This began from a dream, I think dreams are unfair on reality.
Third Daughter – Samaulle Esun
I was stationed at the Queen’s private abode, the mansion section that spanned ten acres, and sported Bentleys. The planet mars, had undergone strict military discipline, and whilst attending the Queen on dispatch, I grew close to her. As I came to know her daughter, the illegitimate princess, I could not help but consider courting her, though she were ten years my senior, and our missives were temperamental, but distant.
The road had grown stark, and the Queen jostled in her seat. Gunfire had been heard up ahead, and it turned out the helicopters had missed a hub of sniper units from the moon patrol. In those moments, which could have been our final, we held each other close, and my captain could not help but spy his discontent, as I were awarded a medal of commendation, at the ceremony which lead to my post, as royal protector of the prince junior, Anabelle’s uncle.
In those moments, I could not help but wonder, as our relationship grew, over that three month stint across the water wastes of mars, that orange goo, traversed on hovercraft, as it were as dry as it were marshy, whether she were more attuned to the danger than I, as I kept a hold on my rogue pistol, as she kept her glasses pinned to a painting foldout.
Annabelle were questioning, as her mother rambled on, and I tethered, looking upon the lass three years my junior, as she appraised the situation. She were royal by blood, though not by title alone. She were The Ghost Of The Marshes. She had some strict military training, and she kept her etiquette sharp, on the rabble of the surrounding mile. Her short stature, not fully grown, though not yet childlike, as she moved off, to sit presumptuously on a seat, moved as I were handed my papers across the glass, as I took my seat, when her mother left, my dear friend of all those three months, using the Queen’s dictator. She feared me, like I were an unknown. However, I were glad to have the prestige of a stint away from the battlefield, and away from my grades as a mech pilot.
She walked beside me, underneath the rustling peppermints. We talked of the ants, like it were a poem, and she described the food chain, and ended with me, as we passed the lavatory, and walked inside, to take our shower for the evening meal. We were alone, for the most part, cooking our meals, and cleaning the apartment. She spoke, like she taught, with swaying of her hips, gesticulating how things ran, and how later she knew to tell me that were why I must be prepared, to step in front of a bullet.
The Ghost Of The Marshes, were expendable, and thus knew of the assault of the good that may pervade the mind in the midst of a battle. It were good, where a soldier failed, and bad, where a politician, of like mind, may find his reprieve. They were protected, by the likes of myself, and her team, though she were only a small link in the chain. She moved out of my apartment, and I were left with the days of that sweet summer, knowing her for the most part physically, and mentally not knowing her in the slightest.