

    You can’t do this and you know it. You will only get more people hurt.

“None of this is my fault,” Kiaya whispered to the room.

    But you’re still involved. Where you go people get hurt.

Kiaya tried to forcibly ignore the dark thoughts whirling in her mind, fuelled by the grief, exhaustion and fear that had been her waking life for what seemed like weeks. She had to get out, distract herself, do something, anything. She fastened her cloak around her shoulders and tucked a knife into the hidden sheath at her back.

She would bet her last coin that both the Spymaster and the Commander had set a watch on her cabin. She debated for a moment whether it was worth the energy to cast a spell to hide from watching eyes before she wrapped herself in silence and shadow. She slipped out of the cabin and out of the village.

I need to think, plan, clear my head.

  You’re running away.

I am not. I just need space to think, to breathe.

  You might be running in circles but you are still running.

“That doesn’t even make sense!”

It had been Lydia who had been the first person after Kiaya’s grandmother to really get past the barriers She had built around herself and who had started to help her trust again. Her mind shied away from the memories of her journey to the circle and the life she had found there, both good and bad. All her memories brought hurt and pain that she wasn’t ready to face yet. She instead tried to concentrate on the mantra Lydia had given her.

Breathe. Ride the lows; they end. Remember the highs; they will come again.

As she faded from tree shadow to tree shadow, putting as much distance between the village buildings as she could, she chanted under her breath, trying to drown out her doubts and fears.

I am strong. I am loved. This will pass.

---

Cullen was up early, before there was even a hint of dawn in the sky. He had gotten used to waking early as a recruit and it gave him comfort to stick to that routine. It was a small comfort.

Last night’s dreams had been different. He could feel heat rising in his face. It’s not unusual to dream of her. She’s the centre of all this, she’s the key to closing the Breach, of course she would be on my mind. Cullen busied himself getting ready to start his day. He preferred to get his own fighting drills out of the way early; easier to avoid the constant interruptions that the rest of the day brought.

As he got dressed, his mind slipped back to yesterday and his first actual meeting with the woman he now knew as Kiaya Trevelyan. He was not convinced that the benefits of using the Trevelyan name outweighed the negatives, but Josephine was firm in her belief that it would help. She and Leliana also had plans to use Evelyn Trevelyan’s name as well. His concern was not alleviated when he had asked the Herald if they would come after her, and she had joked about it.

But Josephine seemed very confident in her ability to work this to their advantage. She would know. Cullen would never like politics no matter what form they came in, and was happy to leave it to the skills of Josie and Leliana. However, the safety of Haven and all of its occupants was his concern, and he still hadn’t figured out the best way to ensure that any more attacks against the Herald would be prevented, especially if they were going to involve hired professionals in the future.

He had hoped to have a chance to talk to her himself after the meeting had concluded, however, the Herald had not seemed eager to talk to him or anyone, having bolted from the room at the first opportunity. Cullen had noticed how she had stiffened when he was introduced as well as when his history as a templar had come up in discussion. He tried to ignore the irritation that these reactions kept sparking in him, but it was one step at a time.

Cullen prepared for his daily training routine, dressing in a light shirt and pants with his sword strapped at his side. Shield and armour drills were better with a sparring partner. His early morning drills were just for him, to centre him, to sweat off the nightmares and headaches and pain in his muscles that seemed to be almost constant since he had given up lyrium.

He left his tent. It still bothered him how easily everyone seemed to defer to this woman that they still knew so little about. Leliana was still waiting to receive information from the Ostwick Circle, and she was frustrated that it was taking so long. Something was going on there, she was sure of it, and had dispatched some of her spies to find out what it was. Cullen would admit that they needed the power to close rifts, but it was premature to bring her into the top ranks of the Inquisition. Cassandra, however, and surprisingly Leliana, had insisted.

He scowled as he tried to silence the echoes of the vitriol that Knight-Commander Meredith had fed him through the years in Kirkwall.  It had been four long years and his guilt at his compliancy with her hatred methods still haunted him.

Cullen was lost in his thoughts as he walked the path outside of town. As he neared the quiet grove of trees that served as the fallen’s temporary resting place, he suddenly heard a raised voice that snapped his body into action even before his ears realized what he had heard.

Maker, please don’t tell me I have failed already…

Cullen broke through the undergrowth blocking his view, sword in hand, and froze just before crossing into the clearing.

