Chapter 16: Connections Via Games (17)

Augustus opened his eyes. Around him was his room on the ship. Said room was much larger than his room back home. His dad, the king, had given it to him when he still thought there were going to be more Princes and Princesses.

But that was in the past, and right now he was wondering what was going on. He wasn’t lying in Miss Aisling’s lap anymore. That was sad. He wasn’t in her room anymore, that wasn’t all too bad. Now he was in his room, that in and of itself was probably because of Miss Aisling.

He looked to his side and saw Miss Aisling there, sitting on a chair that had been set next to a small table in his room. She was asleep. The young prince looked around the room and noticed that it had been cleaned. The boy that had just turned eleven never had private maids, his dad had not let him have any.

He really hoped that his dad would let him keep her. But then a thought flashed in his mind. She belonged to the duke; she was his. Maybe he had gotten her for him? That was unlikely, given by how much he seemed to like his other slave.

Maybe she would want to stay with him? That was an idea, but it wasn’t really a good one. It didn’t seem like she wanted to stay with him, her master seemingly treated her well.

But what if… she did want to stay with him? Oh, Augustus was cooking with gas now. His mind was firing on all cylinders on how to make her want to stay with him. OH!

He could play a game with her. Now, Augustus wasn’t really the most childlike child; but he did play games by himself. He often would get wooden figures and have them act out different plays, or ideas and stories in his head.

That wasn’t really something had could do with her. He also had a feeling that she would look at him funny if he started to talk about his weird stories. But what could he do? It wasn’t like they were actually the same age, and she had a slight want to go outside and sunbath while laying on the floor like an actual cat, right?

He sighed and started to get up on his own. It was then that he heard her shift and woke up. She opened her eyes and moaned a little as she stretched her limbs. It was like she was an actual cat. It was actually kind of cute in a way. That weird feeling of friendship filled him again; how strange.

Her now open eyes glanced around lazily and then landed on the prince. Her green eyes looked around the large room, taking it all in. She breathed in deeply and sighed in pleasure. But then a thought came to her… oh… no…

It was then that she realized that she had fallen asleep and been woken up by the prince’s rise from bed. Her cheeks nearly flushed in embarrassment. She managed to keep the color down a bit but some of the red still seeped into her face.

Before she could stand and bow her head in apologies, the prince got up from his bed. He looked up at her and smiled. It was a rather cheeky smile that held a very childish and mischievous idea behind it.

“Do you want to play a game?” he asked.

It was at this point that Aisling knew that she had messed up. She had spent too much time with the First Prince and made a mistake in interacting with him. She was maybe a bit parasocial. But that wasn’t her fault, too bad that she didn’t think of it like that.

It was at this that she decided to try and grow a bit distant. Not by much, mind you. She just wanted to grow a bit farther away so that he wouldn’t want to connect with her too much. If she was found playing with the only heir to Francia then she would probably be killed.

But she still couldn’t refuse him. It was kind of reassuring that her actions weren’t actually her fault, at least, that was what she told herself. She tilted her head as if in thought. She then looked back at the door to the room. She turned back to the young boy that was the prince.

“What games do you wish to play my lord?” she asked, then she tilted her head to the other side, “are you sure you have permission form my master and owner to use me like this?”

The boy looked confused at that and widened his eyes in surprise. The lad did not know you needed permission to play a game with a slave. But then again, his dad had said that all a royal need’s to do is act. He did not know he needed permission.

“But dad said all a Royal need’s to do is act, not ask. Does that mean he was wrong?” he asked in return.

It was time for Aisling to be confused. How did he know of a royal’s absolute authority in a feudal society? Then again, he was a prince, she should have thought that through.

“I am sorry my lord. If the king said that, then you can ask me to do anything and I will do it,” she told the boy.

…

They were now playing chess. Aisling had known how to play chess since she was a small boy in her past life. That in and of itself was starting to blur into this life but that was beside the point.

Now was the time for action. She was just about to let the prince win when he messed up his play. He could be checkmated in two moves. That was a close call, but I the end she let him win. It was honestly kind of funny how she let him win. It seemed that he didn’t know that she did so.

