by J. L. Carter
In her dreams, Margaret finds a wealth of knowledge that she has never had access to before. She knows, for example, that Manchester is a major city that’s fringed by the Cheshire Plain to the south, the Pennines to the north and east, and an arc of smaller towns to the west. She knows, too, that over a hundred thousand people live here.
And yet, the streets are empty. It’s midday. It’s a weekend. And there is no one out. A bad feeling drapes itself over Margaret’s shoulders like a cloak.
She doesn’t bother calling out for anyone. It doesn’t work. Instead, she finds herself walking through the streets of Manchester, trying not to dwell too much on the facts that she shouldn’t know.
Manchester’s buildings display a variety of architectural styles, ranging from Georgian to a more contemporary architecture. There is a lot of red brick used in the city. Right now, there’s a lot of copper used, too. Sheets of thinly pressed metal have been put up over the windows. It covers more than a few front doors, blocking off homes from being used. The look is at odds with the rest of the town, where most of the architecture harks back to its days as a global center for the cotton trade.
Margaret walks until she reaches the outskirts of the city center. A large number of cotton mills stand here, many of which have been left virtually untouched since their closure. She can see the town hall in the distance, rising out of Albert Square.
It’s one of the most important buildings in all of England. Right now, thick plumes of smoke rise up from the walls. It’s dark, as if the building has been burning for a long while.
Suddenly, shadow like forms appear in the street. They are carrying furniture, boxes, crates – anything that might burn. The procession is going to Manchester Town Hall, where each object will be added to the blaze, in an effort to keep it burning for many more days to come.
When Margaret wakes up, she can still taste the smoke, built up on her tongue. That evening, at mid-day, she hears news that Manchester has fallen.
For while Margaret’s world is small and safe, the outside life is vastly different. To the British population, the Sky Men are hostile. Over the weeks that the attack stretches out – and the months that it becomes – their advanced technology merges with the late Georgian era to create some sort of strange combination.
The King dubs it the Sky Regency.
The mix of steam, gears, and liquid metals changes the pace of technology, replacing the previous scientific explorations with something new. Occupied England takes on a level of elemental energy that no one else has dared dream of.
It has changed the entire pace of what would once be remembered as the first industrial revolution.
Margaret sees hope in this technology, for it can give limbs to the injured soldiers, new weapons to the masses, and a change to even the lives of those living at home. Her conversations with Aidar have enlightened her in a way that few humans have ever, and will ever, reach.
More than once, the young woman tries to convince Aidar to change his mind. “A treaty,” she says. “That’s what our people need. If we can form a trade treaty between our two races, then we might be able to find a way to further the lives of both our kinds!”
Aidar gives her a strange look. “What makes you think that I wish to further human kind?”
“Because I don’t think that you’re completely set on destroying us,” says Margaret, truthfully. “Otherwise, you and yours would kill the men and women living in the houses that you take. I would have met my end long ago.”
“Killing you now wouldn’t have merit,” says Aidar, dismissively.
Margaret is unconcerned with his answer. She simply increases her efforts at learning more about him, and trying to find a better way to convince him that peace is the ultimate solution.
“I think that you’re looking for something,” says Margaret. “I think that you’re still trying to find something here. That’s why you want to learn about us so badly. What you’re looking for, do you really want it destroyed?”
“England is not the only land mass that humans have invaded.”
“We haven’t invaded anything!”
“Yes. you have. You have invaded a planet that was home to a greater race, and you have ruined what they spent so long trying to cultivate.”
“And would this greater race be yours?”
“No,” says Aidar. “Not in a complete sense of the matter. We came after them.”
“So you took it, too.” Margaret snorts. “That makes you something of a hypocrite, I would think.”
“We didn’t take,” says Aidar, simply. “We had an agreement – one that they broke. That is why we had to leave this planet. They chased us away from our home.”
Margaret insists, “the humans had nothing to do with that! I’m telling you, Aidar. We could make an agreement, my leader and yours.”
“I really have no interest in making an agreement. Your kind is—”
“Intelligent enough that we have already started to make use of the technology you have brought to our world. Even in these trying times, we have risen up, and we have started to adapt. That is what human kind does, Aidar. We adapt, and we thrive under adversity. You aren’t close to beating us, not by any means.”
Aidar stares at her, then, and his eyes grow narrow, and his face grows dark with newly formed scales. Unlike the first time, Margaret doesn’t flee from the room. She stands her ground, determined to see this conversation through to the end.
Determined, if nothing else, to be able to say that she tried her hardest to stop the war.
Eventually, the Prince snorts. “You never fail to amuse me.”
Affronted, Margaret folds her arms over her chest. “I’m not trying to amuse you!”
“That’s part of what makes it so entertaining,” admits Aidar. “You think that you can sway me?”
“I think that it’s my duty to try,” says Margaret. “Surely, you’ve seen how we can make use of your weapons?”
Aidar shakes his head. “You have very little grasp of our technology. It doesn’t concern me.”