—-

Kiaya wandered in circles around the village, keeping out of the way of the patrols, for what felt like hours. Dawn had finally made an appearance, filling the hills with a pearly grey light, tinged with the sickly green from the Breach that seemed to reach everywhere. Kiaya found herself in a clearing filled with snow covered mounds neatly laid out in rows. It took her a moment to realize where she was. She had emerged into a grove almost completely surrounded by trees. She could see a path that touched the far side, probably leading back to the village. It was what filled the grove that sucked the breath from her body and made her heart lurch and stutter. It was beautiful; the silent rows of wrapped bodies were covered with fresh snow, forming gentle rows of white that cast sharp black shadows in the early morning light. The entire grove was a field of white and black waves.

Kiaya was hit by a wave of grief and guilt that caused her body to shake. This was where they had chosen to rest the dead that were recoverable from the temple as well as the soldiers who fell fighting the demons at the temple.

“How can I bear this?” Her own faint voice barely reached the edges of the clearing, but the effect of breaking the silence was immediate.

“You’re the Herald of Andraste... this is your fault... you killed her... YOU KILLED HER...”

She whirled around to see a young elven woman rising from the snow not ten feet away.

You fucking idiot, you know people are trying to kill you.

The woman was shaking, body tense like a bow string but something in her face stopped Kiaya from drawing her dagger.

I hope I’m reading this right.

The woman attacked her.

---

Cullen was on the wrong side of the clearing to do anything but stand and watch.

The young girl had flown at Kiaya with no skill or training behind her but pure fury in her favour. The girl was taller than the Herald, but was thin as a sapling. The Herald was close to twice her weight, which she used to her advantage as she ducked under the first wild swings aimed at her head, and wrapped her arm arms around the girl’s body pulling her into a secure embrace.

Cullen watched as the Herald held the girl tightly as she flailed against the woman’s back, then almost as quickly collapsed against her sobbing onto her shoulder. The two women sank to their knees in the snow; the words the Herald was saying were overrun by the sobs coming from the girl.

Cullen slipped deeper back into the shadows of the trees, shaking his head in disbelief as he silently sheathed his sword. He kept his hand on the hilt, watching the two women talking.

His sudden relief at seeing the Herald unharmed and not in any danger quickly gave way to confusion, and the whole situation didn’t do much to alleviate his worries from before. He watched as the Herald got the girl back on her feet and helped her gather up her meagre belongings from under the snow.  He was too far away to hear the whispered words but they shortly resulted in the elven girl heading toward the village. How could that have possibly worked?

---

Kiaya watched as Lyra disappeared into the trees. She hadn’t chosen to take the path, which was probably a good thing since the Commander was barely managing to remain concealed as it was. She attempted to surreptitiously wipe away the tears and snot that were the result of the emotional conversation she just finished.

The sound of footsteps was quickly muffled by the powder on the ground and after only a few moments, silence descended on this resting place of the dead. Kiaya told herself that she wanted to wait until the young woman was well away before she called the Commander out of hiding but in truth she was trying to calm herself and it wasn’t working. Her mind swirled with thoughts and memories, each one coming faster than the last. Waves of panic crashed over her; her lungs unable to draw air, and her vision started to dim around the edges.

I can’t, I can’t do this. Not now.

The sound of the snow crunching as the Commander shifted his weight brought Kiaya sharply back to herself.

Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. I am stronger than this fear.

“You can come out now Commander.” Good, steady voice, just get out of here without being an ass.

“Herald, are you alright?” Cullen moved around the edge of the clearing, approaching her quickly. Kiaya kept her head slanted down looking at the man as he drew near. Maker’s fuck he’s big, I mean tall, I mean, Shut up.

“Herald?” He’s talking to you answer him...

“What? Of course I am alright. What the fuck are you doing following me?”

Wait. Why are you attacking him? He didn’t do anything! Her emotions were determined to run the full gambit today and when the panic had been corralled the anger had rushed in to take its place.

She could see the hurt and confusion in his eyes as her words froze him to the snow. The accusation in her words, and the sharpness of her tone had not sparked his own temper, surprisingly, as he instantly stiffened his posture and his brow drew down into a scowl.  “I wasn’t following you. No one is following you. I heard shouting as I passed and came to investigate. I am glad my aid was unneeded however, if my presence is unwelcome I will leave.”

