Empire of the Seas

A little something I whipped up:

Alexander looked out over the deck of the ship, towards the setting sun. Running a calloused hand through his long thick hair, he paced back towards the stern of the ship once more, and then back to the bow. He was confident that they had enough water to last another few days, but that was stretching it. After that... well, it was better not to think of such things. He dodged a scurrying sailor, working to repair the damage of the previous night's storm, and cursed under his breath. Again.

Taking out his spyglass, he scanned the horizon. Again. Still nothing. There was nothing to be done be continue forward and trust in The Lord. As he thought the dark thoughts that creep upon any desperate man, he finally noticed that he was no longer alone. Father John stood beside him, the robust man towering over even the captain himself, his rough brown robes resembling nothing so much as bark on a respectably tall tree. "How go your prayers, Father?" Alexander asked him.

"Well enough, my son. Have faith," the astute cleric replied.

"Forgive me father, but I know of too many devout sailors that never returned to their homes," the captain replied.

"Have faith, not just in The Lord, but in yourself, as well. Did not He give you a great many gifts? Trust in yourself. You are experienced, and you are quite ingenius in your maths. I have no doubt that our expedition will succeed. You will see," the priest retorted. Alexander grimaced at the man's boundless enthusiasm, now ashamed even more that he might let such a hopeful man die of thirst in a great expanse of water.

That particular reverie was broken by a sudden shout from above. Could it be? The dour captain lifted his glass again and scanned the horizon yet again. It was, it was. "It would seem, Father, that you are the more intelligent of the two of us. You know where to place your trust far better than I," he cried out in joy, as more and more of the crew swarmed the deck to strain their eyes for the small dots that were flying above the horizon, flapping their wings westward.

That evening and morning went by in a flurry, and, to be truthful, Alexander could barely remember any of it afterward. There was running, there was shouting, and there was more running. When the sun rose, and the horizon was home to trees and sand, that, he remembered. But the rest? Until his boots touched that sand, it was yet more blur.

"We soldiers of Christ, claim this land in the name of Constantine, by the Grace of God and Faithful in Christ, Emperor of Romania, King of Portugal, of the Algarves on either side of the African Sea, of Seville, and of Granada."
 
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