Invites were sent out a while ago and most have come back by now, though a few are still outstanding. Scrolls and flat-folded letters of response are piled up on the table closest to the heart -- the head table -- as delicate fingers pick through them one by one, cracking their seals and opening them to reveal the contents within.
     Not all responses were sent via parchment. No, some were verbal. Some magical. Some via animals. And some via other means. She has patiently gone through nearly all of them. A queen's work is never done, it seems, but she doesn't complain a bit about it.
     Hair of copper catches the light from the hearth's flames as she pushes a stray lock behind a pointed ear. Hafwen, Queen of Summer, the Oak Queen, opens the last scroll in the pile, chuckling as she murmurs, "Oh, Lord Sunan... you do have a sense of humour afterall..." She's obviously amused by the response.
     A servant approaches bringing a tray with a goblet and pitcher of honeywine, setting it down next to Hafwen. "Oh... thank you. Just leave it there, thank you..." she says, distractedly setting the letter down, pouring herself a cup of the sweet wine.

     He has been sent back to complete a full circle. Seasons ago, this is where everything began for him, not that it matters now. Inside he rages with every assured step closer he comes. His lips have memorized his words; instructions given scant days ago that shall be followed to the letter. Tybalt can do no less; The one he is to speak to made sure of that seasons ago.
     Tybalt is the perfect servant of Lord Melchior, Lord of the West Forest: pleasant, quick and discrete. Black silk moves silently, causing silver embroidered stars to glitter in the light; Melchior's colours. Silk slippers move upon the floor of the hallway, as he is escorted to the awaiting queen. When not spoken to, he is silent.
     How he longs for his past, or those brief respite he can steal away from the courts and the Kingdoms. Recently he tasted brief freedom in a far off kingdom called London. It was sweet freedom, making his servitude even more bitter for him.
     But on his lips is painted the perfect smile; one that invites conversation and friendship.

     Movement in the great hall that is not of her servants causes Hafwen to look up over her goblet even as it is tilted back and some of the sweet liquid is tasted. Lowering it from her lips, she focuses on the form before her. She knows who he is, she recognizes the colours, but most importantly, she remembers the incident that changed this being's existence... and it was all by her own hands.
     When she said those words, did she truly know what effect it would have on him? Does she know even now? Not likely, for she is not telepathic. If she asked, would he tell her? She doubts that.
     Rising as she sets the goblet down, she calls out, "Tybalt... so good to see you. Please... do come closer." A delicate hand beckons him forward even as her lips move into a soft smile. Her green gown hangs gently about her form from the shoulders, the silken fabric straightening itself out as she stands.

     "Queen of the Summer, you who are as beautiful as the midsummer sun, you honour this humble servant by speaking his name." Tybalt's words are smoothed of any rough edges. To think that he once could not speak at all, a beast's teeth making his words incomprehensible.
     The flourished bow shows no evidence that is anything but natural to this creature, despite the agonizing days spent learning courtly grace. Rising from the bow, he approaches as bidden. The last she saw him he was caught in the transformation of her power, and it is remarkable the changes.
     Although his feral heart still shows upon him -- that is the nature of his kind -- it is a beast that is refined in every action. His feline ears are no longer notched from fights, but clean and dignified. His teeth no longer protrude from his lips; no longer twist his features into a snarl. Tybalt walks on two feet, rather than all four. He is a new man indeed.

     The smile upon her face softens a bit more, then she gestures to a seat across from her. "Please... you do me the honour of being here," she is known to flatter her guests to make them feel more welcome, "will you join me a moment? Can I offer you some wine? Food perhaps?" She is already lowering herself back into her chair.
     With but a glance, the letters and scrolls fade from the table's surface, supposedly being transported ... well, elsewhere for now. A second goblet appears, directly in front of the indicated chair, full of sweet honeywine that she is known to serve around here.
     "To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" she is asking, seemingly oblivious to any inner turmoil which may be plaguing her visitor. Ever pleasant and calm around guests, she offers you the comforts she would offer your lord, a prince or another queen. Her hospitality is well-known.

     He cannot refuse hospitality for he is a guest in another house -- he must allow his host the right of being a host. "If you wish, my Queen, though this servant means no intrusion." There is another slight bow, with those words, as he gracefully steps back a step and takes his place at the offered chair.
     Oh, how he fights inside. His soul burns with anger at the shackles he wears, his thoughts don't even come close to mirroring his actions. His inner voice's chosen words less than complimentary. It isn't so bad when he only must suffer Lord Melchior's odd ways, and strange requests, but he must now sit through conversation with her.
     "Lord Melchior, Lord of the West Forest, requested that I carry, to your eminence, his response to your invitation." If /Go Here, and tell her my exact words, cretin count as a request, then he speaks the truth. Tybalt's tone is careful, meek almost. The carefully crafted tone of a functionary who knows his place: at the bottom.