She smiled a little in her mind then chastised herself. She needed to stop forming a bond with this boy at once. But… he was so small and kind of goofy that it was hard not to.

“Aisling, want to play hide and seek?” Augustus asked.

That was a weird one. She expected him to ask to play checkers, or charades as those people of this world, and even the nobility kind of had no recreation. At least that was when compared to the late 21st century.

“Why not checkers my lord? You have a board of it under your bed right next to the chess board,” She asked.

“No, I wish to play hide and seek. I have never played it with anyone ever. My dad doesn’t let me make friends, and the servants are too busy to pay me any mind,” he explained.

A wave of pity washed into her mind. This boy had no one to talk to, no one to make fun memories with. It was kind of like her life in the Guard in her past life.

“of course, my lord,” she answered him.

…

He had found the best spot on the entire ship! Can you guess where it is? It’s in a place that’s named after a corvid. It’s also the place that Jack the sparrow captain steps off of his ship when he docks in the first book. Have you guessed it.

He was in the crow’s nest. That was the best hiding spot right now. He looked down all across the ship as it was moving effectively through the water, and he noticed something. Aisling was right there. She was looking at the mast he was on top of.

Her head rose up ever so slightly. The move was so ladylike that he thought that even his mother would be impressed. But as he was thinking such thoughts, she managed to lock eyes with him.

A shiver went up his spine, then in an instant, it vanished. It was as if she was hunting him rather than simply trying to find him. Then, realizing that this was just a game, her mind shifted to that of a game once more.

She moved over to one of the workers that was currently finishing up swabbing the deck and asked him something. He simply brushed her off which made the young boy mad. She shook her head a little as if to reprimand herself and then looked back up to him.

He couldn’t tell what look she had on her face, but he was starting to feel like something that only the knight’s accolades could do was about to happen. He shifted in the nest and made to start climbing down, but then he felt a could wind pick up. The ship rocked a bit.

In the crow’s nest, it felt much more powerful than when he was on the ground floor. He nearly was hurled over the rim of the nest. But, he stopped himself just in time to notice that Aisling was climbing up the ladder.

He hurriedly made to get in the nest, but the wind nearly knocked him out of it. Only, the hand of a girl that looked four year’s his elder stopped him from falling out. A hand gripped the back of his collar, and he felt a bit of bile rise in his throat.

He looked back to find Aising had grabbed him and made sure he hadn’t fallen. He sighed in relief that she had been there and had managed to save him from tipping out of the nest.

She pulled him back and he fell on her. The crow’s nest was rather small and cramped. It was fine when it was just him in the nest, but she was here now. His cheeks flushed a little and he stepped a bit away from the slave. Her gaze stayed the same as it always was, blank with a hint of tiredness and exasperation.

He smiled as if he hadn’t just nearly fell to his death and chuckled.

“You found me! Now it’s your turn to hide,” he told her, but he stopped himself from climbing down.

“But can we stay here for a bit? I just want to calm down a bit,” he told the girl, and she nodded in return.

He was being truthful, unlike a normal child. That the boy prince was only eleven, yet he knew the danger of going down the ladder scared. It was strange in all honesty. If he was a normal child, he probably would have just ran down the ladder and fallen. But he was smart enough to tell when he should rest his nerves. The slave girl nodded her head, then she scooted over to the rim of the nest.

Instead of just sitting down to calm down, he grabbed her hand and gently pulled her to the center of the nest. She quirked her head to the side, but stayed silent, letting the boy move her.

Then, as someone with eyes could see, he sat in her lap. This got a reaction out of the girl. Her cheeks blushed ever so slightly, and her wings twitched. He sat on her lap sideways, him being able to look at her from the side of his face.

As Aisling hadn’t been able to guess this was what the boy was going to do, she wasn’t prepared psychologically for it. The special forces turned catgirl was shocked to say the least.

The first prince of the Kingdom of Francia was sitting on her lap. This wasn’t very proper at all. She was a mere slave; she wasn’t supposed to get emotionally attached to anyone at all. The simple fact that she was forming a bond with the first and only prince of Francia was bad.

She looked at the boy while hiding the majority of her shock. He looked back at her as if this was normal. Then again, Augustus had no friends. This might be the first time he actually started to interact with someone close to his age for more than a couple hours.

