24 December 1966

Dutiful listeners off the coast of Essex have found that their beloved pirate radio station's schedule has been cut from twenty-four hours to none.

It would be a very quiet Christmas indeed.

To mourn, many British homes have shut off their radios to pay their respects. Snow falls gently outside and keeps the streets bare. There are carolers, too, but their voices seem to sing eulogies instead of joyful melodies. In most homes, however, there is just an ill-fitting silence.

One man hears the silence too, even though he is not home at all.

He is on Knock John, a fortress out at sea. There is no music to accompany him; nothing but harsh winds that beat against the abandoned fortress. The rest of his crew has already left, and his family is waiting back home for him. Not him though, not yet. A captain never leaves his vessel until the very end.

At least until everything is packed.

He tells himself to tell his wife and children the story about Britain's Better Music Station, once Radio Essex, at the dinner table. His son Michael would accompany him later to move everything out. As he glosses over the radio equipment, he thinks of giving everyone on shore a shout-out—but then once more remembers that he can't.

Damn those government fines. Better yet, damn the government.

Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Major Paddy Roy Bates.

He is a tall fellow, with bushy brows and a mischievous look in the eyes below them. Even though he is quite fit and imposing, he is almost always smiling. You could certainly say that he is quite serious about the fun business.

After serving so loyally in Britain's Army, he retired. Took up fishing for a bit, and then retired from that too. Now they were trying to tell him to give up pirate radio.

They couldn't hear him, of course, but before he packed the microphone he gave them a string of the best (but perhaps not the most decent) words he could come up with—essentially, "No."

And that was that. Goodbye, Knock John.

Hello, sea.

From the sea there is freedom. The sea could not judge you for whatever thoughts or plans you had. It tested them. It could rain down a dreadful storm that put your life on the line. It could toss your boat over. It could drench you in freezing waters, send a thousand predators at your heel. If you emerged the victor, you could conquer anything.

The weather is frightfully cold. Mist hangs onto the air in white clouds, reforming immediately when Roy passes through them. He's layered heavily for this journey, as would anyone he had come to work with when they crossed these treacherous waters. He felt sorry for anyone who did not have these small luxuries out here in the open. There were few to begin with.

He cannot be left to his thoughts for too long. After some time, a tall obstacle appears in the shadowy mist, and he hurriedly takes a swift move in order not to crash into it.

What is in his path is what he has just passed—no, he did not travel in a circle, but what is before him mirrors what he left: another fortress.

And instead of passing this one, he begins to circle it. Never mind the silent warning to bugger off and go about his way. There are no other boats around. It seemed just as abandoned as the last. It was nearing Christmas, after all.

Familiarity rises to his memory, just as this fortress rose from the depths. He had heard of this one! Some man named O'Rahilly and his radiohad taken this fortress up. Very similar to Knock John, minus a central power at the top. When Roy backs up the boat, he finds that there is a helipad over the deck.

Genius.

Quite genius, but quite stupid to leave it abandoned on any day of the year. Now, what was the name? Not that it mattered, as Roy is settled on changing it anyway.

"Is that you, sir?"

A voice calls down to him from above. It is small and barely audible against the harsh weather. A child? Out here? Roy hadn't even brought Michael here more times than he thought was necessary.

"Hello! Who's out there?"

It was like straining for a radio signal in the middle of a storm. He thinks of asking whoever it is up there to repeat themselves.

"Hello! Hello! Are you out there, sir?"

Roy bites his lip. Children wouldn't be left alone on a fort, surely. He thinks of leaving. His beautiful wife and children have been waiting for hours. There is no radio to call them and assure them that he is safe. And he is cold, a middle-aged man who could not linger about here like he used to.

The engine revs up, and he prepares to go.

"Please answer me, whoever's out there! Hello?"

Somehow this is louder than the other calls. The poor boy would be sick if he stood out like that! …Well, best to give him a talking-to. And then he could take the fort. Even pirates had some manners.

He turns and inches his boat carefully towards the fortress. A few more seconds are all it takes for him to respond. "Hello!"

"Is that you, sir?!"

"Yes!"

He isn't lying. He is a sir, after all.

"So you came to see me! Blimey! Right, hang on, I'll get you up here soon!"

And then silence again. Roy smiles to himself despite the chills that run up and down his spine. He had done it! More than halfway there! He would have to fight O'Rahilly for it, and probably purchase all this, and other legal obligations—oh, what is he thinking. He's a pirate radio host, not a member of the BBC. Things would work out.

A cart swings down from above. It's rather small, especially for a grown man like him. But he pays the logistics no mind and hops right in, giving the rope a yank when he's ready. Almost immediately the cart starts rising at an exceedingly fast pace. Whoever's up there must be excited.

