Ah, Pashmina's. If the Bene-Geserit are the keepers of secrets and controller of rulers, then perhaps India still does control the world via its spice. The familiar scent of lamb korma and chicken kashmiri drift up through the corridors to warm the nasal passages, shut out only by individual doors, each with their own occupants and secrets behind them.
     One door has been opened to a once-occupant; though eighteen months or so have gone by since she moved out, the rooms are once again hers (or leased to her, at any rate). A low downpayment and a modest rent, all quite affordable to Lady Fiona even if they weren't quite so affordable to Drancy, and now a feminine eye and hand have taken charge of the decor.
     The bedroom is no longer quite so sophomoric, though the wardrobe remains filled to overflowing, as do the chests and drawers. The bed is a four-poster in wrought iron, veiled with cream hangings and sheets, a purple bedspread thrown over it all with copper fringe. There are still boxes to be put away...
     The office, small as it is, is in use as an office again. A small desk, a small chair, a computer and a phone - cherrywood for the desk and chair, beige Danish modern for the computer and telephone, and as a counterpoint, tapestries on the walls and chiffon over the windows. The floor is allowed to be bare wood; it's earned its scars.
     If anyone were to peer into the bathroom and kitchen, they wouldn't recognise it - a girl lives here now. There is food in the refrigerator, a hanging rack for wineglasses over the sink and a discreet winerack in the bottom of the pantry. There is an actual table, with real chairs, so that the occupant could - in theory - have company. And in the bathroom there are pale blue and gold shower curtains, with matching towels and a rug, and flowery-scented shampoos and bath soaps to match.
     But it's in the living room that you'll find the occupant of this flat. Fiona's saved the best - or worst - for there; the couches are a pale seafoam grey and green, covered in some wonderfully soft woven material. They meet at the corner, a small black table between them with a low glazed ceramic lamp in forest green. A throw rug to match is on the center of the floor, and over one couch - visible from the entranceway, aimed to hit the eye with all her usual defiance - is The Painting, Fiona-Isabel-Drancy captured by William's brush. There's more work to be done on the living room, of course - but for now? It will do. And she's learned her lesson, since the last time...
     She stands in the middle of the floor there, dressed in a gown of white and gold mixed together. It fits snugly at the bodice and at the waist before the skirts open, trimmed with purple at the hem and at the cuffs like some forest flower in hiding. Her hair is worn half up and half down, held with jeweled combs; if one makes a deal, after all, why not make the most of the deal? Amethysts wink at her earlobes, at her throat, at one dainty wrist. Fiona is barefoot, however, and in one hand she holds a glass bowl in which rests golden syrup. And she dabbles the fingers of her other hand into the stickiness, trailing strands of honey up to drip and drop back into the bowl.
     "Hwyll, I am calling you." Fiona says it almost conversationally, but there is power behind her voice, this time; she is reaching with that energy and that purpose, and this time of all times, she knows what it is she wants - who she is calling, and why. "Prince of the West Wind, I know you. I hold in my hands something that you desire. I invite you into my home, but as well, I summon you, as my Self. A White Queen stands, and she summons you, Prince Hwyll..."

     You do not need to say his name thrice, nor do your words need to rhyme. You know him, you know where he is (or where he's likely to be), and your power at this stage is not something to be denied. And then there is the matter of the offering of food, the charms you still possess, and the promises given.
     And recall, if you will, that the Prince of the West Winds once said: if he promises something, he always keeps his word. He simply limits the number of promises.
     But he is true to his word...
     Tempest-tossed your living room curtains flutter, and cushions set likewise tumble, as a sudden wind, bearing in it the smell of the sea, fills your chamber. It is a visible, silver vortex that culminates in a singular, silver vision in mere moments.
     Hwyll, Prince of the West Wind, stands tall within your chamber, taller in fact than both men you have loved. His long platinum hair is both loose and braided. And he is thankfully clothed in rich elven mail, something stronger than steel, something brighter than platinum.
     "This is a pleasant surprise, I thought you hated me," he smiles out, blue eyes winking and eyebrows lifting in haughty humor. He pivots slightly, looking around, then looking at you again, then peering. "You've done some redecorating...so... how can the simple and humble yet incredibly good-looking Prince of the West Wind be of assistance to you?"

