by Fox, Piper
“And you, my queen. The Winter Court has assembled, and awaits your pleasure.”
The fae are fast, and respectful, even after all these years. I would not ask such formality of them, but the fae thrive upon order and tradition, and as their queen, I would not deny them the structure they so richly desire.
“I will appear, presently,” I assure her.
“Very good, my queen,” she says, and in a whisper of mist she is gone, the doors closing behind her.
I approach my triptych mirror and scrutinise myself from every angle. I look as radiant as ever. Weariness, and old age cannot touch the fae—we are immune to its cruel ravages. Great family matriarchs, thousands of years old, look to be their great granddaughter’s sisters, while fathers look as eternally handsome as their sons. I have no doubt that such things would be beyond the comprehension of the mortals who dwell on Ironside, otherwise known as the Outlands. There, they live magicless, toiling and struggling to survive, beset on all sides by the Cursed—spurned beings not welcome in Faery, such as vampires, werewolves, and witches—often living much less than even one-hundred years as a result. I purse my lips, pushing such concerns to the back of my mind.
With a single thought I manifest a gown befitting the Winter Queen. I decide against my more flamboyant creations, and opt for something more sleek. Something more revealing, that hugs my form in all the right places. An exquisite ivory corset, and artfully attached bustier decorated with swirling tendrils cut from the fabric; to engage the eye, and adorn the flesh. A long flowing skirt falls from my hips, shimmering as pearlescent white as freshly fallen snow. A pair of perfectly matched gloves, and a tasteful pair of crystal heels later, and I’m as ready as I’ll ever be to usher in the beginning of winter.
Reaching for the Staff of Frost I relax, feeling its familiar, cool weight in my hands. The icy crystal at its head glitters and glows from within, the ancient conduit answering to its mistress. “Let’s greet the Court and begin the festivities, shall we?”
* * *
In a flurry of sparkling mist and snowflakes I appear upon the dais, before my throne, and all of my loyal subjects; the lesser territory queens, knights, and gentry from far and wide.
I curtsy, my waist length hair cascading over my shoulders like a waterfall of pale silver moonlight. As I straighten, I offer the sea of ethereal, beautiful faces the faintest of smiles. “I live to serve to the winter, and it’s folk,” I declare. “From the frosted tears of the weeping moon were we born, and in this hour we honour her.”
The Winter Court echoes my words solemnly, bowing their heads as one. I take my place upon the Throne of Ice, its form stunningly picturesque with its stalactites of crystal reaching skyward like sharp, sparkling fingers. The Winter Palace glimmers around me, and I inhale deeply, allowing the brisk air to refresh my lungs and infuse my veins. As I gaze upon the gathered Court, a pair of golden eyes framed by long, dark silver grey curls, and a chiselled jaw catches my attention. I feel a shiver run up my spine, though I am not cold. It is Arcanus, the wolf spirit—the original—the Alpha of all wolf packs in Faery.
A see a faint smirk quirk the corner of his lips, and I supress the urge to sigh. He is devastatingly handsome, more roguish, and predatory in his beauty than most of the fae. Strong, fierce, dominant, and protective, he has no equal among his kind. His loosely buttoned white silk shirt teases me, and I find myself imagining what it might be like to trail my icy fingers down his strong, muscular chest… I catch myself and avert my eyes. It feels like several lifetimes since I last experienced a man’s touch. ‘Duty before love’ has always been my personal mantra. I have spent years beyond count denying myself…yet now, I find myself wondering if depriving myself of such intimacy makes sense at all. I am the Winter Queen, after all. Surely I can fulfil my duties to the realm, serve my folk, as well as find and enjoy love? I promise myself to explore that line of thought further when I’m not so acutely aware that the whole Winter Court isn’t waiting on me...
Drawing in a deep breath, I spread my arms wide, wielding my staff in a majestic arc above me. The cavernous hall of ice fills with a fine white mist, temporarily obscuring all vision. When it settles there is a collective intake of breath as the throne room is transformed into a living, breathing wonderland.
