Fat as she is, she is arisen from her throne and set aside time by herself. She has alliances to solidify, and she needs no witnesses.

The shadows have been drawn closed, patrolled by slinking yellow-eyed cats and black-eyed mongooses. She is alone here, in a circle upon her topmost tower. And she beckons, and they come.

They come in a cloud. No buzzing, no drone signals their wings, though the wings flash in the light between the storm-grey clouds. Pale as milk, pink as roses, red as blood, green as grass, mottled like the serpent's belly, they are every colour and no colour at all, descending in a wave upon the tower.

Unseen.

The queen shields them from the sight of all, including her own guards. They descend, and they settle upon the bushes and trees that decorate the tower-top, upon the stones, upon the fountain, the benches, anything which will hold their combined weights. They do not touch her, but they look at her.

Fiona faces the weight of their combined mirrored scrutiny. So many tiny, opalescent eyes. And she speaks, one hand resting upon the swell of her belly.

"I know that it is important to you to see for yourselves what I offer. You have seen my city." A dainty hand extends in a small gesture, decorated with ruby and emerald rings. "Now you have seen me."

Silence. The continued scrutiny, unabated. But she shows no sign of fear, no sign of nervousness. "Serve me, and you will have a homeland. These cliffs are riddled with caves. Some have been taken for others' use, but there are still thousands remaining. I will give you the western cliff-face, to the right of my palace, if you will serve me and my kingdom."

Silence, again. And then, without speech, thirty of the winged creatures rise and streak off to the caverns to which the young queen has pointed. And time passes, the pregnant young woman regarding the pixies, the pixies regarding the queen who would rule them.

FInally, the thirty return and reclaim their positions. The wings flutter; there is a shrill sound, a whistling din, a raucous clamor. And then it stops, as suddenly as it had begun.

Red, orange, mottled, grey, green, purple, blue, white, black - all the colours that are found in nature. Thirty of the pixies flutter forward, one after another. They find perches upon the queen's shoulders, in her hair, upon her arms, on her wrists. Through her clothes, the silks and the lace, thirty sets of needle-sharp teeth pierce Fiona's skin, crimson welling up through.

She does not cry out. She does not jerk, nor make any sound. There is the slight shifting, of resolidifying her stance. And upon each of the thirty pixie's wings, a streak of blue and white intertwined appears - a wave design that spreads from them to all the rest.

"Then," Fiona says evenly, "as you have bound yourselves to me and I to you as your liege, I welcome you, thirty tribes. Take up your homes and be at ease within my borders. You will remain unknown for now. I will speak with you again once I have delivered my children and my plans may move forward."

The pixies rise into the air, leaving her still bitten, still smeared with blood. They rise as the cloud they descended in, and in that multicoloured dark cloud streak to the caverns and disappear.

Fiona takes a deep breath. Healing herself will take time... and she has only a little time before her husband will come looking for her. She scoops up one of the cats from the shadows, stroking its head. "Go to Rhodri," she murmurs to it. "Tell him to meet me in the gardens. Tell him to prepare a picnic."

It will buy time. Only a little, but a little time is all that she will need...

Posted by Maire at October 16, 2005 12:49 AM