A boy? A son?
Laying on the silk-draped bed, Mother Guinevere looked at the two midwives with fear in her eyes. “Give him to me, let me see.”
The midwives glanced at each other. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Mother Guinevere.”
“Give him to me, let me lay eyes upon him!”
Her breath was shallow with fear, her large breasts swelled up and down as her chest heaved with the exertion of childbirth. Her dark hair clung to her sweat-soaked forehead, and her crimson eyes showed her fear and also exhaustion.
When the midwives didn’t respond to her plea, she reached out with her pale hands, trembling as she tried to rise. “Let me hold him please, let me just hold him! I… I just want to lay eyes upon him.”
The head midwife, a gaunt woman with a thin waist, small breasts and a mighty plum ass, looked down at the bundle in her arms with disgust. “Mother Guinevere, this child… it is not natural. He is—”
“Enough!” Guinevere’s voice cracked. She had to make it clear that it wasn’t a request anymore, it was an order! She struggled upright, still breathing heavily, eyes narrowed. “Give. Him. To.
Me.”
The midwives exchanged worried glances once again, and reluctantly, the head midwife stepped forward, her lips pressed into a thin line as she bent low, causing her round ass to bounce under the white garment.
With stiff hands, she passed the boy to his mother, then she walked away, terror in her eyes. The moment her son landed on her hands, Guinevere’s fingers began to shake, a wave of warmth washed over her—something unexplainable, something fierce.
The love of a mother?
It was like all the pain, the exhaustion, the fear that this childbirth had caused melted away in an instant. And a flood of love replaced all of it, a love surging within her heart, a love so strong it nearly broke her.
She smiled.
His tiny face was beautiful—so much so that he could have been mistaken for a girl. His skin was as smooth as porcelain, soft to the touch, and his hair… black as midnight, just like hers.
They also shared the same crimson eyes, causing a tear to slip down Guinevere’s cheek. Of all her children, her daughters, Misty and Rosette, she had never felt such a rush of emotions after childbirth as she did for her son.
“Aeric…” she whispered, her voice filled with love. “You will be Aeric of Starlight. My special son.”
The midwives recoiled. “You can’t name him!” the head midwife shrieked. “He is an omen, Mother Guinevere! He must not be allowed to live!”
Guinevere shot her head up at them, but before she could say anything in response, the door to the birthing chamber slammed open.
A tall, old man clad in purple and silver robes strode in. He wore a long hat, and a glowing scepter was tight in his grasp. He had a long beard, and eyes of ancient wisdom that looked at all the women in the room and then at the baby in Guinevere’s arms.
The midwives bowed their heads instantly, one of them whispering to the other who seemed not to know who the man was. “A Messenger of Eros…”
Messengers were magical beings, all of the male sex, who were granted powers by the God Eros and performed duties according to his will. They also relay messages to and from him. They are feared and revered men of power, almost as revered as Mothers.
Gazing disgustingly at the child, the Messenger declared with a voice that was cold and unfeeling. “Mother Guinevere, you will answer to this abomination when the time is right. For now, this child mocks the very essence of our God. His birth is a stain upon Erothyria. He must be handed over to me immediately to be dealt with.”
“Dealt with?” Guinevere’s eyes narrowed as she held Aeric tighter to her cushiony breasts. “He is my son! He is royal blood, not a curse! You will respect him!”
The Messenger hissed. “I will do no such thing. Not to an abomination.” He took a step forward. “He cannot be allowed to live. Hand him over.”
Guinevere’s heart raced, and the protective instinct of a mother surged through her veins like wildfire. “I will not!” she shouted defiantly. “You will not take him from me!”
The Messenger raised his hand, the scepter glowing brighter. “You have no choice in this, Guinevere.”
The midwives watched this with fear in their eyes, the head midwife had her eyes squeezed in anger. ‘Hand him the cursed son! Let he be killed before he brings damnation to us all!’
Guinevere didn’t know what to do. Her heart beat wildly and her eyes flickered with panic. Then, it narrowed with determination.
She glanced at a bowl of water on the bedside table, and with a move of desperation, she stretched her hand forward and the water within exploded from its container, twisting in the air and crashing into the midwives, drenching them with such force they stumbled back.
“Mother Guinevere!”
Before the Messenger could react, Guinevere swiped the extended arm in an arc, and a sudden wind of fire struck him in a red blast. He recoiled, the flames licking at his robes that quickly extinguished it because of its magic fabric, but the fire gave Mother Guinevere just enough time.
Clutching Aeric tightly, she got enough strength to stand up, barefooted, stomach still swollen, her dark robe the only thing covering her nakedness, and she ran toward the door.
She pushed it open with a powerful kick, and ran into the corridors. Behind her, the midwives screamed, and the Messenger’s furious voice echoed down the corridors.
“Guards! Stop her!”
Mayhem struck out in the birthing home.
Aeric’s cries rang in her ears, sharp and piercing, but Guinevere held him close. “It’s alright, Aeric. I’m here. I won’t let them take you from me. You’re my special boy.”
The sound of rushing footsteps in iron boots grew louder behind her. She ran through the polished, marble floors, the red carpets, dodging the guards he nearly caught her, her gown waving behind her like a flag of her desperation.
Once she came out of the walls of the birthing home to the land outside, she instantly turned around and extended her right arm once again, holding baby Aeric tight in her left.
She called upon the elements, and the earth beneath her feet answered to her. As the guards, the midwives, and the Messenger drew nearer with torches of fire in their hands, the ground cracked and split open. Then, under Guinevere’s control, a massive barrier of stone rose up between her and the approachers.
Panting with relief, she glanced down at Aeric. His tiny face was red from crying, but even in the chaos, he was beautiful. “Shh, my love. I’m going to get us out of here.”
She turned around and raised her hand to the sky. First she whistled, and then she called, “Yumi!” she called, her voice echoing across the cold night. “Yumi, come to me!”
A screeching roar pierced the air as a response, and moments later, a shadow appeared overhead. Yumi, her loyal Lionhawk, descended from the sky.
Lionhawks were rare beasts with the body of a lion, manes that were made with fire, and burning wings of a powerful hawk.
Guinevere wasted no time. The Lionhawk squatted for her to mount, and she did that fluidly, holding Aeric securely to her chest. “Take us to the castle!” she commanded.
The roars of the guards were audible once again from behind her, and when Guinevere turned, she saw that they had climbed the barrier and were approaching once again.
“Go, Yumi! Go!”
With a mighty flap of its wings, Yumi soared into the night sky, leaving the panicked midwives, guards, and the Messenger far behind.
Guinevere looked down at them all from the skies, clutching her baby boy as the wind rushed past them. Aeric’s cries quieted as they flew higher and higher. She looked down at him, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead.
“It’s going to be alright, my little Aeric. I will do anything to protect you,” she whispered. “Anything to make you happy, my special son.”