The scroll quivered in Swiftmist’s hands as he marched along the armour-lined hallway towards the throne room. The scroll did not sit on a cushion- a telltale sign that it contained bad news. Swiftmist knew it, as did his Queen undoubtedly. The plumper the cushion, the greater the news.

But no cushion at all…

The messenger, minute in both figure and height, swallowed down the terror that threatened to choke him. Cushion or no cushion, this was news that needed to be told. Fear or no fear, it was Swiftmist’s duty to tell it.

Nervously, he wiped his brow with a leaf-shaped handkerchief, beautifully crafted by Her Majesty’s silkworms. A gift for his services. His confidence revived a little. With an over-pronounced flourish, he bowed to the guards at the door.

Yet it was nothing compared to his performance as the doors were opened to him. Dropping instantly to his knees, her arched his back, bending his head low, his nose pressed into the soft, periwinkle grass that carpeted the grand room. Even his wings, as light and swift as the name and duty he had been given, drooped pitifully from his spine, obscuring a large portion of his body. Possessed, like each member of his race, with the unique ability to change his wing colour, depending on mood, Swiftmist’s flickered into the exact periwinkle of the floor, camouflaging all but his bowed blonde head… as well as a tiny pair of feet, wriggling in discomfort.

“Step forward, Swiftmist.”

A voice, deep but musical, curled its way across the room and wrapped about him, pulling him into a standing position at once. Making his way along the narrow crimson carpet towards the speaker. As lengthy as his path seemed, as slow and as solemn as he walked, he reached the throne much sooner than he desired.

Perched regally upon her seat, carved from the finest pearlescent material of which their realm had become famous for, the Queen stared down at him, her olive-green eyes plucking out his anxiety. Her olive-green eyes noticing, immediately, the lack of cushion.

It was more than Swiftmist could bear. He crumpled to the floor once again, cowering before her.

“Rise, Swiftmist,” she ordered, gentle in tone but firm in command, her face displaying a confusion of authorities. The youthful skin, flawless and smooth, presented the beauty for which her subjects admired her. Yet the pure white hair that framed those porcelain cheeks, the pure white hair that tumbled to the floor in curls and kinks, suggested wisdom and restraint- of which her realm still waited for. She was no politician. No great philosopher. She was barely a lady.