Meeeeeeeltiiiiiiiing
Even hotter today than yesterday. Boiled alive in long sleeved shirt at work. Had to stand next to oven while serving customers. Literally went and sat in the milk fridge when there was nobody in the shop.
Now I'm sitting here in a stringy top at 9:30 and still not cold. All windows open. Visualising cold things.
Antarctica in the snow, Antarctica in the snow...
Ah, there we go.
Shortish fic to go with it:
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The world called him many things; Jack Frost, General Winter, Boreas. To Antarctica, he was Father.
Before the explorers, before he had anyone but penguins and killer whales and seals for company, there had been Father. Always there, often not saying a word, sometimes invisible, but always there. Although sometimes he went away, and the days became a little warmer, Antarctica knew he was there, watching, from the snowy drifts or the magnificent glaciers.
Antactica never worried about the cold when he was small. There wasn't a thought to hypothermia or snow-blindness. When the people came, they wrapped him in clothes and blankets and told him to keep warm, and he abrubtly became aware of the chill on the wind and the pain of frostbite. They gave him glasses to help his vision, and suddenly he could see the cracks in the ice and the shrinking of his glaciers. They gave him languages, several of them, and he realised he couldn't communicate with the penguins or the other animals at all, and that they made no sense to him either.
And even with this whole new-old world shown before him, even when he was taken up north, all the way up north, to the very top of the world where he had once been at the very bottom, he could still find Father.
Father had other children.
"I don't know how you manage." said Canada, smiling at him. It was an expression Antarctica hadn't quite gotten the hang of yet, though he'd practiced. His face remained frozen in a blank stare. "You don't even have any warmer regions for your people to take refuge in, eh?"
He did, he had the long stretch of islands that crept towards South America like encroaching frost. Lots of the smaller penguins lived there. They were hard and stony and not as pretty as the snow and glaciers that covered the majority of his land. He didn't see what was so great about being warm.
"Are you going to eat?" Norway asked, expressive as Antarctica was but much friendlier than he appeared. He'd made this dinner especially. It wasn't fish, but Antarctica would eat it anyway. The rest of the Nordics watched him with eager expressions to see how he liked it. Maybe it was eating snow that had killed his taste buds, but he couldn't taste any of the things wrong with it that America had warned him of.
"You are lucky." commented Russia, walking through the snow and ice with him one day. It was warmer here than in his home, but Antarctica far preferred it to staying at England or France's places. There, it was so hot that there wasn't a single snowflake in sight. "Your people do not complain about the winter. For them, it is what they are there for."
Russia was an interesting one. He seemed to be one of the ones that detested Father. And yet, Father favored him, in a way he did for few others. It made Antarctica curious, but they were so far from each other that they rarely got to talk.
The ones he talked to more often were sometimes hard to deal with, if only because of the heat.
He always tried to stand as far away from Argentina and Australia as possible. They both exuded waves of heat so intense that sometimes Antarctica couldn't bare it unless Father stood in between them, or nearby, sending drafts of cold air, and then the conversations would end quickly because Australia would turn a funny blue colour or Argentina would start shaking and they would both have to leave. They barely knew Father, not in the same way Antarctica and Russia and Norway and Canada and the others knew him.
New Zealand was a little better. The peaks of her mountains gave her knowledge of the cold, and she had much harsher winters than her brother. She didn't tremble or go blue near him, though she did wear an extra layer when hugging him. She did that a lot. Said he was cute like a little lamb.
But none of them ever truly understood Father. They all raged against him when he came around, even those that should be used to him by now. It seemed as though Antarctica was the only one that welcomed his father with open arms.
And maybe, that was fine by him.
000000
And now I'm gonna go get some fish'n'chips. *zoom*
Now I'm sitting here in a stringy top at 9:30 and still not cold. All windows open. Visualising cold things.
Antarctica in the snow, Antarctica in the snow...
Ah, there we go.
Shortish fic to go with it:
000000
The world called him many things; Jack Frost, General Winter, Boreas. To Antarctica, he was Father.
Before the explorers, before he had anyone but penguins and killer whales and seals for company, there had been Father. Always there, often not saying a word, sometimes invisible, but always there. Although sometimes he went away, and the days became a little warmer, Antarctica knew he was there, watching, from the snowy drifts or the magnificent glaciers.
Antactica never worried about the cold when he was small. There wasn't a thought to hypothermia or snow-blindness. When the people came, they wrapped him in clothes and blankets and told him to keep warm, and he abrubtly became aware of the chill on the wind and the pain of frostbite. They gave him glasses to help his vision, and suddenly he could see the cracks in the ice and the shrinking of his glaciers. They gave him languages, several of them, and he realised he couldn't communicate with the penguins or the other animals at all, and that they made no sense to him either.
And even with this whole new-old world shown before him, even when he was taken up north, all the way up north, to the very top of the world where he had once been at the very bottom, he could still find Father.
Father had other children.
"I don't know how you manage." said Canada, smiling at him. It was an expression Antarctica hadn't quite gotten the hang of yet, though he'd practiced. His face remained frozen in a blank stare. "You don't even have any warmer regions for your people to take refuge in, eh?"
He did, he had the long stretch of islands that crept towards South America like encroaching frost. Lots of the smaller penguins lived there. They were hard and stony and not as pretty as the snow and glaciers that covered the majority of his land. He didn't see what was so great about being warm.
"Are you going to eat?" Norway asked, expressive as Antarctica was but much friendlier than he appeared. He'd made this dinner especially. It wasn't fish, but Antarctica would eat it anyway. The rest of the Nordics watched him with eager expressions to see how he liked it. Maybe it was eating snow that had killed his taste buds, but he couldn't taste any of the things wrong with it that America had warned him of.
"You are lucky." commented Russia, walking through the snow and ice with him one day. It was warmer here than in his home, but Antarctica far preferred it to staying at England or France's places. There, it was so hot that there wasn't a single snowflake in sight. "Your people do not complain about the winter. For them, it is what they are there for."
Russia was an interesting one. He seemed to be one of the ones that detested Father. And yet, Father favored him, in a way he did for few others. It made Antarctica curious, but they were so far from each other that they rarely got to talk.
The ones he talked to more often were sometimes hard to deal with, if only because of the heat.
He always tried to stand as far away from Argentina and Australia as possible. They both exuded waves of heat so intense that sometimes Antarctica couldn't bare it unless Father stood in between them, or nearby, sending drafts of cold air, and then the conversations would end quickly because Australia would turn a funny blue colour or Argentina would start shaking and they would both have to leave. They barely knew Father, not in the same way Antarctica and Russia and Norway and Canada and the others knew him.
New Zealand was a little better. The peaks of her mountains gave her knowledge of the cold, and she had much harsher winters than her brother. She didn't tremble or go blue near him, though she did wear an extra layer when hugging him. She did that a lot. Said he was cute like a little lamb.
But none of them ever truly understood Father. They all raged against him when he came around, even those that should be used to him by now. It seemed as though Antarctica was the only one that welcomed his father with open arms.
And maybe, that was fine by him.
000000
And now I'm gonna go get some fish'n'chips. *zoom*