The rising halts. At first Roy assumes that he's been caught, and that the cart will go sinking into the water.

He is more than surprised when the cart tips over completely with a lurch. His stomach flips as he grips the cart's edges for dear life, but Roy lands on the deck, dizzy and disoriented. But he is not swayed—mentally, at least. He emerges, stretching and smiling.

The first thing that welcomes him is a young-looking boy. Thinned out to the bone, he was, with hair that Roy thought must have been blonde once upon a time—but it was dirty and hung in clumps around his face. His eyes, too, were blue and must have been brighter than how they looked at that very moment.

To Roy, the boy looked sadder than any child he had ever seen.

"…You're not O'Rahilly."

"Well, neither are you." Roy had no idea who this boy was, but he had a good head on his shoulders and enough British sense to figure out that the two were unrelated. His tongue, however, is not as quick as he'd hoped, because the boy speaks again.

"Are you a friend of his, then?" Suddenly the boy's fists clench and he stares the intruder down. "Or are you coming to scavenge?"

"No. I'm thinking of taking this fortress over," Roy said casually, as if he did such things all the time (to be fair, though, he had done it once already). "Now what are you doing here? Who are you?"

The boy stamped his foot. "Doesn't matter who I am! I belong to O'Rahilly now! Get off!"

"O'Rahilly's not here." Roy adopted a stricter tone then, reminiscent of his army days. "And if there's no one here besides you here, then I'm going to claim this fort as mine."

The boy gasped. He continued to glare at Roy, eyes glaring and fists shaking and teeth gritting at the unfairness of it all. In fact, Roy began to feel guilty, even when he had kept his stance just as firm. Imagine that! A child making a grown man feel remose. Roy felt as if he was punishing his son, and his own punishment was to gaze upon a boy who looked as if he'd had his heart broken.

He isn't sure about the last thing, but the boy did look cold. Without a second thought, Roy removed his overcoat and offered it to his small opponent. "I don't want to fight you, lad. Who are you?"

The boy is shivering, either from how hard he is grasping his hands or from the wind...possibly from both. His eyes dart from Roy's outstretched hand, holding the coat out, and back to Roy. He doesn't trust him. But a coat seems harmless to him, so he plucks it away as fast as he can.

"…Fort Roughs, sir. That's who I am. There's nothing left here, if you're trying to scavenge. Just a radio. And…I've been abandoned this Christmas. If they had left anything, it would have frozen by now. …Best that you go, sir. Wind at your back."

The boy turns his shoulder to go, but Roy expected so, and shouted after him.

"Wait, hold on! What do you mean by Fort Roughs? You?"

"…It's hard to explain, sir." The boy turned around. He kept his head low this time, and his voice quiet. "And to be honest, I'm not…well, not anymore. I've been decommissioned. They haven't blown me up yet, but they haven't taken me home either."

It was here, after the boy's forlorn speech that the man started grinning at him. It was the perfect opportunity. If no one were here to claim this fort, it was his. And if the government hadn't intervened up until this point, it was even more persuasion to come in.

"Well who are you then, to laugh at me like that? I've seen war, you know! I'm a war fortress!"

"Oh, lad. That won't do. The war's over. I fought in it too, you know."

The boy looked up at him from grimy fringe. "…Did you? Did they take of you?"

"Not really. Tried to get a fort of my own and they fined me. After I risked my life for them. Twits, they are." Roy clicked his tongue. "So, that makes two of us who'd like to see the government choke on some bollocks." The small joke makes the boy smile, just a little, but he wipes it off as quickly as it came. Roy continues anyway. "I want to understand this…predicament you're in. Will you let me inside?"

The boy gave him a harsh look, but he sighs. "…Sure. Since you own me now."

"Hush. Don't say that." The man bent down to his knees.

"But you do."

"Surely not. You're your own person. Just as I am myself."

"…Yeah, I meant to ask…who are you?"

"I'll answer that later."

The boy rolled his eyes and almost turned to leave again.

"Listen, old boy," Roy said. The boy stopped, but didn't look at him. The man assumed he was listening. "I like a bit of adventure. It's the old British tradition. Maybe Britain's changed, but there's a lot of us still about." He put a hand on the boy's shoulder, gently this time. The boy did not flinch. "And I think you're one of them."

Finally, their eyes met. "…I have never been on an adventure. I've never left this fort. …Even if it is cold, and harsh, I don't really want to. I'm not sure what's out there."

"Well, you've got a right to. It's your home. And it belongs to you and me."

"...Will you actually live here, though?"

Roy put a finger to his chin. Then he made a noise of agreement. "…That'll do well, I think. Would you mind if I brought my wife and children here too?"

