May 16, 1946

Dear sister,

I know that you are not much interested in talking to me and that you never were. I rarely demand or expect anything from another, as I don't care enough to do so most of the time, but I will make an exception now: please read this letter to the end. I have a lot to tell you and will likely never get any other chance. That's why I'm stressing it: please hear what I have to say. Do not immediately toss this piece of paper into a trash can or fold it and put it away: read it.

We'll be departing for Bikini in five days. I say "we", because New York, Nevada and Pennsylvania are also coming. We're going to die, most likely. It is what it is. But you, hopefully, will live on for a few more years. When I'll be gone, you will be the oldest battleship still afloat, even if a training ship now, how impressive is this? I just hope that those last years will be comfortable for you, and that you will not suffer in any way. I may or may not suffer when the bombs will be blasted above and beyond me. I am just grateful that you are saved this fate. I don't say a word to the others about it, but I'm terrified about it deep down. I don't know whether it's going to be a long drawn-out demise or a quick one that I won't notice. I usually like surprises, but this one, I'm not so eager to find out what it's going to be like.

I had many pains in my life, and things have been escalating ever since that fateful December morning that threw all of us into this mess. Being aware of the many, more than I could ever imagine, dying as a result of my guns pounding coasts and islands. Knowing that I was, by design, a killing machine, and that I had no other choice but to be one, because my vessel was made for this, and that my crew were doing their duty by manning these cannons, obliterating many of their own kind in the process. It's a blessing you never had to go through this beyond Veracruz, Wyoming. It's no secret many of these suffer from that "shell-shock" thing, or however it's called. Even us warships are not left unharmed. Not even the ones who have been warships for life after life.

The great Warspite, a splendid British battleship that we had the honour to meet and fight with in Europe, told me that it never gets easier, and she said herself to have been a warship seven times already. I believe her. If it gets easier, then you know you are too far gone, and that you have fallen into the deep.

That West Virginia girl who narrowly escaped death at Pearl Harbor returned with a rebuilt vessel, but devoid of any emotion, remorse, or fear. Horrible pain would barely make her budge, too. Her presence made my blood run cold and was just as frightening even to her own sisters, who, in the past, would find any excuse for her already unpleasant behaviour. I know that this was likely due to brain damage she sustained, as she really came close to dying, but she was there, right in the deep I'm talking about. It got easy for her, and she earned many battle stars, but at this price. A terrible price to pay.

Taking care of Texas, my all-around best friend for more than thirty years, the one I lived more things with than with anybody else, that I consider to be my adopted sister, being in the worst possible state of despair after learning that the love of her life took such a beating by these planes in Hawaii that it was a surprise she even survived. Making sure she would not jump at Nevada's throat when we were in North Africa, then in Europe, because her hatred for her was cranked up a notch and she would have definitely killed her given the chance. And still, no matter how much I tried to defuse the tension and played buffers, it happened shortly before our big operation in France and I was the one to break them up. I slapped Texas across the face to bring her back to her senses. I hated doing that. I hugged her immediately, I cried, I apologized. We cried together. It was one of the worst moments in my life.

Finding Oklahoma, this sweet and resilient soul, the one who always knew how to cheer me up with her best cup of cocoa, laying on a hospital bed, her vessel stripped down and left abandoned in a dry dock, alive and breathing, but for the most part... nobody's home. It fucked me up so badly that I have never been able to go back and see her more than twice, even knowing she will likely not live much longer than us, and I feel like a terrible person for that. She is like yet another sister to me, in a sense, but what kind of sister am I to her?

Knowing that New York, one of my best friends, the most beautiful ship in this fleet, the gentlest soul to ever serve in this Navy, a part of my family, definitely had something for me, yet knowing that despite having to admit to myself that I feel something as well, I cannot bring myself to reciprocate any gesture, nor give her what she deserves. I'm incapable of telling her how I feel. I'm incapable of telling her that I know. We're going to die and I am being an incapable piece of shit, and will probably continue until the end. She deserves better than me. It's painful to think about.

