On a fine Saturday afternoon Arthur Kirkland took a hackney to Suffolk, rent a small boat and sailed off the British coast.
He was in high spirits as he navigated his way across the water. For one, merely being out at sea reminded him of the golden days, when the might of his navy had been acknowledged and— for the large part— uncontested. He recalled how crushed Spain had looked upon realising what had become of his armada, and indulged himself with a smirk. The expression mellowed as he looked about him once more. It was indeed a beautiful day, with the sun bright in the sky, no clouds in sight and, most importantly, the war over at last.
While Arthur marveled at the last item his dæmon, who had begun to preen, raised her head. "We're almost there," she said.
And indeed they were. In the horizon was a speck of grey that bobbed up and down with the boat and waves: Fort Roughs. His eyes gleaming, he withdrew a collapsible telescope from a coat pocket. Through the lenses the speck grew larger, more clear, and he could now make out the platform and pillars.
When the boat was within distance, but not too close to the fort, he replaced the telescope and took hold of another instrument: a speaking-trumpet.
"PETER," he spoke into the device, "THIS IS GREAT BRITAIN. I WANT TO HAVE A WORD WITH YOU."
Rather efficient, the speaker-trumpet was; in less than a minute he heard a shout ("Get lost, jerk England!"), and a boy in sailor outfit appeared soon after. At his side, his dæmon had taken on the shape of a large dog and was growling deeply. Arthur's dæmon, keeping a wary eye on the canine, adjusted her wing.
Arthur flexed his grip on the trumpet. "YOU'VE NO AUTHORITY TO SPEAK TO ME LIKE THAT, BOY. REMEMBER WHO YOU ARE," he warned. Or aren't, he added silently.
His words went right over the lad's head.
"I'm Sealand," Peter shouted back at him, "And a nation. So there!"
He gnashed his teeth at such insolence. Honestly, children these days have no respect for their elders anymore. "NONSENSE." As the other tried to shoot laser beams out of his eyes with his glare, Arthur sighed. Then he said, in a slower pace this time so as to enunciate every word, "WE'VE GONE OVER THIS MANY TIMES ALREADY. FORTS ARE NOT, AND CANNOT BECOME NATIONS."
"Oh really?" Before he could reply Peter continued, "Well you can take yourself and that boat back home!" Pointing at him with dramatic flourish, he announced, "I, the Principality of Sealand, declare war on Great Britain!" Ignoring protesting voices from behind, he pointed at Arthur again. "Sic him, Margie!"
The dog took the form of an eagle and dive-bombed. Arthur's dæmon took off, intending to divert the attck, but the eagle swept right past and fell into the sea with a soft plop; Arthur thought he saw her change into some sort of fish before disappearing. And he began to grin.
And as he was trying to find a remark that was equivalent to you missed, though far more refined of course, a giant black tailfin rose from the depths…
It slapped lightly against the water surface, resulting in a miniature tidal wave and a capsized boat. Arthur was tipped into the sea before he could say bloody hell; for a minute or so he struggled in the underwater current, trying to swim up to the surface. Finally he succeeded, and grasped as much of the boat as he could. As his dæmon flew to perch on his shoulder— he tried to ignore the talons that dug into his skin— he spat out seawater out of his mouth and began to curse.
In midst of his muttering both him and the boat began to move sideways, on top of being bobbed about the waves. A black shape slowly rose out of the water, there came a swooshing sound; and seawater rained down on them in the resulting silence.
Peter's laugh rang above the waves.
Dæmons are physical manifestations one's soul. They assume the form of animals and are the most faithful companions of humans— and in this case, nation-personifications, too. The dæmon is generally of the opposite gender of its human.
The name of Sealand's dæmon is Marjorie, a variation of Margaret, which means pearl. Margie is a common nickname. Since Seland has yet to be recognised as a nation, and has yet to reach puberty, his dæmon has yet to 'settle' into its final form. The forms she has assumed in this short fic are: a gray wolf, a golden eagle, a minnow and a baleen whale.
(Dæmons are supposed to stay in close contact with their humans, and trying to separate them from one another will cause great physical— and mental— pain to both, and often death as well. There are instances, however, where a human, usually a witch or shaman, has succeeded in separating from their dæmon after undergoing various rituals and quests where they must leave their dæmon behind; and, as a result, the dæmon can travel longer distances away from their humans... but Sealand has yet to undergo any quest like that. I may have imagined Fort Roughs ten times smaller than its actual size while typing out the story.)
England's dæmon is a merlin, and as for her name... well... it'll be kept under wraps for now.