The icy dance floor shines like a frozen lake, reflecting the hovering orbs of faery light, while snowflakes fall softly, alighting upon hair, flesh, costume, and wing. A grand banquet appears upon long tables on either side. The fruits of the Winterlands are piled high—crispy, sweet frost apples, glistening snowberries, carved icemelon, and sugared moonblossoms from my very own royal garden. Crystal goblets overflow with chilled wine, and effervescent nectar, and platters of all manner of mouth-watering iced pastries and cakes fill the hall with the heady, saccharine aroma of decadence.
Brilliant, deep blue roses twist, and entwine around the pillars of ice leading up to the high, vaulted ceilings, and magnificent weeping fronds of purple wisteria dangle, their delicate bells shivering, and swaying. To the left of the throne, on a podium of sheer ice, three sirens sing wordless melodies so haunting, and beautiful as to cause gooseflesh of emotion to appear on even the coldest, and most stern of the winter fae.
“Winter has begun!” I announce to a thunderous round of applause, and cheers from the Court, before my folk disseminate throughout the hall to indulge in dance, liquor, food, and conversation.
Arcanus
Nixian sits upon her icy throne, the opalescent fabric of her gown slipping to reveal shapely calves and thighs as she crosses one leg over the other. She summons a crystal goblet, and sips at the warming nectar within, savouring its sweet flavour. Her frosted pink lips—the colour of blushing roses—are small, but full, and as she lowers her glass and subconsciously bites her lower lip in thought I feel a stirring within my loins; like the flicker of embers sparking to life.
The Winter Queen is somehow different, I can sense it. For as long as I have known her, she has been reticent, distant, and cold. Never rude, or cruel…just unreachable. She froze her heart willingly, out of a sense of duty to the folk, that much has always been clear. Where the Summer Queen is frivolous, and flighty, quick to laugh, and easily entertained; the Winter Queen has been discerning, and stoic. She is a serious queen. But today something has changed. We have awoken from yet another seasonal slumber and though her flawless, frosty beauty has not changed, there is a fluidity to her now, a softness.
The Winter Court revels around me as I pass through, unhindered. We all have our place, and all have a parts to play, but the most ancient of us—the first of our kinds—will always command respect. It is an unspoken thing, but it is tangible. I see in the parting of bodies, in the eyes that seek the floor, in the bow of heads, and the breathless silence that follows after an entrance or departure.
More often than not the ancient fae are reclusive, preferring the solitude of the wild, or the company of their direct kin…but tonight there are three ancients present, princes all, for there is no rank held, or desired, by a male that surpasses or equals that of our matriarch. Nixian is our queen, the embodiment of the Winterlands, and all Winterfolk, female and male alike, yearn to serve, and obey her. She is our queen, and the centre of our culture. To be near her is to feel a primal hunger, a soul deep urge that drives us to be our very best selves, our true selves—for her. She is the Winter, and she lives for us, and in turn we live for her.
As I approach the throne I see the other two princes bristle out of the corner of my eye. I smile internally. They are perturbed that I’ve made the first move. Their Alpha instincts will be afire. They sense the change in our queen, too. And neither will want to miss the opportunity to worship, romance, and bed the Heart of the Winterlands. But Court protocol is as old and revered as the queen, herself; and I have declared my interest by initiating first approach, thus, they must wait their turn, or risk causing a commotion. No hot blooded male would dare smear their shining years of loyal Service wi
th a social faux pas on the first day of Winter, during the queen’s celebration.
Don’t get too cocky, Wolf, says a rumbling voice in my mind.
I chuckle along the mind to mind connection. You’re just hissy, Dragon. Try not to let your displeasure be known to our queen, I return.
He’s bigger than you, you know, warms the third prince.
I assure you, Bear, I can hold my own, I answer.
As I reach the stairs of the dais Nixian meets my eye with a sparkle of amusement, one of her perfect brows arched. I have wanted my queen for time beyond memory…but now, if she will not accept me, I feel I might burn from existence. I crave her, need her, and more than anything…I want for her to desire me in return. To be worthy of the Winter Queen is the dream of all dominant males, no matter what their fae-kind. The fire that sprung to life in my loins flares bright, and I feel my member twitch in anticipation, as my ancient heart begins to thunder in my chest.