But the worst pain of all is not any of these, as odd as you might think it is. The worst, sister, was your indifference.

It seeped through everything like water in a corroded hull. It was silent, discreete [sic], but it was ubiquitous, and no amount of numbing it out or pretending it wasn't there could ever make it go away. This flat tone of voice, those eyes that would hardly look at me, the one-word responses, the "yeah, whatever", all of these were a thousand of paper cuts. It would ease up when I was away from you, as I could pretend I was the only one in my class, but the truth is, there is no Arkansas class. There is a Wyoming class, of which we both are the sole representatives, but you seemed just as eager to pretend there was no other ship.

This is the one thing I want to tell you: that I was in pain the whole time, and that I love you still. It's not something I voice, it's something I'd rather not face, but as my end seems to be getting closer, it seems that I have no other choice but to look the beast in the eyes. I did find a family in Texas, New York, and Oklahoma, and I love them more than anything else in the world, but the space that you should have filled remained empty the whole time. No one else would have fit into it.

Without realizing it, I think I waited for you my whole life. You were the only missing piece, the one that would have made the whole thing complete. It doesn't matter that we would have been regularly separated: all that I wanted was my sister.

There is nothing more left to say for me, Wyoming. I just hope that you did make it to the end of this letter, as I asked you to, and that you know that this whole time, I did love you, and that this will never end. You were my sister, the only real one I had at that. I doubt it's possible not to love one's sister-ship in some way or another, especially for us battleships who typically have only one.

I don't mean this to assume how you were feeling about me, but this is just how I've come to see things. My first love was unrequited, and it may very well have made me incapable of reciprocating to those who did love me. But this is too much to unpack before I die anyway. There's no time left to do that. It's too late. Way too late.

Anyway. I think it's time to bid you farewell. Thank you for having taken the time to read all the way through. I am very grateful that you did, at least, do this for me. Whether I survive or not, this is going to be my last letter anyway. I will not pester you anymore.

See you around, USS Wyoming, hull number 32, Chesapeake Raider. May your twilight years be beautiful and filled with the wonders of simple things, like the smell of the sea, the laughter of someone you like, or just the sun caressing the top of your head.

Arkansas

August 4, 1950

Dear you,

My time has come to join you, finally. My vessel was sold for scrap just a few days ago, and I have yet to know when I will be going there. Something feels like it'll be within a month or two at most.

It's strange to think that I've outlived you by so many years when I am seven years your senior. Most of us ships are scrapped by age thirty. I somehow survived for forty-two of them, but that may have been because I was needed. My tools and expertise were. But I'm ready now. I'm obviously a little stirred up, because my body wants to survive, but I'm so tired, I want this to be over. That war was worse than the first. I saw so many things I wish I had never seen and that I'm grateful you've never been exposed to. The first one being salvaging that submarine, knowing she was long gone, but we had to scrap her.

Things have turned out wildly differently from what we imagined, haven't they? That show of yours never saw the light of day, your vessel will remain for centuries in this place that you, that we adored, and where we fell in love, and I'm not going to be moored next to you for the foreseeable future, just turned into regular scrap... but that's alright, because I got to be happy for a while with you by my side. I got to put flowers behind your ears, have you do the same for me, hold your hand, to have your cheek be touched by your fingertips, and to feel your lips on mine. To look into your eyes, your gorgeous eyes that looked like they were made of the lagoon's water, and to hear you say mine were made of the skies high above. To see your bright smile and to know your beautiful heart. We got to walk around the base together and find our happy little place in the islands. To see Pearl City and get lost there for a while. Those times feel so far away...

