May. 22nd, 2006

killingsoftly: (Watchful)
He hadn't been back since he boarded a boat in the harbor and set out across seas he doubted even Lir had fully explored. The crossing convinced him that he was not meant to be a sailor and he had no Merrow blood in him at all. He didn't spend it all sick, but it was enough that he swore he wouldn't cross that ocean on a boat again. As he had no ability to sprout wings, he resigned himself to the fact that he likely wouldn't see Eire's shores again.

There was a pang at that, but the New World beckoned and his first taste of New York drove a lot of the longing out of his head, at least for the first few years. Then, later, when it got too sharp, he'd wind his way to the quiet mountains of Appalachia and listen to the fiddles and the soft voices singing songs of home with a gentling of accents that still rang familiar and true.

In March of 1939, Pan American launched a test flight from Baltimore to Foynes, Ireland, of their new Boeing passenger plane, and he'd held his breath, listening to the radio constantly until the news reported that it had landed. In June, the first passenger flight took off from New York and landed in Marseilles, and in July, a flight left New York and landed in Southampton. It was ungodly expensive, $375 each way, and not for the common traveler but a novelty for the rich.

In the last ten years though, and even more so after the war, it had become more competitive and rates were low enough that average citizens could fly. He'd finally gotten up the nerve to buy a ticket, and as green fields replaced blue waves behind him, he caught his breath. How could he have forgotten how green it was? His feet hit the earth when he exited the plane, power surging up through him like he hadn't felt in over fifty years, more than half his life.

He was home.


killingsoftly: (Default)

September 2007

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