The X-Project

Namor and Pixie awaken to a warm welcome by the ruler of this realm. She offers them hospitality - and an unwelcome revelation.



“Oh, are you awake? Very good. I was beginning to worry that our hunters had been too enthusiastic.”

A figure sat at Pixie’s bedside. A woman, tall and beautiful, was gazing down at the girl with an appraising eye that belied the pleasant lilt of her words. Hair red as sunset tumbled down the back of a gown so vibrantly green it could have been sewn from the living plants surrounding them.

At her back, iridescent wings beat lazily.

Pixie stirred at the voice, her senses slowly coming into focus. She was lying on her stomach, her wings stretched out carefully to either side. The silken sheets beneath her felt as soft as a flower petal, maybe too perfect, and she shifted uneasily against them. The air was thick with the scent of blooming flowers, mingling with the damp, earthy undertones of moss and soil.

She pushed herself upright as the memories of the ambush came flooding back: a chaotic kaleidoscope of swirling dust, lights, and colors, all blurring together before everything went black. Now that she was awake—or at least thought she was—something still felt... ... off. Like she was only dreaming about waking up. The room seemed too vivid, too alive to be real.

"Where am I? Where are Meggan and Namor?"

"You are unknown to me. Did you get caught outside?" The woman was smiling; the question had a cloying solicitude, like a mother indulging a sleepy toddler. "Or perhaps," she continued, as if a thought had suddenly occurred, "you had taken that area for your demesne?"

Pixie’s black eyes narrowed. "I wasn’t caught anywhere, I was ambushed—by your hunters, apparently." She sat up straighter, disliking the infantilizing tone of her captor. “And I'm not taking anything. I don’t have a demesne. I didn’t realize that was a prerequisite for stumbling into..." she gestured vaguely to the room, her hand sweeping toward the living walls and the intricate canopy of vines above her, “this place.”

Her instincts were screaming, practically vibrating with the knowledge of where she was, but she forced herself to keep her voice steady.

The woman's hand flew to her mouth in a gesture of artful surprise. "Ambushed? Perhaps they were overzealous, but when my men beheld a fellow kindred wandering far from our lands they took the initiative. They were concerned only for your safety. Now tell me: how did you come to be Outside?"

Pixie’s heart raced. Yep, this was definitely the Otherworld. The woman’s question only confirmed her suspicions. And, hello? Wasn’t the answer to that pretty obvious?

"Thanks for the concern, but I’m from what you call the Outside. I live there," said Pixie, her wings quivering slightly despite her best efforts to keep calm. "Honest mistake, I'm sure. But I'd really like to find my friends."

The lady's face darkened. Cold fingers gripped Pixie's chin with the strength of a vise, and suddenly the girl found her face mere inches away from the stranger's. Her eyes, too, were dark and pupiless, but they had the iridescence of an oil slick. Their tint changed depending upon the angle of the light. Now they stared into Pixie's soul with a green as deep and pitiless as the sea.

Then, laughter. Head tossed back, the woman pulled away as if the previous moment had never occurred. The ice of her touch still chilled Pixie's chin.

"I see, I see! I took you for a pureborn, but you are nothing more than a halfbreed, born or abandoned Outside. I can feel it now, the taint of humanity to your magic. How strange. It is a rare thing our gifts breed true through the blood of those brutes." The woman's smile took on a slant of condescension. "How brave of you, disadvantaged as you are, to survive that terrible place. And to find your way back to your homeland, too."

Pixie stiffened, her face turning a shade of pink to match her hair. "I'm not a halfbreed, I'm a mutant."

The word "abandoned" echoed inside her mind, needling at her confidence as she continued. "Mum was a school teacher and Dad was a coal miner. The X-gene skipped them or something." OK, maybe they had been a bit old to be her parents, but she'd seen the family resemblance. She knew they were blood. They had raised her, loved her, and given her a good childhood. And her mother would never abandon her. "Who are you to talk about my mum that way?" And when her parents had died, the X-Men had given her a new home where she'd had every advantage to hone her abilities. She was practically shaking now.

"Mother? Yes, now that I see you properly I believe it must have been she. A human dalliance is a scandalous thing, but not unknown to us. How fascinating. I seem to recall a face not unlike yours at my court, once . . ."

The lady put a finger to her lips, as if a name were on the tip of her tongue. For an instant a thin, perfect line creased her forehead, and then her interest seemed to desert her. "Ah, but this is a mystery we shall have all the time in the world to unravel," she proclaimed. "I am called the Grande Dame. Come. Your companion awaits."

With serpent-smooth movements she rose from Pixie's bed and made for the door, leaving the young woman with no choice but to follow.

The door, a delicate construction of gossamer-thin leaves overlaid in swirling patterns, swung open without a touch from the lady. In fact, the entire expanse of the palace seemed to bend toward her will as she floated out into a much larger, much grander foyer. Trailing vines readjusted their swirling, nouveau patterns to better frame her entry. The shifting panes of sugar glass set between the buttresses above opened and closed to bathe her in a halo of soft, multi-hued spotlight. The shadows of servants twisted from her wake, leaving all around the Grand Dame serene and composed.

The lady did not acknowledge any of this, and likewise did not turn back to see if Pixie had followed. She merely continued forward with purpose.