     It doesn't take long, and she's perhaps a little surprised by that. But then, that is how things always happen with Fiona - they happen quickly, or they do not happen at all that she can see. And when things do happen, when is she not surprised? But she recovers relatively easily; this is not the angry, fearful creature of the past, and you likely can see that as well. "Hello, Hwyll. Thank you for coming on such short notice."
     Her lips twitch. How very polite tea-party of her. She glances you up and down, eyebrows going up, and she adds, "I'd forgotten how tall you are. Here, take this." The bowl of honey is thrust unceremoniously in your direction. Ah, still her, after all; not so surprising, not so different under the skin. "Do you want me to be undiplomatic and to the point, or would you rather we behave like civilized beings?" Fiona can't help it; she grins, despite herself, eyes crinkling in amusement. "Glad you like the flat, too. Come and sit down, Prince, and tell me why you think I hate you."

     The bowl is accepted easily. There is a brief glance for a spoon -- but nevermind that, he has his own. The silver thing appears in his fingers as he takes a seat on the sofa, chiming musically as he goes. A breath released is a wind that stirs around your apartment, carrying with it the perfume of late summer headiness and the promise of autumn squalls. Long legs stretch out and he smiles as his mouth surrounds the spoon.
     "You've never forgiven me for our first.... handshake. But I forgive you. I'm magnanimous like that. Good honey, by the by. Lavender...with a hint of blackberry. So," his mouth makes short work of the honey on the spoon, "... let's just have it out with one another, I like it blustery. As you know," he says pointedly, pointing at you with the spoon.
     Hwyll tilts his head, his face far more beautiful than any mortal man's, his eyes are sky blue wonders. In fact, they are skyscapes, his domain as much as Davydd's domain is that of the deep and tangled woods. He smiles suddenly. "It is a queen I see before me now," he states. "What a difference a season makes. So what's on your mind?"

     Taking up a cloth, Fiona calmly wipes honey from her fingertips as she settles into a chair. She is at ease; it is evident that though you are powerful, she is neither afraid of your power nor disrespectful of it. It is, and she is within her domain - even if it is the mortal part of her domain. She crosses her legs, setting the cloth aside, and her hands go to her lap.
     "I'll probably never forgive you for our first 'handshake'," she retorts, lips remaining curved into a faint grin, "even though I can now see a little bit the humour of it. If it'd happened to someone else, it'd be funnier - it's always funnier when it's someone else. As it is, it gives me something to hold over your head, and whether or not I'm a queen, I am also a woman. What self-respecting woman would throw away such a weapon when it's handed to her?" Cornsilk eyebrows arch at you with a hint of sharpness, and one hand comes up to wave at the spoon. "Don't point. It might be loaded."
     But you ask her to bring it down to business, and she is not as hesitant to do so as she might have been in the past; as she might still be, with Huw. She doesn't know how that will go... "Things have changed," Fiona says simply. "I'm engaged to be married," twice over, "and it's to be a long engagement. I have to keep busy in the meantime, and I have to have an eye to the future. It wouldn't be fitting, would it, that my bride-gift - my kingdom - be worth any less than what I think my betrotheds. And that means I intend to make something of my kingdom." Lips part in a slanting smile, the grey and blue and green of her own ever-changing eyes focusing firmly on you as she leans in slightly. "So, naturally, I thought of you. Disappointed that it's not something more sexual?"

     He laughs, and it is a brilliant laugh. As brilliant as the rest of him, in fact. "Well... my queen," he sets the bowl of honey aside, "... I would never presume such a thing." Oh really? Even he doesn't believe that. "But I do make it a habit not to sleep with betrothed queens who are betrothed to kings. It's bad for business. I am a Prince of Wind, my kingdom is airy, insubstantial even for magical realms. Doing so would be biting the hand that feeds me."
     Wait for it...
     "Now, if a queen were to invite me to her bower, then I would of course not be able to resist the offer. But I am gathering that's not why you called. You are dressed afterall. But I will say, in all seriousness, that a dormant kingdom does no world good. Even ap Owain's kingdom is thriving. The forest of thorns has been removed, and we have recognized the arrival of the Holly King. So when's The Big Date? Or can you not tell? Oh, but you can tell me, I'm fantastic at keeping secrets. Especially if there's something in it for me..."
     His fingers lace against his metaled stomach. "I am hearing in the air the subtle sounds of a Proposition..." The smile alights on his face. "You thought of me... I am flattered. How may I be of assistance to you?"

