TM #167: Write about disappointment or disillusion.
The baby is a girl.
It's not a tragedy by any means. The King has four sons already, all thriving. The Queen is pleased, as women often are, to have a daughter to spoil. But neither is it any great matter.
He, the fifth son, the Queen's son, thinks no more of it than that. Mother has babies from time to time, who are his brothers, as this one is his sister. Likely a sister is not so different, except that she will have to sleep by herself, he supposes, and learn to do different things, when she's old enough to do anything at all. For now she's too small, and has to be tended. It was the same with Gareth, and with Gaheris before that.
None of them take Gawain's place, or his. Gawain is the prince, his father's heir; and he, Mordred--
He has no father, or so they say. "Nonsense," Mother said when he told her. "Of course you have. Everyone has. What they mean is that they don't know who. But you know, and that's all that matters." Most of the time, not even that seems to matter. He's hers. Mother's eldest, Mother's alone, her more-than-son.
Sometimes she calls him to her, away from his brothers, into the cool still workroom where she spends so much of her time. She bids him hold this, bring that, watch and be quiet. He's learning. He knows all the herbs in the garden, and the uses of a few. He knows that certain things must be done at the full of the moon, and others at the dark, when he was born. "Magic's not for men," she says, but he's only ten years old, and she winds red thread in a skein around his hands and praises his obedience.
She's always patient at such times; when he makes mistakes she corrects him without anger. Once when the work went well she turned to him and smoothed back his hair with a hand that smelled of thyme, gentler than he had ever known her. "I would you had been a daughter," she said. "Then I could keep you with me always." For a moment he wished it too, and he put his arms about her, as she sometimes lets him do when they're alone. He keeps that memory close, something he shares with no one, not even Gawain.
But he files in with the rest of them, the least and quietest among his brothers, to stand beside the bed. She's lying propped up against the pillows, with her dark hair in a ragged braid. Her face is beautiful and tired. The baby lies against her breast, half hidden in her arms, and she hardly takes her eyes from it long enough to greet them.
"Her name is Clarissant," she says.
"Clar...?" Little Gareth, not yet three, has to be lifted up to see. He leans forward, almost overbalancing in Gawain's arms; and Mother, who ordinarily allows him such liberties, frowns and makes a tiny motion of her hand. "Don't wake her."
They all fall silent. "She's very beautiful," Gawain ventures after a minute.
"Yes." The Queen never looks up. "Go on, now."
Mordred tags behind the others, and finally comes back to the bedside. Even then it takes a moment before she notices him.
"What do you want?" Silently he offers the posy, periwinkle and sweet dock, wilting a little from the heat of his hand. She glances at it, then looks up at him sharply, as though she's surprised. "Very pretty," she says then, in the same impatient voice. "Go along, Mordred. I want to rest."
"Shall I tell them put the baby in the cradle?"
"No. Do as you're told."
He looks again at his tiny sister, curled tightly against her. Then he goes out.
Mordred
Arthurian legend
653 words
It's not a tragedy by any means. The King has four sons already, all thriving. The Queen is pleased, as women often are, to have a daughter to spoil. But neither is it any great matter.
He, the fifth son, the Queen's son, thinks no more of it than that. Mother has babies from time to time, who are his brothers, as this one is his sister. Likely a sister is not so different, except that she will have to sleep by herself, he supposes, and learn to do different things, when she's old enough to do anything at all. For now she's too small, and has to be tended. It was the same with Gareth, and with Gaheris before that.
None of them take Gawain's place, or his. Gawain is the prince, his father's heir; and he, Mordred--
He has no father, or so they say. "Nonsense," Mother said when he told her. "Of course you have. Everyone has. What they mean is that they don't know who. But you know, and that's all that matters." Most of the time, not even that seems to matter. He's hers. Mother's eldest, Mother's alone, her more-than-son.
Sometimes she calls him to her, away from his brothers, into the cool still workroom where she spends so much of her time. She bids him hold this, bring that, watch and be quiet. He's learning. He knows all the herbs in the garden, and the uses of a few. He knows that certain things must be done at the full of the moon, and others at the dark, when he was born. "Magic's not for men," she says, but he's only ten years old, and she winds red thread in a skein around his hands and praises his obedience.
She's always patient at such times; when he makes mistakes she corrects him without anger. Once when the work went well she turned to him and smoothed back his hair with a hand that smelled of thyme, gentler than he had ever known her. "I would you had been a daughter," she said. "Then I could keep you with me always." For a moment he wished it too, and he put his arms about her, as she sometimes lets him do when they're alone. He keeps that memory close, something he shares with no one, not even Gawain.
But he files in with the rest of them, the least and quietest among his brothers, to stand beside the bed. She's lying propped up against the pillows, with her dark hair in a ragged braid. Her face is beautiful and tired. The baby lies against her breast, half hidden in her arms, and she hardly takes her eyes from it long enough to greet them.
"Her name is Clarissant," she says.
"Clar...?" Little Gareth, not yet three, has to be lifted up to see. He leans forward, almost overbalancing in Gawain's arms; and Mother, who ordinarily allows him such liberties, frowns and makes a tiny motion of her hand. "Don't wake her."
They all fall silent. "She's very beautiful," Gawain ventures after a minute.
"Yes." The Queen never looks up. "Go on, now."
Mordred tags behind the others, and finally comes back to the bedside. Even then it takes a moment before she notices him.
"What do you want?" Silently he offers the posy, periwinkle and sweet dock, wilting a little from the heat of his hand. She glances at it, then looks up at him sharply, as though she's surprised. "Very pretty," she says then, in the same impatient voice. "Go along, Mordred. I want to rest."
"Shall I tell them put the baby in the cradle?"
"No. Do as you're told."
He looks again at his tiny sister, curled tightly against her. Then he goes out.
Mordred
Arthurian legend
653 words