"You have a family?"

"Yes. They might not come immediately, but I have a son who'll help me move everything from Knock John to here. Michael, his name is. He'd like you."

"…I feel I should know you first. Sir."

"I'll introduce myself later. How about this," he began, "on my wife's birthday. It's a little while from now, but it's a date that I can remember."

"How should I introduce myself?"

"Well, what is your name?"

The boy's eyes widened. Was his name a traumatic thing, Roy wondered. Had he been given a name, besides Roughs? He wasn't sure. He didn't understand this…human beings being made after forts business. But it was cold, and the boy had been neglected for some time. There was probably very little he was sure of too.

"Peter," he answered. And whatever little he was sure of, this must have been it. His name. It was as if he hadn't said it for a long time, and when he did, it was something very special. So Roy, too, treated it as such.

"Hello, Peter. I'm Major Paddy Roy Bates. But that's a mouthful, isn't it? Roy will do."

They shook hands.

Soon after, Peter left the fort for the first time in his life.

14 August 1967

The Marine Broadcasting Offences Act.

Peter had since returned to the fort permanently. Roy had kept his promise and brought his son this time, and while Peter guarded the fort—the two men would go and bring back radio equipment from Knock John. They told jokes and often brought back something from the mainland—food, blankets, other supplies—to Peter. After his initial wariness to accept them, he soon grew guilty for being unable to provide the same tokens of appreciation. To this, Roy would wave it off and ruffle the boy's hair.

"Thank you for letting us get your home involved in dirty business."

Peter shrugged. "Well, you know. Thank you for getting back at the government." He was becoming just as spirited as his new host.

"Ah-ah. What is it we call it?" Roy asked.

"…Oh! The damn government."

Michael began cackling a few ways away, and at first Roy seemed too stunned to speak. Peter feared that he may have upset them, but Roy smiled again, biting his lip to keep from laughing too hard. "Good thing we haven't been testing the radio equipment!"

They had grown quite close. Peter liked him much more than O'Rahilly. After the purchase had been settled, Roy came to visit Peter often, and not just to set up his radio. They even talked of the War, but very briefly—it was something neither of them liked. On happier days, Roy would bring pictures of his family and would talk about what each one had done. As Peter grew more and more comfortable, he would speak of his only relative (if you could call it that), his brother, Arthur. It was always a mixed thing when he did. It started out positive enough, but the more Peter talked the more he figured out his brother was not the best person, and not just to him. Roy had his disagreements and disappointments as well.

Peter was overjoyed when he heard that. He thought he had been the only one to harbor such feelings about his brother, about England, but had been relieved to find that he was not alone in his thinking.

In fact, more so than ever, he was not alone at all, even when Roy would not appear for days at a time. Peter eventually gained the courage to ask why—he did not want to lose his new friend so early on—but when he did, Roy would simply smile and say "You'll see."

They went fishing once, and even though Peter enjoyed the company, he hated the pastime.

"No disrespect, but I don't see how you like it, Roy."

Roy chuckled good-naturedly. "It is pretty boring, isn't it? No wonder I stopped."

"I can't blame them for not wanting it," he reasoned. "Fish don't even eat worms. They're probably confused!"

"We ought to get them another fish to eat. But the only way to get that is…"

"Fishing." Peter groaned.

They were quiet for some time, and the wait for a bite wasn't so hard as it was at first. The quiet was nice. It was a nice change from the fort and how it clanked and how loud the rain and wind were against it.

"Fish out of water, aren't we."

That had come out of nowhere. Peter straightened up quickly and checked his line to fill in the silence. It was empty. He sighed and rubbed his forehead.

"We are." Roy answered him, as he usually did. "I think you're right. We don't belong here."

Peter nodded. "Well we could…ought to, I mean, since there's no other way that I can see…is to make our own country."

Roy does not respond this time. It's strange. And what's stranger is that without the prompt to, Peter keeps talking.

"I think it'd be bedlam to. Have a country that isn't born out of war. We could broadcast all that you wanted to, Roy, we really could. Britain couldn't get in the way, either, because it'd be ours. And Mrs. Joan and Michael and Penelope could all live there as kings. We could do whatever we wanted, and no one could tell us no!"

But Peter realizes as soon as he speaks, that he is not built for royalty. Kings and queens would scoff to live on him, a rusty and decaying fort in the middle of nowhere. He was small and broken, and that was no place for kings, or friends, or anyone.

"Peter."

He swallows. "…That was strange, wasn't it. Sorry, sir…"

Roy's eyes were bright, dancing even, and his grin was the largest that Peter had ever seen it. "That's brilliant."