He spun on his heels and strode off as quickly as he had approached. Kiaya watched him go, her rage now at herself where it belonged.

“I am such an idiot.” She groaned aloud and dropped her face into her hands. “Ok that’s it: no more human contact until you can behave yourself.”

Waves of self loathing were lining up to drown her as soon as she let them. With one more regret filled look in the direction the Commander had gone, Kiaya slowly made her way back towards her cabin.

Thanks Loves.  Reblogs welcome.

[coneycat]

DUNKIRK--E.J. Pratt

The English May was slipping into June With heralds that the spring had never known. Black cavalry were astride the air; The Downs  awoke to find their faces slashed; There was blood on the hawthorn,   And song had died in the nightingales’ throats.

Appeasement is in its grave: it sleeps well. The mace had spiked the parchment seals And pulverized the hedging ifs and wherefores. The wheezy adverbs, the gutted modifiers.   Churchill and Bevin have the floor, Whipping snarling nouns and action-verbs Out of their lairs in the lexicon, Bull-necked adversatives that bit and clawed, An age before gentility was cubbed.

A call came in from the Channel Like the wash of surf on sand. Borne in by the winds against the chalk escarpments. Into the harbors, up the rivers, along the estuaries, And but one word in the call. Three hundred thousand on the beaches. Their spirit-level vision straining West! A vast patience in their eyes. They had fought pig iron, manganese, tungston, cobalt; And their struggle with hunger, thirst,   And the drug of sleep. Had multiplied the famine in their cheeks For England, By forty miles divided from her brood. Seven millions on the roads in France, Set to a pattern of chaos Fashioned through years for this hour. Inside the brain of the planner No tolerance befogged the reason — The reason with its clear-swept halls, Its brilliant corridors. Where no recesses with their healing dusk Offered asylum for a fugitive. The straightedge ruled out errors. The tremors in the sensory nerves, 40 Pity and the wayward impulses, The liberal imbecilities. The reason reckoned that the allied guns Would not be turned upon the roads To clear the path for the retreat. It reasoned well — Brutality, an art which had been bogged In some stray corner of the field In that Gallic- Anglo-Saxon fumble of the game.

REGATTA AND CREW

Millenniums it had taken to make their stock. Piltdown hung on the frontals of their fathers. They had lain as sacrifices Upon the mortuary slabs of Stonehenge. Their souls had come to birth out of their racial myths. The sea was their school; the storm, their friend.

Foot by foot and hand to hand They had met the legions On the beaches and in the surf. Great names had been delivered unto them;

Caractacus, Taking his toll of the invaders In his retreat to the fens and hills;

Boadicea, The storming of Londinium and Verulamium, And the annihilation of the Roman ninth;

Alban, Alfred, Athelney, Edington! And in the march of their survival They had fought the poll tax and burned The manor rolls under Ball and Tyler. They had led the riots against the Enclosures. They had sung ballads to the rhythms of the gibbets. The welts had been around their necks and ankles. They had swept the Main with Hawkins and Drake.

Morgan-mouthed  vocabularians, Lovers of the beef of language,

They had carved with curse and cutlass Castilian grandees in the Caribbean.

They had signed up with Frobisher, Had stifled cries in the cockpits of Trafalgar. They had emptied their veins into the Marne.   Freedom to them was like the diver’s lust for air. Children of oaths and madrigals. They had shambled out of caves To write the clauses of the Charters, To paint the Channel mists,   To stand hushed before the Canterbury tapers.

THE RACE ON THE CHANNEL

The Royal Yacht squadrons of the Thames and Cowes, Those slim and rakish models of the wave-line theory, Flying the ensign with their Club devices — Grand-daughters of Genesta and the Galatea   Whose racing spinnakers Outsilvered and outflew the sea gulls off the Isle of Wight. Cutters, the pride of Folkestone and Sheerness With their press balloon jibs, Their billows of flax and hemp Smothering their single masts And straight-running bowsprits. Excursion paddlers — Last of the family known as the fleet of the butterflies, Purveyors of moonlight sonatas and Sunday siestas. The fireboats from the London Fire Brigade. Luggers with four-sided sails bent to the yards And slung obliquely to the masts, Smelling of the wharves of Deal. Smacks that built the Grimsby name. Yawls with their handy mizzen sails — The Jacks-of-all-trades on the English coast. Barges spritsail-rigged with jigger booms. Bluff-bowed billyboys and Norfolk wherries, Skiffs that stank of herring roes and Yarmouth. Dutch scoots and square-stemmed bawleys rank With kelp, fish scales and the slime of eels. And with them all, the merchantmen. Three-funnel liners turbine-driven, Cabin cruisers, with whaleboats, rafts, and dories Tied to the grimy tails of barges drawn by tugs.