     "You had it right with your first three words." Fiona settles back further in her seat, shifting comfortably and lifting her chin. "At any rate, I'm not offering to sleep with you, or roll around in a bed with you, or even to ... turn your knob. Seems though that word of some of my entanglements, I suppose you could say, has gotten out." Her engagement to Davydd, at least, even if not her ... entanglement, and how appropriate the word is, with Rhodri...
     She pauses, sitting up and tucking an errant strand of hair more securely behind one ear. "There's something in it for you. You will know and you will keep secrets, Prince Hwyll, if you are to accept my offer." Her own smile begins to spread, and it is the smile of a woman who Knows Something, or the smile of a cat; how much difference, under the circumstances?
     "I ... Propose ... that you oath your allegiance to me, Hwyll, to be my seneschal - to be host to my festivals and to have the running of my court. In exchange for your allegiance, I will grant you the powers of the position - and my protection, of course. You see," Fiona rises to her feet now, finding motion needed, energy needing to be expressed, "I intend to have a sizable bride-gift beyond my Self. And I know, a little bit, what is entailed. I intend to succeed. I am quite sure that I will succeed. And if I succeed, and you are with me in my success..."
     She's moved from table to window as she says this, and now she turns, facing you with arms folded over her chest, chin lifted again in that defiance, the expression of actual confidence that she feels. It is not an act for your benefit. It is Meant. For all her doubts - this is something she believes in, absolutely, not for herself, but for those she loves and with whom she shares her heart. "If you are with me in my success, we both stand to gain." Fiona smiles, a half-sly, half-wistful smile, her triad self reflected in it as in her eyes. "Interested?"

     The fingers that were laced across his stomach now steeple before his lips and the usually flippant Prince of the Wind crystallizes before your eyes into something keen and shrewd. "Hmmm... yes. I have no doubt that you will be able to deliver on these promises for the future. You seem to do most anything you put your mind and will toward."
     But...?
     "If I take your position of seneschal, I may not be welcome in other kingdoms, specifically the Kingdom of the Oak Queen, who is still reeling over the loss of her betrothed to a ..." he smiles here, "...rather young, as of yet un-kingdomed queen...I will need something a bit more ... substantial...than promises and hopes. I propose the following..."
     "First..." he reaches for the honey again, the golden liquid swiped by his tongue. "...I will require your permission to erect," a quick smile, "...my own Palace of Clouds over your kingdom. I promise not to sprinkle on you without warning. Secondly, I will require an additional leave by the Holly King for a portion of his own property o'er which my clouds will hang. It's a rather large cumulus structure," he notes. "As you have a certain... pull with him, I suspect this will not be any problem for you to secure."
     He rises, the great silver tower, all flash and lightning, "...Lastly, you realize that if you will be incurring the greater wrath of the Scorned Queen, in whose service... and bed... I have been since your ... blossoming." Hwyll leans in toward you. "You will require more services than my own. As your... potential seneschal, may I make a suggestion?"

     "I have no qualms with you erecting your kingdom above mine." Fiona gestures briefly, dismissively; having such an alliance with her in the position of superior can only raise her own esteem in the eyes of most, particularly if it becomes known that her bed is not occupied by you. Which is perhaps just as well; her bed is getting rather crowded, of late. "And I can talk to Davydd about it, certainly. I doubt he'll mind; he'll probably think it's cute that I'm taking an interest in my own kingdom. Queendom. Country. Something."
     There's a brief flash of a smirk aimed at herself; the word 'cute' wasn't chosen by accident. But time will tell. Fiona's attention sharpens for a moment, eyebrows going uptaking in the mention of the Oak Queen. She chews over it for a moment, then dismisses it. Some other woman's loss, her gain, and in a hundred years - well, she trusts Davydd, but she is not willing to entirely dismiss the suspicion that something else will claim his attention in that time, even if not another woman. The Oak Queen is of no concern to her at all, particularly if she placed all her eggs in the one basket signified by Davydd ap Owain before he even ascended to the kingdom of Holly. It is not a mistake that Fiona intends to make...
     "You're welcome to suggest, Hwyll. If you and I do work together," and now there is a brief dismissal of that aloof shell that seems to cloak her; her smile is warm, wry but warm. "If we work together, I will be trusting you with a great deal. I asked for you because I've trusted you before, and you've been true to that trust - you're a rogue and a rake and I wouldn't ever want you in my bed for longer than a night if I were that sort, but I believe in you. I believe that you will not betray me. I have some ideas - but let me hear yours."

     "I will say, having the Western Wind," he makes a slight bow, "... will, if I may say so, go far in adding esteem and reciprocal protection. But in thinking of your Predecessor's kingdom, which you have, in her death, inherited, her ...your kingdom is one of transitions. And who are the harbingers of transitions? The Winds. North. South. East. West. West... let's just say you have West for argument's sake. One wind is never enough, my lady, for the West Wind is not always the direction of the Time, hmm? Better it would be if you had the full compass in your grasp. I can deliver that for you...were I to be your seneschal."
     He smiles, arms folding against his chest. "But before we start talking of commitment, let's talk more of the rewards. What do you or your kingdom have to offer me? And think also, I will have to convince others to come there. What shall be so great about your kingdom? What shall set it upon the great map, why should caravans of fairies traverse the open plains of the Unknown to come to your parties?"

