Summer Queen

Winter Frost

this is still technically part of the prologue, sorry. I won't write a chapter for EVERY month/season/time. Ain't nobody got time for that!

*raspy old lady voice* 'I foresee a future where the characters have their own POVs, very soon...'

this is supposed to be Winter time. sure, Summer is the only one there but technically, with the dates and the months and stuff, it's supposed to be Winter.

DISCLAIMER: I own everything :)

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The obsidian sits in sunlight, as it does everyday, absorbing the energy. It had been two moons since Mezeirel was born and it was only a quarter full. Mezeirel lies beside it, under her little glamour. Her mother thinks, deeply and well, on whether they should keep her secret or risk letting the rest of the family know. Aramin and Nezza would never tell the Dea, or her servants. It is Berim, with her perpetually chattering mouth and cold Meades, with his fierce loyalty and sense of obedience to his sovereign Queen that she doubts, their tongues keys to a precious, clandestine box that must be kept hidden always.

"Hic, hic, hic, hic, hic..." Mezeirel is hiccuping, her smooth stomach shrinking and fattening and shrinking and fattening rapidly. She moves to pick up her baby, reaching out with her candlestick fingers.

"Shush, Mezeirel, shhh. All you need is some milk, then you'll be fine." She knows that two moons is now enough to understand speech but it is comforting to talk to her babe, even conversations where she is alone in speaking. The only thing she cares for is that there be someone to listen. Mezeirel hiccup-laughs, not a single sign of crying on her perfect little face.

"Strong, aren't we?" Tyvel beams down at the child. "Not even cry- aahh!" she gasps, cradling her hand to her bosom. Mezeirel wails, her sleep disturbed, her frosted skin burnt. For all her instincts shrieking to move in the opposite direction, Tyvel uses her dress to scoop up her baby, wincing as cold creeps up her arms and torso. Mezeirel is cold frosted blue!

"Kiyo!" Her voice is frantic and afraid.

"What! What's wrong?" His wings blow gusts into Tyvel's face, his love and concern rushing him to her at an astounding speed. The fae who called him coughs and hisses out her trouble;

"Look at Mezeirel! She's BLUE!" Mezeirel grasps for her mothers breast, seeking milk, and wails. Tyvel bites her lip but allows no sound to escape her. How is a mother supposed to care and comfort her child if even a mere touch is pain? Kiyo tentatively reaches out to touch his daughter's skin and jerks it back. Then he calmly walks away towards the window.

"Kiyo! Where are you going?" She hisses.

"This is what the mirror is for. When our power is not enough."

"But it makes no sense. We are young and strong and it is the middle of the day! Our peak!"

"You forget it is the start of the cold season, when the Sun grows shy and hides behind the clouds." The obsidian is in his hands and he places it in Mezeirel's grasping fingers. The blue ripples and bursts skyward, and Mezeirel is tan again. The blue falls down in miniscule lace-like particles and while Kiyo seems confused, Tyvel looks on with distaste and recognition.

"What is this?" He mumbles quietly, hissing with the fine frost as it melts at his touch.

"Snow" is his wife's reply, her voice dripping venom.

"Snow? How do you know this?"

"I was shown once. It was a part of Mezeirel's wings before we hid them." Mezeirel is laughing, eating and snapping her toothless gums at the snow that tumbles down gracefully from the ceiling. A blanket lands on her, concealing everything but her smiling face. The snow gathers to her, rushing in a white flurry that turns blue at her touch. The partly golden sphere is cradled in her lap and held steady with one of her hands, pulsing and flickering. With each flash of its light the snows melt until there are none left. Mezeirel cries for her mother, who swiftly picks her up and is pleased to find that her skin is no longer a hazard to be wary of. Tyvel's comfort lies in her daughter's cool, smooth and painless touch. The mirror cradled in the babe's petite frame is still only a quarter full, but in the shimmering pool of power in its depths the gold has merged and made way for little silver slivers of Winter frost.

~~~

The Aestiva, known as the Dea to her people, writhes and thrashes on the flaming coals that serve as her bed. As swiftly as the pain struck, it is gone again, leaving nothing but wisps of steam. Snow and hail. She spits on the melting puddle, which hisses as the Aestiva's heat touches it. Her terrifyingly beautiful face contorts in hate as she snarls out to the guards waiting on the other side of her door.

"Get me the Hiem." she hisses, slim fingers already flitting over the glass door of her cabinet. 'So many too choose from, so few to use them on.' she thinks to herself. The Weapons cabinet holds a multitude of instruments. She settles on a barbed whip as her guards throw a beaten woman into her room. The woman is just as beautiful as she is, albeit blue and cold and delicate.

"You've been busy in your cell. Already bored with the toys I so generously sent you?" she sings sweetly. Hiem knows this is a sadistic habit and stays quiet, alleviating her own pain beforehand. Aestiva's eyes suddenly erupt in sparks and flames. Her golden claws come down on the blue faery's cheek. A cold gasp escapes but it is not from the woman on her knees, radiating cold. The torturer cradles her hand in her bosom. Instead of her leaving a burn, she is left with a blue, frostbitten spot. Hiem smiles with her eyes because her mouth is too charred. The injured and insulted faery narrows her eyes and suddenly cackles.

"Are you feeling cold, Dea Aestiva?" the blue woman says mockingly. She had nothing to do with this sudden rise in her power but pretends to be the cause. Divert Summer's attention from the real reason of her weakness. Summer smiles with a false respect, with the illusion that she sees Hiem as an equal.

"You forget that it is MY sun in the sky, MY faeries that roam free and MY power that saturates the air. It would do you well to remember that, Dea." the word "Dea" is prolonged, the usual awe and reverence for the title discarded like dead leaves. With that, the Aestiva brandishes her whip and strikes her prisoner's face.

Mezeirel's is the only scream to be heard, in the house of her confused parents. Nothing can escape the Summer Queen's walls, not even cries for death and mercy.