A Collingwood came from Newcastle-on-Tyne, Trelawney and Grenville of the Cornish Line, And Raleigh and Gilbert from the Devon Seas With a Somerset Blake. They met at the quays — McCluskey, Gallagher, Joe Millard, Three riveters red from Dumbarton Yard, And Peebles of Paisley, a notary clerk.

Two joiners from Belfast, Mahaffy and Burke, Blackstone and Coke of Lincoln’s Inn, A butcher from Smithfield, Toby Quinn, Jonathan Wells, a Sheffield bricklayer, Tim Thomas of Swansea, a borough surveyor.

Jack Wesley, a stoker, by way of South Shields, And Snodgrass and Tuttle from Giles-in-the-Fields, Young Bill of Old Bill with Hancock and Reid, two sons of a bishop from Berwick-on-Tweed, A landscape gardener of Tunbridge, Kent, Povey, a draper from Stoke-on-Trent, Arthur Cholmondeley Bennington-Grubbe With Benbow of the Boodles Club, A Ralph Abercrombie, a Fetherstonehaugh With Smith, and Ibbs, and Jones, and Buggs — They met on the liners, yachts and tugs; The Princess Maud, the Massy Shaw, The Crested Eagle, the Nicholas Drew, The Gurgling Jean and the Saucy Sue.

Two prefects from Harrow — Dudley and Fraser, Fresh in their gray flannel trousers and blazer, Helping two tanners. Muggins and Day, To rig up a sail at a mizzen stay. Were hailed by a Cambridge stroke — “ Ahoy! Will you let me go on your billyboy? ”

A curate from Cardiff, the Reverend Evans, Inspired with zeal by a speech of Bevin’s, Called on a Rochester verger named Burchall, Likewise inflamed by a speech from Churchill — Together they went to a Greenwich jetty And boarded a lighter — the Bouncing Betty.

Meadows, the valet, tapped at the door Of Colonel Ramsbottom, late of Lahore: ’Twas dawn, and the Colonel was sick with a head; “ The Dean and his lordship, the Bishop, are here. And your sloop, sir, is ready down at the pier. And may I go with you? ” Meadows said — “ No,” roared the Colonel, as he creaked out of bed. Blasting out damns with a spot of saliva, Yet the four of them boarded the Lady Godiva.

A Captain with a Cape Horn face. Being down on his luck without a ship, Had spent ten years in his own disgrace As skipper of a river ferry — Tonight he was taking his finest trip As master of a Norfolk wherry.

The junior partner, Davie Scott, Of MacTavlsh, MacEachren, MacGregor, and Scott, Conspired with Murdoch, MacNutt, and MacPhail To go to Gravesend that evening and sail For the Beach in Mr. MacTavish’s yacht.

HEARD ON THE COLLIERS

“ I’ve been in a bit of a muss, mesen, With my game left leg,” said Eddie Glen, “ And every night my faintin’ spells, Contracted in the Dardanelles.”

“ My floatin’ kidney keeps me ’ome. My shoulder too ’as never ’ealed,” Quoth Rufus Stirk of ’Uddersfield, Cracked with shrapnel at Bapaume.

“ Ovv, wot’s a kidney, look at me, A bleedin’ boulder in my lung,” Said ’Umphrey ’Iggins of Bermondsey; “ A ’Igh Explosive ’ad me strung On the top of a ruddy poplar tree For thirty hours at Armenteers, ’Aven’t spit straight nigh twenty years.”

“Now, my old woman,” said Solomon Pike, “ Says ’Itler’s sueh a fidget like; ’E steals the cows and ’ens from the Danes, ’E rummages France, ’e chases the Poles, And comes over ’ere with ’is blinkin’ planes To drive us to the ’Yde Park ’oles Where there’s nary a roof that isn’t leakin’. Swipin’ the pillows right under our ’eads. Shooin’ us out from our ’umble beds. ’E’s a mug, I says, in a manner o’ speakin’.”

