Children of Gods and Fools

An old barn owl watched the island witch as she was in the process of giving birth from a branch of the oak. Watchful glowing eyes watched as nurses and servants rushed around like chickens with their heads cut off while their mistress cursed and screamed at everything from the Gods to the old midwife that kept telling her to grit her teeth and push.

The glow of the blood moon bathed the land beyond the open window in an eerie red light. It had done the same nine months ago when a young and naïve king thought he was bedding an enchanted and beautiful fortune teller. The owl was there, watching the act as it was being done. Her heart swelled with fear when a child was created within seconds of both orgasms. Then fear was mixed with a small grain of hope when a second child was created. The owl prayed to the Sacred Mother that the second child survived the night of his birth.

He was her last chance of setting things right again.

Finally the first child was pushed out and was quickly washed and cleaned. His first cry of life was strong and healthy. The owl knew that this was the child that will some day be the terror of the Land. His witch-mother will fill his heart and mind with bouts of revenge and much needed justice that could only be bought on by bloodshed. The only good thing about this boy-child was that he will not have his mother’s special abilities.

Thank the mother for that.

The midwife and the witch both gave startling cries when she still felt the pain of labor. The old nurse left the screaming child in his crib of soft cloths and towels and rushed to her mistress’s side. Her eyes widen when she saw the head of the second child. She quickly ordered the witch, above her cries of pain, to grit her teeth and push.

The owl jumped from branch to window sill, watching and waiting and praying and hoping. Her heart was beating so fast that it seemed to have stopped. She held her breath as the midwife took the child and quickly wrapped him up in clean towels and was quickly set to opening his lungs for air.

“Leave it be!” The witch yelled. “I only need one! That one can be roasted in the fire for all I care!” She swatted away an attending maid, who was trying to clean off her hot sweat.

The midwife continued on with her duty, not letting a healthy red child die just because of some mad woman was ordering her to do so. It went against all of her teachings in the healing acts and child-birth. The baby cried, not as healthy and strong as his older brother but it was enough to allow the watching owl to breath with relief.

The midwife smiled at her success as she clean the blood and birthing fluid off the baby. Suddenly he was taken from her hard-working hands. She looked up with shock as he being held upside down at the ankle by his own mother. The witch’s eyes were large and unfocused. Her usually beautiful face twisted in an ugly form of pure madness.

“I only needed the one! This one is a pest like his bastard father the thief!” She shook the child before tossing him out of the window.

The old woman cried out in horror as she rushed to the window, failing to catch the child. An owl cry alerted her to look out to see a very queer sight on the ground below. A centaur, bathed in the moon’s eerie red glow, was holding the baby who was now quiet as he drank from a leather milk patch. A barn owl was perched on his tattooed shoulder. Her large glowing eyes blinked twice at her.

She smiled at the recognition of the Holy Priestess’s most used shape shifting forms. Then her old face turned into one of pure fear when she felt a dagger stabbed into her back.

“Your usefulness has run out.” The witch’s hot breath trickled at the hairs on her nape as the blade was twisted then pulled out. Then she heard the orders for everyone in the room to leave the tower and the lock being turned as she hanged on the sill as a lifeline.

The midwife fell to the floor, panting for breath as it came slower and slower and fewer and fewer. The room bathed soon in white light as gentle warm hands tilted her chin up. The face that greeted her was one of divine beauty as the servant of the Holy Mother smiled down on her.

“You did well, daughter. How can I ease your passing?” Feather-soft fingers brushed the graying strands of hair from the paling cheeks.

“The child.” She whispered.

The priestess nodded. “He will be care for. I have seen to that.”

“He should never know that his mother never loved him. That she tried to…” She coughed and was shushed by the angelic woman.

“He shall never know that he wasn’t wanted. And he was loved at first sight by a special woman.” She whispered as she leaned down to kiss the dying woman’s chapped lips, stealing her last breath of life.

The body soon faded away as mist and Viviane turned to take to the air in her owl form.

She guided her servant, Nikhail to her keep that lay hidden in the mists of the isle’s mountains. He had wrapped the now sleeping babe in warm furs as he held the precious bundle to his chest as he ran at the speed of flight through the dense forest that was claimed like all but the mountains of Avalon by the witch, Modron.

The owl shifted into the sliver woman at the base of the mountains. With a flick of her long fingered hand, the door that lead into the mountains slid open slowly. Then she and the black centaur walked in side by side. Both were with heavy hearts and somber faces.

“Modron has finally gone off the edge.” His gruff voice whispered, careful not to wake the baby.

“She was gone when she thought of her plan of revenge against us and her brother, Lear.” She ended with a sigh before asking a wondering satyr and nymph to bring warm milk to her chambers.

“But you have seen the way to counter it.” The centaur stated before cooing and humming to the baby as he heard the soft whimpers.

Viviane nodded as she opened the door to her study for him and walked in behind and left it open. She took a seat in a grand chair made from the white branches of a willow tree.

“The boy that she kept will be a man of pure terror, considering his mother will see that he will be train to be a death-giving machine. The only magical about him though, will be the ability to heal quickly and hold conversations with the beasts and fowl of the lands.” The silver-haired woman rubbed her chin with the crook of her index finger.

“The boy that we have will be our warrior. He will be train alike his mother before him but not by me. But will be train by a friend of mine.” She quickly added before hearing Nikhail’s question. “He will not be told of his origins and sad birth. No matter what, He must not find out about his brother. That’s an order.” The Lady of the Mist normally didn’t order those under her ruling but when she does, it was best to follow and not question.

“You don’t think that this boy will not become his mother. You had such high hopes for her-“

“I have let personal matters get in the way when I had taken her under my wing.” She toyed with a braid of silver hair, a habit that she had never outgrown from childhood.

“As you say, milady.” Nikhail bowed his head and was startled when his leather-hard finger was caught in the tiny soft fist of the infant. He looked down and saw that he had opened his eyes for the first time in his new life.

He grinned at the sparkling blue eyes that looked back at him.

“He will be loved.” The lady smiled as the centaur nuzzled the little pink nose. “But will be put to the toughest of tests that Love will ever give to a man.” She frowned when she saw two possible results of the test. One looked to be bad for the man and the other for the Realm.

It was hard to say which will happen when the time comes. The baby will be like his mother in more ways then one and will be someone completely different at times.

Both babies will have a difficult journey into manhood. But she must not fail again. The Realm is doomed if she failed with this one like she had down with Modron.

“Excuse me?” She looked up from her thoughts when she heard her name being called.

“What do we call this child of hope? He can’t be called ‘child’ for the rest of his life.” The dark horse-man smiled.

She smiled back.

“We will call him, Israfel. After our God of Song and New Hope.”
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A/n: All info was taken from Wikipedia so blame them for any misinformation. And yes I changed the names but the names used are what Wikipedia says were the people's other names or theories on who they were. Except for the twins cause at the time, I already thought of what I wanted to call them. And really the boys are more mine then anything when you think about it. Purely made for you and me. SO FEED MY EGO AND REVIEW!