The man frowned, and the knife became his wand again. He considered the cocoon, then leaned in, heedless of the way the thorns pressed into his flesh. He closed his eyes, and laid his lips against it, and began murmuring to it in soft, musical Welsh.

"Come out, my boy, come out, my child, come out. I am here, you will be safe, but you must come out, you are strong, you can free yourself, you have grown, you are ready, come out, come out, precious child, come to me, I would see you, come out, come out!"