Entering my epigraph era

"Grace O'Malley is coming over the sea,

Armed warriors along with her as her guard,

They are Gaels, not French nor Spanish…

And they will rout the foreigners!"

-Patrick Pearse

That Ireland had her at all was a bit of a surprise. For the most part, they were considered exclusively a great power thing. The Germans could do it, the Americans, Brits on both sides of the ocean, but little Ireland was never really considered a candidate. Germany had never deigned to give a cube to them- despite the Syndicalists a stone's throw away- so it wasn't really considered realistic. It would take a king's ransom, or maybe a Taioseach's ransom, to get a cube.

And then Black Monday hit. Ireland wasn't spared, certainly, but they had reason to stretch their tight budget further… and the Germans were selling. (Their source was feeling generous. You needed a lot of wisdom cubes for a proper world war, after all.)

The cruiser Belfast narrowly avoided the fate of going unfinished thanks to the borderline mythical prestige of the cube, and was already loaded heavy with expectation before she even set out. Maybe that played some part in her character; there had been rumors about the sorts of eccentrics the cubes occasionally spat out. The Union of Britain played host to a particularly motley crew: rumors spoke of sadists and masochists and other perverts; radically syndicalist political commissars; and some who were so slothful they seemed like wastes of resources. Perhaps that pushed her towards not being a total loon.

Belfast and her eventual character became something of a national issue. If Ireland had wasted money and time on some idiot or a little girl… well, the government wasn't helped by Black Monday, and they certainly wouldn't be helped by that.

Maid outfit? No, that wouldn't work. They weren't servants anymore, and her job was to make sure they never would be again.

Green and orange and white and blue and red, clashing in her head like fireworks. There was something… strange about it all.

But Belfast sprung from man's expectation, and her people's expectations were high indeed. She was named for a city in Ulster, named for a hope of a unified Ireland beyond sectarian struggle.

And it was high time she made her entrance.

At times, it felt like they had come into a new and terrible age. The logical world they once knew was replaced, thrown aside for ship spirits, for warrior women out of myth and legend.

It was a rational, secular age, but the woman standing in front of the ship's engines felt almost like a fairy. Perhaps it was the hair, white as the driven snow, paired with a young- and, ahem, healthy- body.

While they were still blinking the lights out of their eyes, she dipped into a curtsy. "My Admiral, My Taoiseach. Long Éireannach Belfast, at your service."

Belfast's outfit was a dress of some sturdy green fabric, with a sort of leather apron over her front. A saber sat on her hip and a tricolor cockade- green, white, orange- was in her hair. With help from heels, she stood as tall as almost every man in the room, and her rigging served to make her look quite intimidating.

There was silence as the group of naval officers and politicians took her in, in all her glory. Their doubts seemed a lot less rational now…

"With all due respect, I must assume we have a schedule to keep?" Belfast suggested. "I am flattered, but I could not stand to waste a second of your valuable time." There was some awkward coughing and clearing of throats before one of the navy men walked up to start doing checks, to see if this shipgirl phenomena was what it was said to be.

"Could you start the engines, please?"

They had rumbled to life before he had even finished the sentence.

Almost from the moment she was 'born' her schedule was busy. There was, of course, the immediate business of her maiden voyage and figuring out how many men would be needed to aid her in operation- if any were needed. It was all very new, untouched territory, so they found themselves turning to the Germans yet again.

The masters of Mitteleuropa had a lot on their plates, but they did manage to spare something for their allies in Ireland. With all due respect toward her teacher, a single shrimpy destroyer was sent over to teach Belfast the shipgirl style of fighting. Fuel and budget concerns, apparently. It was rather humbling, being kicked around by a girl two feet shorter than her, but Belfast's solemn duty was to become the best servant to the people of Ireland as swiftly as possible.

Her nation seemed to like her, though. What had the photographer said when he first saw her? "Oh, she's perfect." Belfast was aware of her own shortcomings and tried to rectify them, but in the eyes of the Irish people, she was something of a celebrity. Within the week of her birth, there were pictures of her in most every paper in Ireland. If she had to say any part of her job was bad, it was the posing and the preening for that sort of thing. That was not to say she didn't enjoy looking good, or that she even disliked the sort of propaganda-girl role she took up, but days spent being groomed and photographed felt wasteful. Enemies on every side, and here she was, posing before the Blarney Stone as photographers snapped away.

(Well, she said that, but one of the small feats she was proud of was kissing the Stone without outside help. She was limber enough to fight, she could certainly lean back and kiss a rock without slipping. She just ignored the net set up for her rescue should she slip. Again, celebrity.)

If there was one area of her non-martial studies she enjoyed, it was Irish. There was a tragically small area where the language was spoken, but was determined to learn it… and her willingness to use it seemed to help sell it a bit. People took interest in things she liked, which added an extra dimension to much of her life. Her political mission was selling the idea of a united Ireland, after all, so she tried to walk the line. Ulsterite enough to win them over, while also seeming relatable to the average Irishman without feeling like an imposition on Ulstermen…

Like all things, she handled it with as much grace as she could manage.

She looked at the blond girl, with her pretensions of royalty and her imperial history… she was an oppressor, even if circumstances had united them against the Syndicalist menace. She had served when Ireland was still lashed into bondage. But for some reason, Belfast's heart seemed to ache.

"You're our escort?" Queen Elizabeth asked, trying her damnedest to look regal while also craning her neck. Belfast did occasionally enjoy her height.

"Yes. Long Éireannach Belfast, here to guide you to Ireland alongside the 3rd German Destroyer Flotilla."

There was a look on Elizabeth's face like she had swallowed something especially bitter. For a moment, she turned to look back at her fellows for a moment before nodding. "Guide us true, then. You're dealing with royalty."

Belfast wasn't supposed to care much for royalty, but something more than proper manners kept her from saying that. She nodded politely and joined the British as they sailed for Ireland, for a friendly port. Ireland and Germany cooperating with the very British monarchy they had triumphed over? Signs and wonders.

That explained Elizabeth's bitterness, of course. She had known Belfast as an English town, had known German destroyers as her bane. Why wouldn't emotions be running high? She was returning to the homeland, but it had been changed. Like Oisin sailing over the sea. Hopefully, their British allies managed to survive the upcoming battles.

As Elizabeth sailed alongside, a song came to Belfast's mind, but she couldn't for the life of her imagine why.

My gallant darling is my hero, he's my Caesar, my dashing darling…

I've had neither sleep nor good fortune, since my gallant darling went far away.

The epigraph is Patrick Pearse's version of Óró Sé Do Bheatha Bhaile. It's a bit more Irish nationalist than the Jacobite version. In contrast, the song that Belfast thinks of at the end is Mo Ghile Mear, which is Jacobite. If it wasn't clear, this Belfast is still slightly colored by the old timeline.

(The titles in English are something like: "Oh, Welcome Home!" and "My Gallant Darling.")

The overall title refers to Oisin, the mythological character who went to the land of the young, Tir na Nog, a land of beauty and happiness far to the west. He returns, steps off his horse, and ages 300 years in a few seconds.