The drawing room they entered was similarly contrived. Bounties of pastries and finger foods were set between a tableau of billowing, draped fabrics and low furniture that would have made Waterhouse cry. Lithe, winged gentry flitted and lounged around a familiar figure sitting regal upon a moss-pillowed chaise, his presence creating a gravity to the space that only twisted upon the entrance of this realm's ruler. It was clear that Namor's experience had been different from Pixie's.

The Atlantean stretched, languid, gaze fixing the two newcomers with raptor intent before he stood. "Your Grace," was delivered with a respectful bow. Namor's attention stayed purposefully affixed to the lady. "How wonderful. Your hospitality continues to stand unrivaled."

Pixie followed the Grande Dame into the room, a space designed to impress with its ethereal beauty. It was rather lost on Pixie, however, as she frantically scanned the room for her friends. She quickly spotted Namor, looking perfectly at home in this surreal display of "unrivaled hospitality." When he wouldn't return her gaze, she was stunned for a moment. She began to say something, then stopped herself as realization settled over her. Of course – she was invisible now, dismissed as a half-breed, no more significant than the room's furniture. So she settled for raising a pink eyebrow in Namor's direction. It was a subtle gesture, but one she hoped conveyed, So, how's the royal treatment working out for you?

The faerie woman slided towards the Atlantean, fine silk dress billowing as if from a breeze that touched only her. "You will excuse the delay," she said to Namor, blatantly not asking his opinion. "We did not expect to encounter two such as yourselves whilst exploring the world of Man, and it is not unknown for potential usurpers to seek allies against me. I had to determine for myself whether this girl was indeed a subject of your lands, not a rival in mine." The smile that curved her mouth was warm. "As one ruler to another, I thank you. It seems you have returned to Us a wayward daughter."

Something in Namor's posture stiffened. He'd been dressed to match the scene, draped what might be most positively the overnight tryst of a brocaded robe and an anachronistically high collar cape Bela Lugosi might die for. He leaned forward and the ensemble didn't even need to spill open to reveal there was very little underneath.

"As one ruler to another," he echoed like a tennis serve returned, "What I will do is express my gratitude you found my ward. You see, Atlantis holds its obligations very dear. Surely I had mentioned my travelling companions as we discussed relations between our peoples?" Namor's gaze did meet Pixie's then, and gave her what might look like a flash of interest and not, say, a non verbal prompt to play along. "Wonderful she has found an extended family here."

Family. Pixie's mind had been jumping away from that explosion of a revelation, and it now caught up with her in a fiery ball. She slowly collapsed against a vine-wrapped column for support like a wilting muse. There was no use denying it, even if she could, for "Ngh," is all that came out when she tried to speak. She rejected the thought with every memory cell her brain contained of her parents. Yet it totally made sense deep in her heart. She nodded faintly. "Mhm."

Fortunately for everyone involved, Namor continued right over Pixie's newfound speechlessness.

"What of the others, then? I might just consider myself indebted upon their safe return." He gifted the Dame a sharp smile, but it did not reach his eyes.

The Dame fluttered a regretful hand. "I have heard of no others as interesting as yourselves, but nothing that occurs within this realm remains hidden for long. Should they have found their way to Otherworld I shall extend my every resource to locating them." The smile directed at Namor gained another layer of gloss. "Alas, I can do little else; the gates of Otherworld are ever-shifting, and that through which you entered has since closed. I'm sure another shall open anon. Until then, I insist the two of you enjoy Our hospitality. Kindred, please see to the Atlantean's companion; I'm certain she'll be most grateful for a bath and proper attire."

Pixie flinched as two fae attendants approached and firmly helped her regain her balance. "H-hey!" she muttered under her breath, her speechlessness burned away in a wave of indignation. The flowery condescension in the Grande Dame's words when she suggested that Pixie needed a bath and new clothes – the nerve! Fine. Play along. For now.

"Your hospitality is . . . overwhelming, um, Your Grace," she said brightly. She gave a sugary sweet smile as the attendants ushered her out of the drawing room.

"Our most favored do enjoy certain benefits," said the Dame as Pixie was escorted towards a future of enforced ablution and the sartorial whims of the Gentry. She glided towards Namor, iridescent wings gently fanning the air like a sunning dragonfly. Her smile became as radiant as the sun flashing against fresh ice as she settled beside him on the divan. A ram-headed servant appeared with two goblets of wine. The Grande Dame claimed one, flicking her eyes toward the other in invitation.

"Atlantis has long been known to Us through travelers' tales. However, We have never had the pleasure of direct contact." The faerie woman gazed at Namor with eyes burning with banked fires. "I would welcome the opportunity to establish diplomatic ties."

Namor had held onto his pleasant veneer cordiality as Pixie was escorted out, but beat by beat his expression flattened to something glacial. The wine might have been on a nearby table, but he drew out the moment like it was a hundred subjective miles away. There had been a lot of talk on rules with the fae – some surely lungbreather nonsense, Namor might argue – yet the giving of names, thanks, and acceptance of food were high on the "DO NOT" list. An Atlantean, however, had to drink. It was easy to ignore warning signs when there were simply so many. He grabbed the goblet with only a second or third thought.

A sniff. A quick, precise swirl. As Namor lifted the cup, he grinned wide if only to show her that he, too, had teeth.

"To the promise of mutually beneficial relations," he toasted, "tied to each other."

He drank.