In a way, it was a good thing that you were in such a dire state that it was clear no one could do a thing to save you. Not that I could have tried anyway with the burns on my arms and the sheer shock of having seen your vessel explode right beside mine. It was crushing enough to see Keosanqua and Ontario try and revive Utah, only to realize she was doomed from the start and wouldn't have lived much longer if they had succeeded in bringing her back. Or Oklahoma, who we're all surprised to have seen survive for so many years, especially since we almost lost her twice on the operating table and many other times when we thought it would soon be over, but who lived those years as a barely conscious shell of her former self. Had it been you, I think I wouldn't have been able to handle it. I would have broken down. I would have been tempted to do something terrible just so you would not suffer.

I'm glad I never even got to put you to sleep and operate on you for real, my dear. I think it would have made me so stressed, even if, like with every patient of mine, I would have told you to just close your eyes, breathe calmly, and think of something you love, that I'd be seeing you soon once it's over. Each time someone's life was in my hands, I was scared, and operating on someone you love is so scary. It's hard enough already on someone you know, no matter if you like them or not. Enterprise, South Dakota, North Carolina, California, West Virginia, Blue, Houston, I could never like those girls, and yet, I did not judge: I cared for them just the same. Hadn't it been for our shared grief over you, I would've never come around to like Nevada either. It's not an easy job by any means, and in a way, I'm relieved that I'll no longer be needed.

We could've sailed the world, you and I. We wouldn't have gone too far, maybe a little around Hawaii, the world doesn't have to be so big. We would've eaten way more pineapple and ice cream than we should've, you would have found a way to combine Hawaiian traditional dances and your stunning aerials, we would've settled around Honolulu and filled our garden with hibiscus bushes as to remember our best moments, and we would've heard the ocean every day. Lulu herself would be happy. I can't believe I'll have to write her a letter to say goodbye, too...

But life happens. Sometimes it decides to be cruel and rip off what we have from our hands in the most brutal way. Sinking ships as they're about to set sail for real. It's no secret I was never able to love someone else as much as I loved you. It was cut short. It remained unfinished. I could never get to something else without having finished what I had started.

Oh, Arizona, our God is one strange individual, but that's part of living, I guess, the chaos of it all. Still, our mooring quays will remain next to each other, even if we will not physically do so. It was by some fluke that our vessels were side by side in the days leading up to the one I lost you. History will remember that. They will not see that we kissed, or that we even could love each other, but does it matter anyway? We'll both become other ships soon enough. This life will just be a memory, maybe not even a conscious one. Who knows who we will be next... but the love, my angel, it will remain.

Aloha wau iāʻoe - I hope I wrote that right, my Hawaiian never really got that good. Please come and bring me flowers when I'll be resting for the last time: you know which ones I'm talking about.

Your Vestal, always.

March 15, 1947

Dear Texas,

I'll be leaving Spithead for my last journey next month. Considering how slow mail is, I think that I will already be dead by the time you receive those last words of mine. I did tell you in another letter when I was sold for scrap just a year ago, but it doesn't change that I'm not happy about giving you these last news. It was just a matter of time before the end would be coming for me, anyway. It's not really a good sign when that paper is signed, is it?

A shame that indeed, I will not be retained as a museum ship, but Britain is in poor shape. If there's a useless hunk of steel lying around, you sell it and you scrap it, no matter if it has a soul or not. It's a timeless fate for us ships; whether we're made of timber or steel doesn't matter, our vessels are simply resources to be reused. There is no funeral, no requiem aeternam, no ceremony. There are no flowers, no gravestones, no beautiful coffins: there is just either sinking, scuttling, or scrapping. The closest we got to this is the decommissionning ceremony, but once the end truly comes, it's all unceremonious.

