Credit video to original owner
ââThe critic eyeâthat microscope of wit
Sees hairs and pores, examines bit by bit,
How parts relate to parts, or they to whole,
Are things which Kuster, Burmann, Wasse, shall see,
When manâs whole frame is obvious to a flea.ââ
Contrary to what most people might insist, James Brooke was not a romantic.
He possessed, certainly, an unfortunate weakness for beautiful things. Music that lingered long after the final note had died. Paintings that rendered storms more honestly than any sailor. Poetry that spoke of seas wider than maps permitted. Such things stirred something restless within him, some nameless yearning that refused to be confined by the neat hedgerows and drawing rooms of England.
But beauty was not the same as love.
England, for one, had never inspired it.
How could it? His blood had not first quickened beneath English skies but beneath the blistering sun of India, where heat shimmered against the earth and every horizon promised another road to disappear upon. England was merely inheritanceâa place expected of him rather than chosen. He could recite patriotic verses with sufficient conviction to satisfy Arthur and every stiff-necked gentleman in London, but duty had always felt suspiciously akin to a leash.
Love, destiny, obligationâthey were words invented by people who had never tasted true freedom.
Destiny was merely a prettier name for expectation.
Duty, the chain one learned to polish until it gleamed like a crown.
As for love at first sight...
James had always found the notion faintly ridiculous.
Love was cultivated. Negotiated. Endured. It was marriages arranged over tea, fortunes carefully intertwined, names preserved in ledgers and family Bibles. The poets might drape it in gold and call it providence, but James knew better than to mistake infatuation for fate. The sea, however...
The sea asked nothing of him.
It carried him farther from expectation with every tide, until even England became no more than a hazy recollection somewhere beyond the horizon.
Or perhaps, James would later concede, it had been waiting all along.
From the moment his boots sank into Sarawak's rain-soaked earth, he knew himself hopelessly outmatched. The jungle breathed with a rhythm older than empires. Cicadas screamed from unseen branches, gibbons called somewhere beyond the emerald canopy, and every leaf seemed alive with impossible shades of green. It was wild in a manner no European garden could imitate, beautiful without asking permission to be so.
For one glorious afternoon, James believed he had finally discovered the sort of freedom poets spent their lives failing to describe.
The illusion lasted precisely until four spears appeared from the undergrowth.
One moment he, Charles, Arthur and Subu stood craning their necks towards the fractured sky above the canopy.
The next, they found themselves politely but unmistakably surrounded.
Their escorts led them deeper into the forest until they reached a longhouse where smoke curled lazily into the humid air. Trophy heads, blackened by years above the hearth, watched their arrival with empty eyes. Arthur looked as though he were contemplating several strongly worded objections to the entire island.
James, meanwhile, was fascinated.
The Dayak chief proved unexpectedly generous with his answers, indulging James's endless questions with amused patience. If anything, the man appeared as curious about the strange English traveller as James was about the people before him.
Eventually, Subu cleared his throat translating the messengerâs words.
"We are to be brought to meet Prince Badrudin who will decide," Subu explained, his face betraying not a trace of fear or annoyance of their current predicament.
 "Decide what, exactly?" Arthur snorted, his face, unlike Subu, shows how annoyed he is by the whole ordeal.
When they were finally escorted through the settlement, James expected to be brought before some village elder.
Instead, they stopped before the largest longhouse he had yet seen.
It rose above the others on stout timber stilts, its sweeping roof adorned with carved hornbill heads and lengths of bright yellow cloth that fluttered lazily in the afternoon breeze. The entrance was guarded not by soldiers in polished cuirasses but by silent men bearing spears, their composure lending the place an authority no marble palace could imitate.
A servant drew aside the yellow curtains.
James schooled his face into polite neutrality.
Years of observing English aristocracy had prepared him for one of two possibilities: a corpulent old noble softened by luxury, or an aging patriarch buried beneath enough velvet and gold to purchase a frigate.
A young man reclined upon a raised dais, one arm resting against a mound of embroidered cushions as though the entire audience had interrupted an afternoon's contemplation rather than affairs of state.
He could not have been much younger than James himself.
He wore no jewels beyond a simple ornament at his waist. No lace, no powdered wig, no ostentatious display of wealth. His salmon-coloured baju fell in elegant folds, while a neatly folded tanjak crowned his head with understated dignity.
It should have looked plain.
Instead, James found himself thinkingâwith no small amount of irritationâthat England had mistaken extravagance for majesty.
The prince possessed it effortlessly.
"Assalamualaikum, ya dhuyuf sharafiyyun."
The greeting rolled from his tongue with unhurried warmth, rich enough to quiet the room. The maidservants, draped in shimmering shawls of gold thread, seemed to dim around him like stars yielding to the dawn.
James caught himself staring.
Recovering himself, he inclined his head.
Surprise flickered openly across the young prince's face.
He rose from the cushions with easy grace and returned the greeting in kind, his smile carrying a boyishness at odds with the effortless authority he possessed only moments before.
For one peculiar instant, neither of them spoke. They simply regarded one another.
James had the strange impression that he was being examined just as thoroughly as he himself had been examining the prince.
He was on the verge of returning the smile when another voice broke the silence.
A second noble approached from an adjoining chamber, taller, older, his expression considerably sterner. Where the younger prince wore his station lightly, Mahkota bore his like armour.
"I am Governor of Sarawak," he continued. "And this is my cousin, Prince Badruddin, emissary of the Sultan. Assalamualaikum."
James inclined his head once more.
Mahkota's eyes narrowed with measured curiosity.
"Do all English lords speak the language of God?" Mahkota asked, a teasing lilt coloring his tone.
"I had an excellent teacher," James replied evenly. "He always said that God speaks in every language."
âIf only men will listen,â The compliment earned a thoughtful hum from Mahkota.
Beside him, however, Badruddin leaned close and murmured something too softly for the others to catch.
"Hati-hati, saudaraku. Putera Inggeris ni amat pandai orangnya"
James did have some education on the Malay language, but the Sarawakians had far richer accents that even Jamesâ most prestigious instructors could not bestow upon him. But he didnât need to know the language to see the calculatingly dangerous look in Badrudinâs eyes. Whatever amusement had first danced in the prince's eyes had not erased his caution.
Subu leaned towards him, âWhen the Sultan dies, one of them will become the Sultan of Bruinei.â
James kept his face impassive, tucking that little bit of information at the back of his mind. While Subuâs helpful quip was informative, it was not at all subtle. He sees at the corner of his eyes the way Badrudin almost glares venomously at Subu, thinking of him like a rat.
For reasons he could not yet explain, James found himself smiling. He sees the way Mahkota covers his mouth with his hands as he leaned back and whispers to Badrudin in turn.
James quickly averts their attention by introducing Arthur instead, hoping it might distract the princes from enacting their wrath upon Subu.
ellievsbear
prguitarman
gracieabrams
romaincrisis
snowghoul
kianamaiart
tangentwithtanner
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
titsay