“ How lang d’ye ken it’ll take to get through it? ” Said a cautious drover, Angus Bain. “ It’ll take a bit o’ doin’ to do it. The blighters are dropping bombs like rain,” Said the costermonger from Petticoat Lane.

Out on the Channel — laughter died. Casual understatement Was driven back from its London haunts To its clinical nakedness Along the banks of the Ilissus.

In front of the crew were rolling mountains of smoke Spilling fire from their Vesuvian rims; The swaying fringes of Borealis blue; The crimson stabs through the curtains; The tracers’ fiery parabolas. The falling pendants of green from the Verey lights; The mad colors of the murals of Dunkirk.

Space, time, water, bread, sleep. Above all — sleep; Commodities beyond the purchase of the Rand.

Space — A thousand pounds per foot! Not up for sale In the cabin suites or on the floors of the lighters. The single Mole was crammed with human termites. Stumbling, falling on the decks of the destroyers. Sleeping, dying on the decks of the transports Strung along the seaward end.

The solid black queues on the sand waited their turn To file along the bridgehead jetties Improvised from the army lorries, Or waded out to swim Or clutch at drifting gangplanks, rafts, and life belts.

Time — Days, weeks of the balance of life Offered in exchange for minutes now.

Stuff of the world’s sagas in the heavens! Spitfires were chasing Heinkels, one to twenty. The nation’s debt unpaid, unpayable. Was climbing up its pyramid. As the Hurricanes took on the Messerschmitts.

THE MULTIPEDES ON THE ROADS

Born on the blueprints. They are fed by fire. They grow their skin from carburized steel. They are put together by cranes. Their hearts are engines that do not know fatigue In the perfection of their valves. In the might of their systolic thrusts. Their blood is petrol: Oil bathes their joints. Their nerves are wire. From the assembly lines they are put on inspection.

They pass tests. Are pronounced fit by the drill sergeants. They go on parade and are the pride of the High Command. They take, understand, and obey orders. They climb hills, straddle craters and the barbed barricades. They defy bullets and shells. Faster than Genghis’ cavalry they speed, Crueler than the hordes of Tamburlaine, Yet unknowing and uncaring. It is these that the rearguards are facing — Creatures of conveyer belts. Of precision tools and schedules.

They breathe through carburetted lungs; If pierced, they do not feel the cut, And if they die, they do not suffer death. And Dunkirk stands between the rearguards and the sea.

Motor launches from the Port of London, Lifeboats from the liners. Whaleboats, bottoms of shallow draught. Rammed their noses into the silt, Packed their loads and ferried them to scoots and drifters. Blood and oil smut on their faces, The wounded, dying and dead were hauled up Over the rails of the hospital carriers In the nets and cargo slings.

IN THE SKIES

The world believed the trap was sprung. And no Geneva words or signatures of merey Availed the quarry on the sands. The bird’s right to dodge the barrels on the wing, The start for the hare. The chance for the fox to eross his scent. For the teeth to snap at the end of the chase, Did not belong to this tally-ho.

The proffered sword disclaimed by the victor, The high salute at the burial of a foe Wrapped in the folds of his flag. The wreath from the skies. Were far romantic memories.

As little chivalry here As in the peregrines chasing the carriers. As in the sniff of the jaekals about a carcass!

Here over the dunes The last civil rag was torn from the body of war —   The decencies had perished with the Stukas.

From Dover to Dunkirk, From Dunkirk to Ramsgate, And baek to the dunes. Power boats of the enemy Were driving torpedoes into transports and colliers, Lifting the engines clear from their beds. Blowing the boilers, sheering the sterns. And the jettisoned loads gathered up from the sea Were transferred to other decks And piled in steep confusion On the twisted steel of the listed destroyers. On the rough planks of the barges. Into the hatches of the freighters. Jammed against bulkheads and riddled ventilators,   On the coils of the cables.

On quarterdecks and in the fo’c’sles. On the mess tables and under them.

“ Was that roar in the North from the Rodney We hope to God it was.”