If I'm being honest, though, it's not a bad thing for me to finally reach the end of my journey, as I am more in pain than ever. As I told you, my vessel had been hit by two of these bloody Fritz bombs in the Mediterranean, way prior to your arrival in Europe, but the damage made by one of them was never repaired. The massive concrete block in my vessel, remember? I did go into surgery twice for it, but for the most part, although I was patched up by the auxiliaries, I was prescribed painkillers to cope with the chronic aches in my back that would remain. A tolerance problem started to manifest after some time, however, and these days, my treatment only works every other day or so, leaving me to grin it and bear it somewhat unpredictably. I cannot augment the doses any more lest I want to overdose or at least suffer severe side effects, but I would be lying if I said that the idea never crossed my mind. As your friend Arkansas, God rest her soul, would say, when you're in a pain you're unable to ease, "it does things to you".

The time we spent in each other's presence was brief, but it nonetheless left a mark on me. Mainly, one of the things I want to tell you is that you inspire a lot of respect in me. Your dedication to your duty, your resilience in the face of this terrible thing that war is, your cleverness, and on top of all, your faithfulness to your beloved Oklahoma, even as she lay barely conscious in a hospital, crippled beyond repair. The same cannot be said for some others. I have seen it happen, and I find such behaviour to be the pinnacle of vileness. I am very sad still that I did not get to meet her: not only did she deserve a better fate, she also seemed like a lovely person to be around. I wish her a peaceful passing when her time comes. Even after she's on the other side, she will always wait for you, even as she goes to live a new life. This love of yours will never end, and you will reunite someday, free to live it as you please, in a world where there are no admirals, no deployments, no wars, and everyone you've known and loved will be there, including myself.

I am, however, very grateful that I got to meet Arkansas. This girl had the strength of a mountain despite all the pain she was carrying, first from whatever she went through that left her broken, but second from this terrible day where every single American life was thrown upside down, and you got hit right in the bullseye: your own wife was a victim of it. She did not like fighting, but she knew what she had been built for and was ready to set her discomfort aside to fulfil her function. Lazy in appearance, but a tireless workhorse at the core: she was simply an intelligent one. A pillar of strength, letting you lean on her unconditionally, when she could have chosen to leave you alone with your grief because you were no longer the happy Texas she knew. This speaks volumes about her character.

Once again, not everybody does that: such scoundrels are more common than it's comfortable to think about. I have one for a sister who I will not miss. She would have got along well with your comrade Nevada. One thing I will say about this one is that she has a lot of learning to do. If it takes such a terrible event such as this infamous attack to get her to question whether it was truly a good thing to treat everyone like dirt and, from what you told me, straight up bully her own sister, and she's still capable of downplaying the harm she has caused when talking about it with unrelated people, this is not a sign of a secret heart of gold hidden deep down, nevermind whatever excuse your sister New York finds for her. She was, indeed, genuinely affected, and I sympathize with her pain, but I will never hold a fond view of her. She's lucky her fiancée was either nice or foolish enough to come back and actually agree to tie the knot.

You are going to be preserved as a museum ship, and the duty to preserve the memory of those who fell, humans and warships, will be yours to bear onto your shoulders, just like every one of us who will be turned into floating relics of a distant past. Not only that: you will be the only dreadnought left in the world. That is a double duty to fulfil.

Ah, I wish I could have been your companion in such an endeavour, even if from an ocean away, and stayed in touch through letters, but it sounds like this is not in the cards. I will go on my ninth lifetime as a warship, refining the naval art of war a little more: if I happen to pass by the United States, or if I decide to join your Navy, I will try to sail by your berth. You may not recognize me, but I will certainly remember you, somehow. We never truly forget. We simply have trouble recollecting, and we are a new person each time.

It is time to lower my flag, now. I may adorn my face with paint for the last time on the way to my final destination, just like I would do when sailing into battle. Please be as brave as you have always been, Texas. Make it so your darling, sister and friends would be proud of you. The future looks very lonely, but you will have many stories to tell to those who will cross your path. You will see times changing in a way that none of your contemporaries would have ever dreamed of. It will be a long, hard road, and even as you will eventually die, because even a museum ship cannot last forever, this life will have a tremendous impact on your future ones. Your future selves will be proud and confident.

So long, my sister in arms.

