Dame Helen Mirren simply stands, and everyone turns to look at her. She curtsies perfectly, and murmurs, “If I may Your Majesty, a few questions.”
The Queen inclines her head graciously.
“Thank you. Is there information about dragons, their preferred habitats, behaviors, and their social structure if any, that is credible and might put us at a better advantage? Also, if we might have information about their current whereabouts and disposition, please.”
At a glance from the queen, an exhausted-looking Prince Harry steps forward and reports. “Cattle and sheep are disappearing or being mauled along the Orkneys & outer Hebrides, Dame Helen. From what we can tell, the females are larger than the males, and lead most of the hunts. Our current theory is that there has been less property or loss of human life damage than might be because it seems as if as if they’re training their young to hunt and focusing on livestock.”
“How was this information obtained?” Dame Judi asks. “Tell us you never went up in your chopper and did the reconnaissance yourself.”
“Never, ma’am.” he says, his dimples appearing. “We used drones.”
Dames Judi and Helen nod in approval, and Maggie adds wryly, “Ma’am? You most definitely outrank her, Your Highness. She only played a few queens.”
A ripple of not entirely comfortable laughter runs through the room. When it ends, the Queen says, “A soldier knows generals when he sees them.” She turns to Dame Helen. “Your thoughts, Dame Helen. What resources do you require?”
Helen’s spine goes straight, she trembles the slightest bit, and she bows her head, accepting it, squares her shoulders, and says to Harry, “To recap: possibly matrilineal pack…pride…clutch..flight of dragons has been hunting along the northwestern shores of Scotland.”
“We’re using a flight of dragons, ma’am, and yes.”
“On holiday or settling in?” Helen adds.
Prince Harry winces a little, “We tried to follow them back to see where they were nesting, but…
“Firebreathers,” Queen Elizabeth interjects. “Firebreathers the size of an aircraft carrier.”
Harry nods soberly. “We’ve noted that they’ve only done so when followed by a drone, and over water…and the final footage from them supports the theory of teaching the young - about the size of a Range Rover - to hunt…and fight.”
Everyone takes a long beat to absorb that. “Right,” Helen says, jerking everyone straight with the sound of her voice alone. “Alternative methods for defense? Can’t have planes getting slagged out of the sky, can we?”
She turns and asks the queen briskly to the queen, “Your Majesty, does magic exist?”
Everyone sort of helplessly turns Dame Maggie, who, at a nod from the Queen says softly, “I’ll call Jo.”
Helen pales a bit. “Thank you. Next question. The Good Neighbors?” (fae)
Harry grimaces, “David Bowie was our last liaison and a replacement has not been made known to us.”
Elton John stands, “I can make some inquiries.” When everyone looks at him, he says, hollow, “They like musicians.”
Nodding approvingly, Helen says, “And those who appreciate the natural world. Judi, you’re the closest thing I know to a druid, back him up, and gather a delegation, see if Bowie left some reports or notes, and prepare for a fact-and-potential-aid-finding mission. And get some good lawyers, if memory serves the Good Neighbors drive hard bargains.”
Sir David Attenborough rises with a self-deprecating cough, “I am an honorary Druid…I have some connections that might prove useful with reliable historical information.”
“You awful thing,” Judi grouses, “Druids and you never said! But come along then.”
“Maggie,” Helen says, “Magic. We need options if negotiations fail. I’d prefer defensive if we can, but we should prepare. And you need a team.”
Dame Maggie looks over there group and holds her hand out. A small golden light appears. “Here be dragons. I know this is not the done thing, not in public, but If those able and willing to serve would send me their calling cards….mine will come to you automatically.”
Eyes open in wonder and jaws drop as a tiny golden ball flies from the Queen’s hand to Dame Maggie’s. “Our line does not have a great deal of innate magic left, save one, but Our library is at your disposal, Dame Margaret.”
After the Queen outed herself as magic user, tiny golden orbs streak across the room, generally positive murmurs here and there as someone openly formed the ball of light in their palm. Soon, Dame Maggie had a diadem of tiny orbs circling her head, and managed to encourage them all to nestle in her bag, the previous contents hastily emptied into someone’s lap.
“And your needs, Dame Helen?” Queex Elizabeth asked.
“Dragon snacks and diplomats,” she begins bluntly and is interrupted by a wave of nervous laughter, which is ruthlessly squelched by twin glares from the Queen and Helen. “Cattle, sheep, I think, perhaps some pig and goats for a change, and I need them headed for the Scotish coast - there are not sufficient numbers in the area - as unobtrusively as possible. We need a central location close to…”
Prince Harry began shaking his head immediately, “The closest air bases are former RAF facilities that are radar stations now, ma’am, and not as fortified as I’d like for this. Best let them keep ferrying information from Saxa Vord in the Shetlands, and we’ve evacuated the Ministry of Defence station in the Hebrides, along with most of the population.”
“Balmoral,” Queen Elizabeth says. “Ambassadors need somewhere to negotiate, entertain, and impress and it is close enough. And the grounds are both secure and large enough to host one of those larger dragons.”
After blinking twice, Dame Helen inclines her head at being offered one of the royal family’s private homes. “That is most kind, Your Majesty.” She adds gently “I need an Executive Officer sort, preferably someone already in the know who won’t balk at magic or druids or fae as well as dragons, charming but capable, and a liaison between the knights and the Royal Family. And a pilot, who can ferry us quickly to the coast if need be.”
There is a long pause as the Queen considers this request, then she looks up at her grandson who is beaming down at her crookedly. If the Queen of England rolled her eyes, her expression says, she’d be rolling them now. She nods, and everyone can see the concerned but proud grandmother in her gaze.
Prince Harry Windsor turns and offers Helena Mirren a salute. A glowing orb of light forms on his palm and flies to circle the dame’s head. “Volunteering for duty, Dame Helen.”
“He’s not much for defensive spells as of yet,” Queen Elizabeth says, with the patience of a longsuffering tutor with a beloved student. “But he does…”
“Know how to be charming in tense situations and can pick locks a treat.”
Helen plucks the orb from the air and lets it circle curiously around her palm, “Then cry God for Harry,” she says lightly, in relieved and gracious acceptance.
“For England,” Judi says, emphatic and softly intense.
“And St. George,” Maggie finishes firmly.
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