She had put his head in her lap, so he might have thought that sitting in another’s lap was normal for people their age. But that couldn’t be further from the truth. A boy might do this with his mother at this age though.

“Why are you sitting in my lap my lord?” she asked the first prince.

He tilted his head to the side, “Why not? Are we not friends?”

This question made sense to Aisling, but it was going to be hard for her to answer. She would not consider them friends. She was just a slave after all, a person who could be bought and sold; and he was a prince, a member of royalty.

“My lord, I do not know if a slave and a royal can be considered friends. We have just met, and you don’t even now this one all too well,” she told the prince.

The first prince looked a little dejected at that answer. It seemed that he really wanted a friend after all. He was the first prince at the end of the day; he couldn’t afford to make friends with commoners or the riff raff.

Even the noble children weren’t allowed to be near him. His dad didn’t trust the rest of the noble families even if they were related to the royal family in some way, such as the duke of Aquitaine. It was honestly really strange how paranoid he was.

“Well, then do you know what your master the duke is getting me for my birthday?” he asked with hope; he really wanted someone to call a friend.

Aisling answered him with a slightly saddened face, “I am afraid I do not know the answer to that my lord.”

It seemed to him that she was genuinely sad that she didn’t know what her master was getting him for his birthday. But honestly, that was fine. He simply asked the question to move on from the somber mood that had encompassed them.

“May we get down from here, my lord?” she finally asked Augustus and he nodded in the affirmative.

As he got out of Aisling’s lap, he directed her to start hiding as he covered his eyes with his hands and spun around a couple of times. This was to make sure that he didn’t guess where she was going to hide. But it was also to hide that slight blush he had from seeing up her skirt.

…

Aisling was hiding under her own bed. She was just a slave, but she was here with her master, the duke. If she was found in a place where normal slaves worked the workers might get blamed for forcing her to do things she wasn’t supposed to in a misunderstanding.

She sat on her side and wrapped her arms around her legs, which were tucked to her chest. In this way, she could somewhat hide from his highness. That was the point of the game, right? It was honestly so long since she actually played a game that children played that it was kind of shocking.

Her mind was set on the mindset of a slave and worker so much that being the person she was just a year ago felt alien to her. Those thoughts that soon began to run up and around her mind started to send a chill into her.

It was as if she was dreaming a nightmare of the events that brought this color to her neck. That burn on the side of her thigh. The taste of the man with the brand on her tongue. A strange feeling soon began to creep up on her.

She wanted to grab something, something to ground her in the present. Her wings, she grabbed at them ruffling the feathers on the top. She felt the warmth of them on her hands, and the tingles that came from her brushing her fingers into the ruffles and folds of them.

Her mind began to clear, her thoughts then began to cloud, the stress of her past having decided to rear its ugly head. Her mind thought that this was the best time to sleep. The warm coldness, if that phrase even suits this, closed onto her mind like a blanket.

…

She was tired of the faces that looked onto her like one would an angel of death. She was tired of cutting who she recognized down. Who she knew from her past, the young faces overlapping with those of the now.

The sword that had chosen her pulsed with unrelenting fury, unrelenting contempt. He was angered by the shackle on his chosen’s one’s neck. Yet the power he held was bound by it. The shackle was telling her to kill; to maim and slaughter.

Blood painted the magic ruins of her plate armor. The veins of Mythril forge welded to her high carbon steel pulsed with both mana and chi. The spirits of the dead lingered for but a moment on her face, on her gaze.

The fins on her shoulders that blocked both the blows of maces and blades were bent. Her insides wanted to see what the air that her lungs breathed felt like. The armor made for her was cut apart, the blows of a beast thought to be extinct having pierced it. The segmented plates that held them in were only being held in place by her will alone.

Her left arm was long lost, her wings had been clipped. Her sword still wished for his rage to be quenched and tempered by the blood around them and the blood hiding in the tent she defended.

Her right hand rested on the pummel of the blade that was heralded as an angel or demigod of both new and old gods. The magic that held her together funneled into her by the blade.

She looked at the sword, the source of her new power, and the bane of many kings. The calming throb of the blade’s heartbeat kept her mind on track. In front of her lay an army; she was supposed to fight this army.