Margaret stands up. She brushes the wrinkles out of her skirt, trying her best, in that moment, to look like a Lady of the House. “It should, Aidar. We are a strong people, and we are an intelligent people. It would be in your best interests, I think, to make sure that you don’t overestimate the strength of your army.”
Simply enough, Aidar says, “I haven’t, and I won’t. Do not believe that your race is superior. It has already made a grave mistake in this battle.”
“And that is?”
“Letting me live.”
It’s Margaret’s turn to laugh, a low and huffed out sound. “Now who believes themselves superior?” Margaret shakes her head. “No, no, I can tell that there’s no reasoning with you today. Think on my words. I will speak with you again later.”
Dryly, Aidar says, "I’m sure that you will."
16
One day, a letter comes in. It’s addressed to Margaret, but in no penmanship that she recognizes. The letter is short, simple, and to the point. A man named Benedict is writing to say that they can no longer find Emma.
She vanished in the middle of the night, and has not been seen for nearly three days.
The words have a physical impact, almost. They leave Margaret biting back bile. To think, her cousin – her dear, sweet Emma – is in such danger! To think, the worst may have befallen her!
Distraught, Margaret flings herself up. The letter flutters to the ground. It’s crushed under one of Margaret’s heals when she races from the room. The hour is early, ridiculously so. Dawn is only just starting to paint the sky when Margaret slams open the door to the sitting room that Aidar has claimed.
He looks up, an amused smirk playing across his face. “My, it seems as though you’ve come up with a truly important question. What woke you from your sleep?”
“Emma,” says Margaret, chest heaving. Fear bites at her skin. It’s irrational, she knows. It’s dangerous and stupi
d. Still, she grabs Aidar by the hand and begs him, “please! My cousin, she’s missing.”
Aidar tilts his head to the side, just slightly. The smirk falls off his face. “Oh? Cousin. That term is new to me. We have no cousins on my planet. Explain it.”
“There’s no time for that! She’s in trouble, I just know it! Please, Aidar. You can do something, can’t you?”
“Why would you expect me to be able to do something?”
“Because you’re the Prince! That wasn’t a lie, was it?”
“I told you – I have no reason to lie. I am the Prince of my people. I still do not see how that can affect anything. Your cousin—who was she?”
“My closest friend,” says Margaret. “She’s my closest friend, Aidar. I love no one like I do her.”
“Not your fiancé?”
“That’s a different sort of love,” says Margaret. “Emma is my family – like a brother, or a sister. But she’s closer than my sisters, and she’s closer than my parents. I love her like no other, Aidar. I can’t bear the thought of her out there alone – or worse, caught and hurt and killed by your people. You must do something!”
“I must do nothing,” says Aidar. He brushes Margaret’s hand aside, easily. There are a few purple scales on the backs of his knuckles, but none around his eyes. He looks more confused than angry, more uncertain than irate.
“Please.” says Margaret. “Please!”
In a moment of true desperation, Margaret sinks down to her knees. She clasps her hands before her breasts, staring up at the Prince of the Sky Men with large, wet eyes. She says, “Aidar, I would do anything to protect Emma. Anything that you wanted, so long as you made sure that she was safe.”
That was a request that Aidar could not completely grant, although Margaret didn’t realize it. The ways of war were still foreign to the young woman – something to be read in a book, or heard as she passed by the old folks sitting outside the pub.
In that moment, when Aidar looked down at her, silent and contemplating, she truly believes that he can control every death and disaster that takes place in the war.
He doesn’t.
But he is a prince, and princes must always take advantage of opportunities granted to them. “Alright,” relents Aidar. He gives another little tilt of the head. “There is something that I’ve been wanting to learn more about. If you teach me, then I’ll do what I can to help your cousin, your Emma.”
“Anything,” swears Margaret. “Tell me what you want to know, and I will teach you.”
“I wish to know more about the human body. My kind, we resemble yours in this form, but not as our true self. There are a great many differences between us. I would like to know what, exactly, they are.”
“The human body?” Margaret asks shyly, afraid of the response. “My body?”
“Yes,” says Aidar. He offers Margaret a hand, pulling her up. “The body. It intrigues me. You look nothing like the females on my home planet.”
“I haven’t seen any females.”
“We are incapable of taking a feminine human form. Until they reveal their true selves, all of my people bare resemblance to males. But yours - it is far softer, far more delicate. I want to learn more about it. I want to learn how it works.”
“And you will keep Emma safe?”
“I will do everything in my power,” says Aidar, who still has not said a single lie, but merely danced around the truth. He has no idea who Emma is, nor does he have a thought as to what might have happened to her.
For a moment, Margaret debates. This is, after all, a very hefty decision. While Aidar is only asking to learn more about her body, the young woman isn’t naive. She knows that there is only one true way to explain the anatomical differences between a male human and a female human.
Thinking about it makes her blush. Thinking about Emma makes her stomach churn. And so, she nods and says, “very well. But not here, and not now. Later tonight, you may join me in my chambers, and I will do my best to answer your questions.”
17
True to their arrangement, there is a knock on Margaret’s bedroom door that evening. She has already changed into her dressing gown for the night; flowing blue thing, one that Julian bought for their more intimate occasions. She feels bare beneath it, in no small part due to the fact that she has passed on any bloomers.