     There is a vague waving of her hand, then, "Oh, tut, tut... I was just finishing up." Tilting her head a bit to one side, she begins to raise her goblet once more as she asks, "Oh? Yes, yes.... and what message does Lord Melchior send regarding the invitation?" She has an idea, but she remains polite and allows you to do your duty.
     Though his soul burns and seethes at her, she seems completely unaware of this. Her gaesa holds strong... and may the universe be merciful on her if it should ever break. But it shouldn't... should it?
     Smiling gently, pleasantly, the Oak Queen says, "I do hope that his Lordship can be at the feast... we," the court, "have missed his presence for quite some time. Business always seems to take hold of him at the most unfortunate moments, it seems." She finally takes another sip of her wine, then sets the cup upon the table once more.

     Both hands raise Tybalt's goblet to his lips -- She has sipped her wine, so those below her may do so now. "My Lord's words --" Tybalt nods his head, looking down to the floor as he speaks as he was told to:
     "Queen of Summer, and Life, once more your gracious hand welcomes the Kingdoms to your table and court --" Tybalt's tone is one of recitation, speaking word-for-word what he was command. Repeated until he could say it in his sleep. "-- and carrying that welcome came your invitation to the gates of my Ironwood." Melchior's keep in the West Wood. "It has been so long since I have been beyond the borders of my lands -- let alone in the high courts themselves -- and yet each time that a welcome invitation arrives, I find vital business that prevents me." And so begins the usual apology.
     Tybalt takes a sip of the wine here, before continuing. "Sadly this year is the end and the beginning of a long standing cycle in the West Forest, where I must renew sacred oaths to the most ancient trees and the stars above." Lord Melchior is a known sorcerer of some repute, powerful beyond most in the kingdoms -- though nothing compared to the Kings and Queens. "These oaths take place over many days, my Queen, and will interfere with my wish to travel to your court."
     "My apologies, in this, are worthless for I have missed so many of your wondrous gatherings. They pile up like leaves falling autumn, and deserve nothing more than to be swept away. Instead, I present my servant Tybalt --" who turns his face slightly more downward at this; a subtle indication of his inward thoughts "-- for a time, as a boon to repair any unhappiness my words may bring. I am sure you may remember him, and may find him useful in some capacity."
     No doubt Melchior has charged Tybalt to spy for him. That wouldn't be outside of the secretive Lord's character.

     Her head bows, obscuring her face in a curtain of flame it seems for a moment... long locks have fallen forward for a moment. Perhaps she hides her disappointment. Perhaps she hides an amused smile. It's really hard to tell, for when she rakes her fingers through her hair to pull it back off of her face again, the expression is properly of mild, polite disappointment.
     "Of course, I understand... surely, we will miss your Lord at the upcoming feast, but we will raise a glass in toast of him and those who are unable to be present, certainly." Ever the hostess and generous diplomat. His answer is almost always the same, but it would be an insult -- or worse -- if she failed to send his invitation anyway.
     "Well, Tybalt, it seems you will be here for a few days. I will be certain to have a room set up for you in the Guest Tower," the south-east tower of the castle, "and perhaps we can find a place to make use of your charm... perhaps even seeing to the guests? But we can discuss this later, certainly. I should send someone to see to your room..."
     Yes, it looks like you will be spending a few days here, certainly. Though, will it be so bad? Partying, feasting, drinking... and being with some of the guests to overhear what they are up to? Certainly that would please Melchior?

     So many seasons ago, almost to the day -- it will be to the day, when the feast occurs -- that Tybalt lost himself to the Queen of Summer's charms. Lost himself in a way that no one would ever wish for themselves. He has counted the days ever since, and he knows the convergence of dates.
     And he hates Melchior even more, for Tybalt knows that this was Melchior's purpose.
     "I would be more than honoured, my Queen, to be a servant in your court for the time I am here." He doesn't choke on the words. Can't, even though he wanted to. To spit the wine in her face. "But I beg that you take no special efforts for me. I will find a space with your servants, and that is all I require."
     Partying? Feasting? Drinking? This feast will be an affair that won't come close to the violence and excess that his soul calls for. Tybalt's definition of 'party' is quite different. And 'feast' would turn most good people's stomachs.

     And it is because of what his soul cries out for that she did what she did. The Oak Queen would not tolerate that in her realm. Sure, the rash fae lord who sought to use Tybalt was not aiming at the queen -- but would it have only been a matter of time? Call it pre-meditative self preservation -- self-defense, if you will. She simply would not sit back and let him conduct such appalling business within her kingdom. If he wished to do so, he would simply have to do so within the safe confines of his own domain... not her Talamh de Doire and certainly not within Samhradh Doire Castle itself.
     Hafwen has not forgotten what time of the year it is in relation to Tybalt's condition. She lies such enchantments on a being with all seriousness and does not do so lightly. The number of times she's done it, she could likely count on less than half of a hand... forcing one's will upon another is not something that she jumps at doing, even if she is capable.
     But none of that helps to soothe Tybalt's tortured soul, does it? None of it would be known to him, nor would it help, likely.
     "If that is your wish, good Tybalt, then so be it," the Queen replies with a nod. "Guests will begin arriving on the morrow... so if you wish to integrate yourself in with the other servants and help where it is needed, I am happy with that. Once the feast is over, by all means, you have my leave to return back to your Lord." It would be rude of her, after all, to send you back before the event.

Posted by rowan at March 25, 2004 11:20 AM