Misty air was salty and hurt the lungs. At least, seaside misty air. England grew up with this. Hiding behind rocks, burrowing under roots, throwing debris over himself. Fighting was hard but one day he would get good at it. Hiding was all he could do for now. Never mind all the bigger nations: Denmark, France, even his own older brothers. One day he'd show them all. But not today, not now.
Misty air breathed over the hull of a ship felt real good, though. The sun never sets on the British Empire. It felt so grand. Blowing up other ships and swinging on ropes and cradling jewels to bring back to the Queen. Planting his flag and establishing territory, establishing rule. He could fight now and goddamn was he going to fight now.
Misty air was what he wanted to smell. Working long hours in these new-fangled factories. Making dresses and pots. Sometimes getting out to place the rails for trains – or even riding them! Times were spent dreaming of the ocean, throwing back the machines and begging the Queen to let him go to Egypt. She said, 'not now'.
Misty air that hung over still waters was ominous. Flying those planes to beat those Jerries. Throwing down the bombs that destroyed families and destroyed history – killed everyone's hard work and made those who hundreds of years ago constructed buildings wither. Upturning the dirt and throwing up the rocks and bringing down the house. Things would start happening real soon, now.
Misty air that clung to polls and clouded vision and times gone by. England was still relevant now. But all those memories, those hundreds of years. Hiding from Denmark, clashing with France, sailing, taking and establishing, sweating in factories and on rails, tucking into the plane and dropping bombs… it was all over. War was done. No one could invade anyone else, not anymore, not really. It was the time for talks and meetings and air conditioning and triple mocha lattes. It wasn't England's time anymore, not really and not now.