“Come in,” calls Margaret, refusing to get up from her spot on the bed. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“I lost track of time,” says Aidar, dismissively. He closes the door behind him. Then, after a moment, he locks it.
It’s a good idea, really. Margaret doesn’t want to have Madeline come barging in for a late-night tea, or anything of that manner. Still, hearing the click makes her heart beat a little faster, makes her brain work a little bit harder.
“You’ll still show me,” says Aidar, and it’s not a question.
Suddenly feeling make at the prospect, Margaret nods. “Did you have questions?”
“I want to know of the female form,” says Aidar, simply. “I will take whatever lesson you give me.”
A deep breath. Margaret stands up, fisting her hands in the skirt of her dress. “Alright then. I suppose we’ll just start with the basic differences.”
“Men of course,” she continues, stepping closer to Aidar. “Don’t have breasts in the same manner that a woman does. We use ours for feeding the young, in the first few years after they’ve been born. I don’t know—I don’t know if your kind nurses its young, but...”
“They don’t. Our young hatch fully formed.”
“Hatch? Like—like a bird?”
“Something of that sort.”
Margaret’s stomach flips. She reaches out, taking Aidar by the wrist. “Do they even have breasts? Your women, I mean.”
“They are mostly flat chested.” Aidar doesn’t need to have a more in-depth invitation. Eagerly, he reaches out, palming Margaret’s left breast. The touch isn’t overly gentle nor is it overly rough; he fondles the soft flesh, running his fingers over the fabric, stroking at it until her nipple has pebbled up.
Tilting his head to the side just slightly, Aidar pinches Margaret’s nipple between two fingers. She draws in a sharp breath, eyes fluttering shut.
Aidar asks, “do they have any other use?”
“Pleasure, I suppose. If you could call that a use.”
“Pleasure,” echoes Aidar. “I take it that you mean sex?”
Margaret nods. Her cheeks feel flushed. The Sky Prince’s second hand joins in on the action now, pressing both voluptuous globes together best that he can; pinching her nipples, stroking them with his long, slender fingers.
She and Julian, while certainly having spent time together during his visits, haven’t had a chance to properly toy with each other like this since the war started. It has been quick and fast, something that the Duke has desperately tried to fit in during his fleeting stays.
It’s hard to stay focused on any sort of a biology lesson when Julian has ended up being so good with his hands! Margaret’s breasts have always been particularly sensitive, and so long without having been fondled has left her body aching for something like this.
Trying to maintain some level of decorum, she grabs Aidar’s wrists and tugs them down. Margaret leads his hands down her side, over her ribs, until they’re resting on her hips. “We’re far shapelier than a man,” says Margaret, hoping not to sound as breathless as she feels. “It’s just the shape of our skeleton, I suppose.”
“You aren’t as sturdy,” agrees Aidar. “That is why they feel like you can’t fight alongside them.”
Margaret nods. “We’re also lacking... other parts.”
Aidar’s lips twist up into the start of a smile. “That much, my kind has in common with yours.”
Relieved at the news, Margaret gives a small smile. “Good. I suppose that’s all—”
“Show me.”
“What?”
“I want you to show me the dif
ferences. Even locating your cousin will be difficult. Make the trouble worth my while.”
Margaret gapes at the Prince. It takes a moment for her mind to truly wrap around his words. Even once they’ve sunken in, she’s not sure what to think.
Of course, she’s uncertain of the matter. As an engaged woman, she shouldn’t be sleeping with other men - especially not from an invading force. But still, Aidar has been rather kind to her in these last days, and he’s agreed to help locate Emma.
And there is the small matter of how truly attractive he is, whether this is his real form or not.
“I—show you?” Margaret stutters over the words. She’s already curling fingers in the skirt of her dressing gown, readying to pull it up.
“Yes,” insists Aidar. “Show me. I want to see it. I want to feel it. I want to know exactly how different our races are.”
Shyly, Margaret nods. “Alright. I suppose... I suppose that you won’t truly know if you can’t see it. And there’s no harm, I don’t think.”
Slowly, the young woman raises up her skirt, higher, higher, until she can pull it up and over her head. The only thing still on her body is the necklace – and standing before Aidar, bared to the world, brings about a level of attraction that Margaret has never known before.
There is no one else around, but Margaret feels as though the entire invading race is watching her. Surely, Aidar will share his findings with them. Surely, he will tell of the exploration that is to come.
It leaves her loins feeling wet, thighs growing damp with her own slick. Margaret averts her gaze to the ground, unable to meet Aidar’s eyes.
It doesn’t seem to bother the Sky Man. Aidar’s hands once more find her breasts, taking great pleasure in toying with the revealed flesh. Margaret is a rather well-endowed woman; nipples dark and skin light.
Quickly, though, he grows bored with that. His hands roam over her body, stroking against ribs, reaching around to stroke along her spine. The cup the swell of her ass cheeks for a moment, tracing the line between them with one slender finger. Down, down, down and around, until he’s able to cup her fluff covered mound.