Yet when she looked past the angel of death and fury that was her duty, she only saw her people, the Irish. She was born there, yet she did not remember much other than the faces that were in front of her now.

She took in a deep breath; the king had told her to kill, to murder and skin. She was just a tool for his will. She dearly wished this to be a dream. For this reality to be fiction. Simply the wandering mind of a young brain. This was not so.

She took yet another deep breath and stood. It was as if the world had lowered. That was what her mind and instincts were telling her. She was so low on blood that her sense of depth and distance was starting to fall away.

Yet magic flowed into her body once more, it also flew into the ruins of her plate armor. The enchants forged into the Mythril itself glowed and she could feel warmth flood back into her body. The cold of death that had been creeping into her limbs fell away and she could walk once more. But that meant she could kill once more.

The steel knitted back together, her flesh started to flow like oil and meld together like putty. Her broken and dangling wings gently rose back into place as if a puppeteer hand grabbed them and glued them back on. She was mostly hole once more.

Her arm refused to move back into place into her socket. That was no matter, her true lord and the one she wielded grew her a new one made of green diamond and black crystal. The ball joints filling the entirety of her elbow and shoulder, it made her look like that doll of war she was.

She took a step forward and…

…

Tears streamed down her face; there were many. The salt water streamed out of her like a river. Her sobs could be heard even from outside the room. That was how the young prince had found her. He was confused at first.

She was a crying girl under her own bed. He had never heard that people did that, let alone slaves and beastkin. But then, beastkin weren’t so different from humans or elves or the like.

He closed the door to her room behind him as he walked in. It was peculiar in all honesty. He crouched down, bending his knees in a Russian squat. He often heard of them; the ground was cold where they lived so they often sat like this.

Her wings were wrapped around herself, her legs pulled tightly across her chest. her own hands gripping her wings till the feather that made them up seemed to have been pulled out.

It shocked him to say the least. She was so stoic with him before. She was like a statue, or a noble woman. Her back straight, her waist stiff, her wings at ease as if they were simply supposed to be there on everyone.

Yet she always acted submissive. Her gaze never lingered on him for too long. It was as if he was going to hit her, or rather that she feared that. That was what drew him in. Whenever he looked at her from afar, she acted with confidence, even more so than his dad.

But when a free person looked upon her, she withered. He was mightily confused by that as well as drawn in. He pulled his hand to her, like he wished to pet her.

She then struck; her hand cut through the air. It was as if she was an actual cat. The sharp nails raked across his face. His senses screamed to back away from the girl. He did so, scooting on the floor on his behind.

She stopped crying. Her face slowly came away from the shelter that was her wings. She looked upon the first prince, then to her hand and back once more.

Her gaze was of a doll. Lifeless and bleak were her eyes, and dull and blank was her mouth. Her face was covered in tears, and soon it was covered in even more salted water. Her eyes soon started to tear once more.

Augustus’s mind was that of shock, but not sadness, nor pain or the urge to cry. He simply wished why she had clawed him. This new side to the woman that seemed like a mask of utter doll-like and blank emotion was pushed aside.

She then spoke in a voice filled with much more emotion than ever before. Like she wasn’t the slave he had started to know.

“I am so sorry my lord; please don’t cry… I don’t wish to be killed or punished… I didn’t mean to slash at you like that… please don’t cry…” she started to say.

The prince looked at her with a rather perplexed expression. It was as if the cuts across his face weren’t even there. He responded to her crying voice.

“I don’t really care. In fact, I didn’t even know that you had claws like that. I just want to know though, why were you crying?” he asked.

When he had asked, she was in the middle of casting a healing spell upon him. It was at this point that she realized how long she had been dreaming, how long she had been in her own mind.

“I- I simply had a bad dream my lord. Worry not for me. Just, please don’t tell anyone of this, please?” she asked in response.

It was at this that he smiled.

“Of course, but can we stay this close for a bit? You still seem a bit nervous,” he responded.

She soon put on a genuinely relived expression. He wasn’t mad or crying. Nor was he seemingly scared emotionally or physically. Her gaze seemed warmer to the young boy.

“Of course, my lord,” she answered back.

…