His Majesty's Ship, Warspite

April 2, 1931

Dear Utah,

You will probably be surprised to be handed this letter, but as I am heading for the scrapyard for my last drift into a dream, this time an eternal one, I wanted to bid you farewell. Columbine, the steamer who is towing me, will be keeping this letter and making sure it reaches you. I am grateful for her: she is very nice to be around, despite her unfortunate job of taking us to our final destination.

That twist of fate, that you, out of all the older ships of the fleet, are going to take my place as the one who serves as the target for training, is one that warms my heart. Despite the circumstances in which we spent some closer time than we would have otherwise, Wyoming's dubious reasoning about pairing us together, and the fact we were not meant to be in the end, I appreciate that you still decided to give it a chance and were always good to me.

It does happen that sometimes love does not bloom between two ships, but it's nothing to be ashamed about: it is simply a part of life. Your heart belonged to someone else the whole time, but given your state of mind at the time, it was only to be expected that you would try and think about healing your heart with another. I still do not and will never hold it against you, although I am still a little sad about it.

Most importantly, I hope you and Nevada are happy. I wish only happiness to the both of you, no matter if the Navy's decisions were to separate you forever one day. When I would catch a glance of you two together every now and then, it was so clear to me how much you two loved each other. Your laughter, your gestures, the way you looked at each other, the palpable connection, it was falling perfectly into place again. Your peachy lips were finally back to hers, and although they felt good on mine, they would have spent their whole life in sadness if they had remained there.

I remember that night we spent together, Utah, and the moment when you teared up and told me to release you, that ultimately, you could not bring yourself to really enjoy it, not because I was doing anything wrong or because I was not beautiful enough for you, but because I simply was not her, and that it was her, the USS Nevada, who you really wanted. I remember how we both cried in each other's arms. It was not an easy moment, was it? But ultimately, I am thankful, always thankful, that you did so cleanly, and that you made sure to let me know it was not because of a shortcoming on my end. And I was sad, but relieved to free you, finally, so you could fly back to her. The last thing I would have wanted would have been to unknowingly clip your wings and have you live as my captive.

Keep being a happy and funny girl, Utah. Keep close to your beloved Nevada however and whenever you can. We may cross paths again in a new life, but for now, please enjoy the time you have with her, as both of yourselves. We get only one life as who we are right now. Mine is about to end, but I regret nothing. This little murmur in my heart made my career a peaceful one, and it could not have been better for a temperament like mine. Some may think it was not worth remembering, but it was an agreeable one. The only downside was my sister's perpetual gloom and sourness, but even this is not something I resent. The Great Spirit knows, and I wholeheartedly believe that I was given exactly what I was meant to experience this time around.

When it will be time, I will just fall asleep as I always did, and the last words of my life will be penned down as my vessel will live on as razor blades and a variety of other things. I will not be in pain. I will be thinking of many things, of the men who manned the giant metal structure that used to hold my spirit, of the ones, men and ships, who may no longer be there, even of my sister, as she deserves love still, of Wyoming, of the other ships, of Mr. Reid, whose body I escorted back home along with this British ship, and of this Italian ambassador who I did the same for... and of course, of you.

With a gentle embrace,

North Dakota.

November 10, 1908 - Spring of 1931

Hello, I'm Aral! I also can go by Amagi in some places. Welcome to my space!

I'm an artist from France who mostly draws her own take on shipgirls. You know Kantai Collection,

Azur Lane and other things of the sort? I'm branching out from the anime style to do mine in my own

style. Just personifying ships and creating a whole story around them.

We see the ship, but there are things that are not seen... and those are the things I'm creating. Or revealing. Or a bit of both.

I mostly have US ships for now, however the number is always growing,

the lore is evolving, and I'm planning new ones.

It's a project that may or may not get somewhere, but at least it brings me the kind of joy that is very precious.

Anyway. Feel free to check here.

I don't take requests, but I'm open to the occasional commission.