Drip of the leadlines on the bows — “ Two fathoms, sir, four feet, three and a half.” “ Wake up, you dead end. You’re not on the feathers now. Make room for this ’ere bloke.” “ Stiff as cement ’e is.” “ Git a gait on, Or the Stukas’ll be raisin’ boils on your necks.” “ Ahoy, skipper, a can of petrol.” “ Compass out of gear — Give us the line to Ramsgate.” “ Follow the skoots.”

The great birds, carrying under their wings   The black distorted crosses, Plunged, straightened out, I.aid their eggs in air. Hatched them in fountains of water. In craters of sand, To the leap of flame. To the roar of avalanche.

And in those hours. When Death was sweating at his lathe. When heads and legs and arms were blown from their trunks, When the seventh day on the dunes became the eighth. And the eighth slumped into the dawn of the ninth. When the sand’s crunch and suck under the feet Were sounds less to be endured than the crash of bombs In that coma and apathy of horror —

It was then that the feel of a deck. The touch of a spar or a halyard. Was like a hold on the latch of the heart of God,

I’s the Navy's job! It’s their turn now,   From the Beach to the ports. Let the Stukas break their bloody necks on the Mole; Let the fires scorch the stars — For now, whether on the burnished oak of the cabins, Or on the floor boards of the punts,   Or in the cuddies of the skiffs. Sleep at last has an even game with Death.

The blessed fog — Ever before this day the enemy. Leagued with the quicksands and the breakers —   Now mercifully masking the periscope lenses. Smearing the hairlines of the bombsights, Hiding the flushed coveys.

And with it the calm on the Channel The power that drew the teeth from the storm, The peace that passed understanding, Soothing the surf, allaying the lop on the swell. Out of the range of the guns of Nieuport, Away from the immolating blasts of the oil tanks.

The flotillas of ships were met by flotillas of gulls   Whiter than the cliffs of Foreland; Between the lines of the Medway buoys They steamed and sailed and rowed.

Back to the roadsteads, back to the piers Inside the vigilant booms,   Back to the harbors. Back to the River of London, to England,

Saved once again by the tread of her keels.

[silversiins]

chest, build, legs :)!

CHEST. the growing pains that turned his ribs into pronounced ridges never went away. the skin still clings tightly to their uneven crests, to the arch where they meet at his sternum, reminiscent of a time where he begged and he starved. ( he could eat more – he could eat until he grew into his bones. ) the scars here are small, minute in comparison to others well hidden, but just below his left breast where the contorted flesh is old and pale he can still feel the scalding BURN of a cigar. ( he’s reminded of just how vivid they still are. ) crescent moons are the heralds of scratch marks drawn deep; he clawed and he clawed at the unseen parasites tearing into his skin like the hungry do. ( the ship carried him far from home, and he thought hell ended there. ) 

BUILD. his mama used to pinch at his sides and proclaim in that squeaky voice of her’s ‘so skinny! you need to eat more!’ ( it was the same for any relative who stepped in their foyer. )  his spine was crooked and scraped against the backs of chairs even before the revolt. knobs that cracked looked hobbled together by the jittery hand of an old stonemason. ( this has not changed. ) the gratuitous definition of lanky limbs and malnourished joints has, in years, been layered by muscle hard earned. ( boy, you cannot be soft. ) in age’s late dawn, scrutinizing papers and stations at desks may have left him pudgier than before, but do not call its bluff. amongst the sharp edges of his imperfect skin, the one that molts and grows back just as flawed, the slow slope of his hips always had his papa leering. ( he was told he has the waist of a woman. ) it’s drawn thin here, like the centromere of an hourglass, but decades of good food and sweat-worthy labor have done nothing to help. he could claim he was never soft to begin with– that his lack in muscle was compensated by the callous of his skin. no jagged rock nor spiteful whip could leave him soft. 

LEGS. heavens were witness to this boy running. lofty stars cold watchful eyes, blinking in the inky void and silence would know the sound of his bare feet on sodden moss, the scratch of his nails on lichen covered rocks. dark mud streaked his calves, warpaint from a benign earth. scraped knees were battle scars from late night escapades. ( he traced the oozing cuts in early grey mornings. ) his mama would cuff him rough, her thin lips the mouthpiece of ignored scoldings. ( and he would sneak out again the same evening. ) cloudless nights strung the moon high, its gentle glow licking white on his flashing heels. tendons and muscle now yet serve as immovable columns, sculpted by the pursuit of something more and the fleeing of something evil. 

             ( keep him running. )

HERE && open.