EXCERPT - Hero is a Four Letter Word

The Once and Now-ish King - PART III

A sharp cry woke him and he was chagrined to discover that once more it had come from him. Imagine, King Arthur, the strongest arm at the Round Table and the firmest of grip on the crown, unable to contain his own whimpers. Or bowels, for that matter. He shifted once in the darkness, but no tell-tale dampness announced its presence and he sighed. He was getting better at controlling that, at least.

When his mother came into the room a few minutes later with his bottle, Arthur peered up at her from his crib and said, "I'm sorry, Mother."

"Babies are like ink cartridges; low capacity and need to be refilled often," his mother said with a strained smile. There were dark smudges under her eyes and Arthur felt so guilty that he couldn't help the involuntary squirm.

"I didn't mean the night feedings, though I appreciate that, too," Arthur admitted, waving his hands happily at the bottle as his mother held it in his direction. She didn't like to pick him up to feed him anymore. Arthur missed the feel of the beat of her heart next to his cheek, the soft warm milk-and-rose-water-smell she had, the gentleness of her long fingers on the back of his neck, but he didn't dare say as much. He felt he was imposing on the poor woman enough. "I meant for... well... everything else."

His mother let him latch onto the plastic nipple of the bottle and stayed silent as he sucked. The formula didn't taste as wonderful as the breast milk had, but the fake bottle also wasn't giving him strangely twisted feelings of both young security and old lasciviousness.

When he was done, his mother rubbed his full belly in gentle circles until the little burp of swallowed air bubbled out of his mouth. Kaye had always outdone him at banquets, but Arthur was becoming increasingly impressed with his own manful belches.

Normally after the bottle, Arthur's mother left his nursery immediately. She was never inattentive or neglectful, not after that first time, but she wasn't comfortable around her son, either. He left himself drift back in the direction of sleep. If she wanted to watch him do so, he was happy enough to oblige.

"Why don't you talk to me as much as your father?"

Arthur blinked his way back towards consciousness and debated what his answer should be, or if indeed he should answer at all. But then, he never had been all that good at keeping his mouth shut when he should have – the sword in his back in the middle of a battlefield from the man who should have been his heir was proof enough of that.

"It seemed to make you happy," Arthur replied softly.

His mother jerked back, then leaned over the rail of the cradle and pressed her lips to his forehead. "I have a son who is healthy and content. I am happy."

"Then why do you look so sad all the time?" Arthur asked as she pulled away. Her eyes were sparkling again, like she was about to cry, ready to prove him right.

"I didn't ask to have a son who is the reborn Rightwise King of All England," his mother said softly.

"I didn't ask to be reborn," Arthur replied softly. "So I guess we both got the short end of that stick."

"I'm scared," she admitted. "I'm scared of what this means for the world. I'm scared that you're going to be hurt. That you're going to die."

Arthur kicked his feet for a few moments, looking up in the darkness at his mother's sad, dark eyes, the halo of woolly sheep that circled her head obliviously.

"What's your name?" Arthur asked.

"Evangeline," she said. "My friends call me Iggy."

Arthur tried to smile, but all he managed was a gummy lip purse. "Iggy," he said. "I'm scared too, Iggy."