Nixian
Arcanus bows before me, his long dark silver grey curls falling forward, but his intense golden eyes never leave mine.
“A white Winter to you, my queen,” he says as he straightens, tall, muscular and proud.
“And to you, Arcanus,” I reply. “I noticed you were having words with the other two ancient princes who have deigned to attend.”
The wolf shifter’s smile is full of mischief, and dark promise. “Nothing you need be concerned about, my queen. We will behave.”
I smirk. “I would expect nothing less.” A moment transpires between us, a wordless tension. I feel compelled to flee the unfamiliar sensations that bubble within me—as if I can run from myself—but at the same time, I yearn for the wolf to be more daring; to cross the divide between us, and draw nearer. The wolf’s eyes drink me in, though not in a manner which frightens me. On the contrary, he seems enraptured, as if he were beholding the most beautiful, and desirable creature he’d ever seen.
A knot twists in my stomach, releasing an eddy of butterflies, momentarily stealing my breath away. I don’t understand what has come over me. The fae do not keep track of time, it is meaningless to us. We exist, and always have…yet I have never felt like this, before. I am certain of it. I have long been able to appreciate the exquisite beauty of my flawless folk without sexual interest, but now? I can feel the region between my thighs quiver, and contract with a sense of urgency that leaves me as thrilled as it does anxious.
I find myself silently grateful for the dutiful façade I have crafted and worn all these years. I fear that without the cool, royally stoic mask of ingrained protocol, I’d be nauseatingly transparent. I internally cringe to imagine what these heart achingly handsome princes might think if they could sense what I am feeling. A frozen spring, suddenly thawed, that flows once more through an icy landscape. For the first time in my memory I am suddenly, and blatantly aware that I need physical intimacy. As Arcanus stands before me, my mind is awash with a torrent of images… I see us entangled, his hands roaming with feverish passion over my cool skin. Then I feel the spear of his manhood between my legs, hard, and ready to claim the precious, hidden warmth buried deep within.
Before I know what I am doing I rise from my throne, and offer my hand. “Dance with me, prince.” A command, not a question—and with much more authority than I feel.
Arcanus’ eyes seem to ignite, as he takes my hand. We descend the stairs of the dais to the dance floor, and the crowd parts without prompting, retreating to the outer edges of the glittering blue ice. We glide to the centre of the square, effortless, born to it like sirens to the sea. With a single thought the sisters slide into a new melody, their haunting voices combining in an otherworldly harmony as Arcanus and I take our position.
Arcanus
The sirens begin their new song for the queen, and we begin our dance. Palm to palm without so much as a whisper of a touch, we step, circling one way, then the other. Eyes locked, I find myself lost in the crystal depths of her gaze. In the name of pleasure, and breeding, I have mated many female wolf shifters, and slept with my fair share of other fae, and to be honest…I’ve enjoyed it. But this is different. The others were simple social contracts. I dominated, and I took my pleasure. I had them completely.
What I feel in the Winter Queen’s presence is something else entirely. I want to claim her, that truth remains; but what is foreign, and disquieting to my Alpha wolf spirit is that being near her makes me want to submit—to surrender. Every part of my being aches to serve her. I want her to know the fire she stokes within me. I want her to know that without question, I would die for her. I know it as surely as I breathe.
The fae are not like the mortals of Ironside. We do not share in their strange, and prolonged mating practises. We do not court, or date our intended. We need not get to know each other with droll conversation, and spend years in engagement before marriage. The fae are more than that. We are above it. We are instinct, and spirit, and we feel emotion in an infinitely more acute manner. When we are meant to be with another, we just know. We need only listen to the symphony of our heart, mind, body, and soul. It is sung in a tongue that surpasses the spoken, or written word. It is beyond ritual or protocol. It is the song of nature, itself, and it is undeniable.
