The Cuckoo

"Take it away. I don't want it."

The maidservant did not respond to her mistress's words, nor even her tone, which was perhaps the more frightening of the two. Instead she continued to kneel, holding the tightly swaddled infant in her outstretched arms like an offering.

"Take. It. Away."

"Darling," the king consort's voice was soothing. "Won't you just look at it?"

"I don't need to look at it. I already know it's a filthy pink horror."

"Oh I don't know," said the king consort, cocking his head to one side. "I think it might be rather sweet, once you get past the odd color. And the strange proportions. Might even be lovable." The queen gasped as though struck.

"How dare you! How dare you turn your back on our son? Have you no feelings at all?" and she began to weep. The king consort sighed and wrapped an arm around her.

"My cherished one, of course I have not turned my back on our son. But you have always known that our heir must be sent to the iron lands to be fostered-"

"Fostered? Raised! Raised by those ugly barbarians. Oh I can't bear it..."

"You can and you will," his voice became stern. "You survived it, and so shall he. And he will be the stronger for it,"

"But... it was different then... easier... I was lucky..."

"It was not. And yes, perhaps you were lucky, but our son will be, too. Do we not have half a legion watching over him until he is of age? And in the meantime we will raise this human child as our own, so that when the time comes we will have a strong advocate amongst the mortals. It's been far too long since we've had one."

"I hate it," she insisted.

"You can't hate it- you haven't even looked at it. Oolynn, bring the child here."

The maidservant did as she was told, and carefully lay the child in the king-consort's arms. The baby was sleeping soundly, although he had managed to worm both hands out of the swaddle to ball up at his mouth.

"There now, darling. Just hold him for a moment,"

"I won't," she closed her eyes and turned her face away. No one could sulk so gorgeously as the queen.

"Lady you will," his tone brooked no argument, and although his wife jutted forward her delicate chin, she also held out her arms.

"Fine. I'll hold it for one minute, and then it's off to the nursery. If we have to raise it, let it be raised by the servants; I don't care if I never see the wretched thing again."

The king-consort transferred his bundle to her, and without thinking she automatically brought it close to her breast as she would her own son. The tiny creature stirred, then began to root.

"Oh," she breathed, watching him in fascination. "Oh, oh husband! See how clever he is! He knows I can feed him!"

Oolyn wisely refrained from rolling her eyes at the infant's "cleverness": her mistress might be cunning and ruthless when it came to the ruling of her turbulent kingdom, but she could be painfully ignorant on domestic matters.

"He's not so bad at all, is he?" asked the queen, running an elegant finger over a strange, rounded ear. "He might be pink, but that's not so bad... our birds are pink when they're born, are they not?"

"They are, my love. Pink and rather hideous. But they grow up to be swift and strong, and very clever. Very useful."

"My funny little baby bird," she crooned. "I think I shall call you... Merlin."

(Respite)