     "An excellent idea." Fiona nods, moving back to her chair and sinking back into it. "More than one is always useful, no matter what cause; always good to have a spare." She can't entirely keep her mortal sense of humour from interjecting itself, even if perhaps she should try harder. One eyebrow lifts in mild sardonicism at herself, her fist going under her chin as she considers your question.
     "What do I - and my kingdom have to offer? That's a tricky question to answer, Hwyll, but I'll try. I'm only able to answer at all because of ... certain revelations which have been given me, but I'll share with you within the context that I can." She closes her eyes, gathering herself, plucking forward magic to answer intuitively where mortal words fail.
     "I'm one person, but I have multiple sides to me. You may say that everyone does, but I am not everyone. I am the champion of those whose have no voice." Fiona opens her eyes, though she is looking somewhere Else, in dim and murky places. "Those who call upon me will find that I am not fickle, though I will measure their calls. I will nurture and give shelter to those in need. Entertainment? My court will be a haven for those who seek Art for its own sake." Her smile is sudden and poignant. "I will sing for you sometime, if you like. I don't think you've ever heard me sing. There will be the fullness of the harvest and the hunt; my tables will never be empty to those who hunger. For I am the one for whom the orchards of Avalon bloom, Hwyll. Noone may approach Avalon save they travel through my kingdom."
     As smoothly as a conjuror, she reaches through the air, plucking forth one of those rose-pink, yellow-golden apples, bringing it up to touch to her cheek. "And I am the prize as well, as I have been told; it is true. Davydd is the Holly King as you say, but I am his one and only queen - he has said it so himself. There will be no others after me, for he has given all that to me to keep for the next hundred years. Perhaps something will occur to change this - but he has not betrayed me. I do not believe that he can, now..." She looks up, looks to you, with a sudden sharpening of awareness, the apple still held in her hand, resting against the side of her face.
     "Whether or not they know it know," Fiona says confidently, calmly, "they will come. If only to see the woman who stole the Great Dragon from the Oak Queen, they will come. And there are more reasons, but I will not tell you those until you have sworn to me, Prince of the West. Have I answered you?"

     "I think the Holly King would take exception to your notion of Avalon. It is his, you know," he whispers to you in a stage-aside as if you had forgotten your lines. Hwyll measures you for many moments of silence and finally the winds begin to stir again.
     "I may give you no answer now, but must ruminate on the matter. It is no small thing for me to have a sudden alliance and ... dare I say... commitment to one kingdom, when I have been an occupant and welcome guest to all. If I may have your leave, my lady, to give you my answer within seven days time? I shall not tease you with it... well, not much," he admits with a sly smile of his own.

     "It is his," Fiona agrees readily, "and I'm sure that anyone he wants going to his kingdom will be welcome in mine." There is something distant in her eyes, as if she hasn't fully returned to herself. She blinks, though, starting slightly and looking to the apple; with a motion, it's gone again, dismissed back to some Newtonian fate. "If not, then he and I will war it out when and if the time comes, and resolve matters as we usually do..."
     Like the Chinese fortune cookies, no doubt - everything ending 'in bed'...
     "Seven days? As you like. Though I will, of course, remind you of one thing which I doubt has really escaped your attention so much as you pretend." Fiona looks you up and down, her smile growing almost to a smirk for a moment as she remains curled in her seat, knees now drawn up and arms about her skirted knees. "And that is that as seneschal, you will have your pick of the ripest maidens and matrons who come to my court, without my jealousy - as you are not in my bed, you will be free to visit your ... attentions ... upon those of them who please you best, and undoubtedly you will find many of them - willing to please you best. But by all means - take your seven days. My fingernails will remain unbitten."
     Either she's that confident, or she's got a runner-up in mind...

     Now you're talking...
     Hwyll pauses, an eyebrow quirking upward. His mouth twitches to one side. "A harem?" He comes to stand before you, standing over you. "Such a kingdom you would have if I were to fill it with handmaidens for your pleasure, and for mine. Music, art, glory as sure as lightning..."
     Hwyll pauses then, his smile quickening upon his mouth. "I shall give you my answer no later than seven days from today, at dawn, when the rising sun stirs the wind..." He is confident that you shall go to no other before you hear from him. He is the Prince of the West Wind afterall, the keeper and knower of all gossip, the beloved Hwyll, ally to all but belonging to none...
     Until now?

Posted by rowan at November 18, 2004 07:16 PM