story - part 17 - birth - 1065 words

I do not go to Lady Calidris's rooms this evening. Instead I spend the time wandering the gardens, huddled against the harsh chill of the wind, terrified that I will receive a summons from the King, regarding my brief explosion during Tumaire's lesson, or in response to the young Prince's request for me as a new tutor. I have not spoken to him directly since I returned to the palace. I do not know if I would be able to do it.

When I return to my room, there is no angry servant stomping his foot outside my door. There are no stern looks or deep frowns. At first, I do not think there is even a note or a message, a summons. It is strange that neither the teacher nor Tumaire has said anything.

It is not until I am undoing the intricate series of buttons down my back and shrugging off my over shirt that I see the small sheet of paper on my bed. It is cream, a faint off-white edged in black. My name, or rather the name I have assumed, is printed in neat letters on the front. Raven.

My fingers tremble faintly as I pluck it from the center of the bed and slowly unfold it, peering in at the careful note inside. It seems I am not important enough for a summons, or a conversation. It tells me that I will be teaching Tumaire, from now on, in the mornings. It is assumed that I will have no problem with this. I do not know how I feel about it.

But the handwriting is familiar. There is something stiff and forced about it, it comes from the hand of someone who prefers action to planning. The letters are dark and straight, proud. They are the King's.

It is now that I realize I was hoping that I would be summoned into the royal eye. I have been here for months, virtually unnoticed. I have disappeared into the background, I have done everything I was supposed to do. I should be pleased, this is a sign of how capable I am at blending in, despite my differences.

Instead I feel ignored, unsure of my place in the world. It has been a creeping feeling, one settled in the pit of my stomach since long before I took the position as the Prince's physician. Since before I ran off into the woods, before I sprouted wings.

Here is that young boy again. The age of eleven, now. He has lived his whole life in the vast hallways of the palace, mornings spent in classes and afternoon watching the workings of the court. He participates in ceremonies, he attends parties and celebrations. He sits at his father's right hand.

He is privileged, but sometimes it is hard to tell. There are murmurs all around him, rumors and nasty smiles. People doubt that he will become heir, because he is not legitimate - but what choice does the King have? His wife, the product of a carefully arranged marriage, has proven strangely barren. Something washed out and pale about her, she never quite looks well. Some believe it is poison.

Those sideways glances, the snickers behind his back - he notices them, but they do not bother him, not anymore. The other whispers are the ones that sting. Those who know who his mother truly is, those courtiers who have been confided in. And, most importantly, his father.

He has become accustomed to the word 'bastard,' it is part of his every day life, but the word 'incest' still stings.

Corbin does not mention the boy's mother, and he almost never calls him by name. They hardly ever interact, except for brief, stiff conversations. How are you classes? They are fine, father. Is everything well? Yes father. Neither of them knows how to initiate a conversation beyond that. They have no common ground.

He is privileged, but he is not loved. Any emotions the king might have for him are tainted by the circumstances of his birth, by how similar he looks to his mother. He has her sharp, grey eyes. He has her black curls. He has her poise and her careful movements. He has almost nothing of his father in him. He makes people uncomfortable, but it seems he is their only choice.

This is when his ruin comes kicking and screaming into the world. Twelve years of marriage, no one expected Queen Limosa to give birth to a living, breathing creature. She has had three miscarriages and a stillbirth, each of them has made her more wan and pale, more sick. This time, however, her stomach grows round and a hint of color appears in her cheeks, something healthy. A glimmer of hope slips through.

Six months pass, and she still looks well. The baby's pulse comes strong, he kicks and shifts inside of her. Excitement grows, rumors spread, the palace is abuzz with gossip and hopeful conversations. Everyone has forgotten our boy, struggling so hard to learn everything he can and to grow up into a leader. They do not need him anymore.

A little under nine months and the child slithers out of her, slimy and pink and hideous. The boy is not allowed into the room to see it, but he stands outside in her sitting room and waits, rigid and attentive, for someone to bring it out to show to him. It is his half brother. He should love it, they should be friends. No one remembers him.

The world melts around him, after this. The simple method of doing as he is told - going to classes and court, working as hard as he can - fails him. People forget he is there, or no longer care about him. They do not need him, he is not their only hope.

In a little less than a week, things have calmed down. People are beginning to gather their wits, to think again. They remember he exists, and quickly make plans to get him off their hands. They do not tell him anything, merely pack up his things and send him down the road. It happens so fast that it leaves his head spinning, he does not know how to react. His purpose in life has been stolen away, and he has been cast out alone into the world.