They returned to the fort at high speed. From then on, Peter sees Roy sporadically. Each time, he says that he's been busy, and that he's sorry, that lawyers take a very long time to talk to. And when he thinks Peter isn't looking, he's stowing away weapons.

2 September 1967

Roy Bates' wife's birthday.

An unexpected guest came by, but not for well wishes.

Ronan O'Rahilly came to claim his fortress again. Even if pirate radio was illegal now, getting his property back wasn't.

His intent was to storm the fort and take it back—and for that, Peter and Roy sent him a storm: bullets and Molotov cocktails. Peter had been uneasy, and Roy had assured them that any battle that they were to fight, even if they should put their life at stake, would never have another casualty.

That kept Peter fighting.

Even when the British Navy came.

Roy told Peter to go inside the fort, not out in the open, where they could get a clear shot of him. Peter furrowed his brows and said no. "I would rather die than leave you, sir," he said. From there on he stayed loyally at the other side of the deck. He and the Bates would defend it from all sides, until the end!

And rather than being met with gunfire, or bombs, or arrests—they met victory and shook its hand, and kept it in their pockets.

They won.

The lot of them rejoiced. Peter was singing songs he'd learned when he was Roughs, Michael was dancing with Penelope, and Joan was looking at Roy as if he were a king. And they were all so very happy. This day belonged to them, not O'Rahilly, not Britain, but to the Bates and their platform. And Peter, of course.

The day revolves around Peter, even if it belonged to Joan first. A little shyly he gave it back and allowed the family their time of celebration. They deserved it, after all, for what they had done. For what they had done for him.

But when Roy is alone, Peter approaches him and asks him what he has been yearning for since they had first met.

"Sir, I know that it is your wife's birthday, but you did make me a promise. So…who are you?"

Roy nodded. He made sure that the room the two of them were in was locked and that they would not be disturbed. Was he in trouble, Peter thought. Had it been rude of him to ask after all?

"I didn't know if you heard, while we were on the top. But did you feel something change, Peter? Something inside of you?"

"I felt happier, sir."

Roy smiled. Peter did, too. It was contagious.

Then Roy did the strangest thing. Just like the day they had first been acquainted, he kneeled down before Peter and began speaking.

"My name is Roy Bates," he began. "And I am the Prince of Sealand."

"Sealand? Where's that, sir?"

Roy lifted his hand and pointed right to Peter's chest.

A pulse.

Peter's heart, dormant for some odd-years, though still beating dully, because the fort, too, had not sunk, now truly awoke. He felt himself changing; his body opening up to warmth, his lungs full of air, his energy infinite. He feels the fort; it feels renewed, repaired, ready to take on the world.

And yet is he just the fort. He is a country.

Is this what England felt like? And Germany? And all the others? Was he really on his way to becoming like them? Would he perhaps become greater?

He is breathless.

And yet, he feels alive.

"Sealand," he whispers. He looks up at Roy in disbelief. But inside those eyes show hope, a please-don't-tell-me-I'm-dreaming kind of look.

Roy nods. "The Principality of Sealand. E Mare Libertas. 'From the Sea, Freedom.'"

That's it. That's what describes him now.

Free.

"Happy birthday, Princess Joan."

"And Happy Birthday to you, Peter." Joan smiled sweetly at him. What an important day for them both, for them all. She turned to Roy, brimming with joy. "Shall we make him a Bates as well?"

At that, Peter shook his head before Roy could say anything. "I want to be a Kirkland!"

The room goes quiet. He realized then that he may have hurt their feelings. And he would never want to do anything like that.

"Oh…I would love to be a Bates. You Bates are wonderful. The best people I've ever met, honest. I've never been happier." His smile is wide. What he speaks is something serious, but like his founder, he would always truly be lighthearted.

"…But, you see, "Kirkland…" it is the last name my brother has, you see, and I want to be as good as him. No, better."

"Then you keep that name, Peter." Roy, his new and beloved Highness, clapped him on the back. "And keep Sealand, too."

Peter—now Sealand—grinned at him.

"And God keep you, sir!"

In memory of His Royal Highness Roy Bates, Prince of Sealand.

29 August 1921 – 9 October 2012

E Mare Libertas.

I found out about His Royal Highness' death much later than I would've liked. If it weren't for him, I daresay that there would be much fewer micronations in this big world of ours. God rest his soul.

I retrieved most of my information from Sealand's website and a few obituaries (which is also where the quote is from).

I imagine this is also why Sealand holds Christmas so dear to his heart. A chilly day turned warm at the sight of someone who gave him more love and care than anyone else up until that point.

(On another note-I still feel that this story needs work! Please leave a review or comment so that I can help perfect it. Thank you for reading.)