I must have her as surely as the air in my lungs, and the blood in my veins. I sense as we dance that she is ready to be mated. She can feel it, and wants it; but she is also afraid, resisting. Our exquisite queen is a dream born of moonlight, and freshly fallen snow. She has always held fast to her duty, and purpose. Never straying far. She is responsible, and strong. As cold and hard as a glacier, and as brutal as a blizzard when need be…but she is still a woman, a feminine spirit, and her desire to be loved, and claimed, radiates from her now as brightly as the light of the North Star on a cloudless winter night.
Not all fae will sense it, certainly not as keenly as I do—but the other ancient princes can. That is why they are here. They wish to stake their claim. But the queen is no court plaything. A claim must be accepted. Nixian holds the power. Yet, I have no doubt in my mind that Ursus, and Dracon will fight me for the chance to prove they are most worthy of being her fated mate.
Dracon
I feel the hot fire of jealousy kindle within me, but I remain ice cold. Around me fae subtly put distance between us. My cold radiates like a chill so potent as to burn. I try to reign it in, but it’s proving more difficult than I had thought it would be. Watching the wolf prince dance with my queen before the entire Winter Court is eating me alive.
Though they are yet to touch, the dance is singular and intimate. They are entirely focused on one another, as if the rest of us don’t exist at all. If only I had made the first move. If only I had trusted my instincts… Hoard her, they told me. Make her yours. Keep her, always.
The bright light of her willingness, and readiness to mate is almost blinding. Its scent is heady and divine. Over the other side of the dance floor, lurking beyond the crowded fae, I see the bear prince, Ursus, locked onto Nixian’s every move. His black eyes are like pools of infinite darkness, made all the more outstanding by his shocking, snow-white hair. The Alpha of all bears shifters in Faery, though I long to deny it, is competition equal to that of Arcanus. Each of us is as old as the other, each with our own unique strengths, and beauty.
Is he lamenting that he did not seize the opportunity to approach our queen, first, too? Somehow, my instincts tell me the answer is ‘no’. The bear waits. He is patient. He is gauging the competition. He will move when he is ready, I feel. He does not see Nixian as a prize to be pounced upon, and impressed with sleek cunning. He will wait and pinpoint our weaknesses, and appeal to the queen’s desires in which we are lacking.
Lacking? I hate the word. A dragon shifter admitting he is not the greatest of all beings is a hard thing, but my soul knows the truth. No one creature has it all. But what do I have to offer my queen? My jealousy? No, my devotion. I would place her upon a pedestal, and worship her, covet her. I would wrap my strong
wings about her to shield her from all things. My breath of ice would freeze any who might seek to harm her, and then, with my mighty tail I would smash them into oblivion; and her enemies would be reduced to nothing more than fragmented shards.
The sirens’ song comes to a heart-aching end, and the dance is done. Arcanus leads my beaming queen from the floor, and I feel my soul shiver—and not with the cold. I want her. I want her more fiercely than I have ever desired anything in my existence. There is no gold, jewel, castle, or treasure more precious than the Winter Queen.
Nixian
Arcanus summons two goblets of sparkling nectar from the table and offers me one. I accept, and sip at the sweet contents gratefully. My heart is racing, and I can feel that my cheeks are flushed with colour. The wolf prince smiles, his golden eyes shimmering like the Harvest Moon. I can feel the Alpha seduction rolling off of him in waves, and despite the fact I can overcome it and choose not to be affected by it, I allow myself to revel in it; to be swept up and drowned in the desire and affection of his attention.
“I enjoyed our dance, my queen,” he says.
“As did I.”
Arcanus’ lips quirk into a seductive smirk, and I desire nothing more than to kiss them. To feel the hot pressure of his mouth crushed against my own, to feel our bodies melting into each other.
“Would you like to take some air?” he asks.
I feel my desire manifest in the form of courage, buoyed by his unrelenting interest. “Are you so eager to drag me from the sight of the other ancients?” I ask.
The wolf prince’ smile darkens, his eyes lighting up with calculated mischief. “Would that be such a terrible thing?” he asks.
