It was a quiet birth, under a full moon in the waning days of summer, just as the first leaves began to turn and fall under the slightest wind. The mother barely cried out, although the pain of labour was etched on her fine porcelain skin. Her white hair was matted to her forehead; she blew at it impatiently. One of her attendants wiped the strands away and soaked her mistress' sweaty forehead with a cool cloth. Candles burned in every corner of the room; sticks of incense meant to calm the new mother let off silky plumes of smoke. She was supporting herself upright, hands planted firmly into the mat beneath her, fingernails digging into the woven reeds. She had lost many before; she was determined to bring this one through unscathed.
There was a keening wail from the infant as he was grasped by the midwife and pulled from her body. She exhaled deeply in relief. As the women around her scurried to quickly washed the child and inspect it, she scrutinized their every movement, already feeling overprotective of the heir she had not yet laid eyes on.
Finally, he was swaddled and placed on her chest. He was asleep; large eyes closed under eyelids tinted with red. She gingerly touched his face, relishing the feel of his smooth ivory skin. She traced the faint outline of a crescent moon on his forehead, identical to her own.
"He is perfect," the midwife announced.
"Of course he is," she replied. "Was there ever any doubt?"
There was a slight hint of challenge in her voice. No one took the bait. They were all experienced enough to know the deadly consequences of answering her.
There was a commotion outside. The mother's ears picked up the sound of powerful footsteps approaching the birthing room. Her women bustled around her, straightening her silk robes, brushing her hair back and arranging blankets around her, creating a facade that belied the pain and exhaustion she still felt.
When he entered, she was sitting upright with the infant cradled in her arms. Her attendants were prostrate and silent in the background. She smiled coyly at him.
"Your son, my Lord."
He took a tentative step towards mother and child, uncharacteristic given his nature, and then held his arms out expectantly. The bundled child was carefully handed over. The father held his son in front of him, studying his face with wide eyes. He seemed almost fearful of the newborn. Then he smiled widely, enhancing the already menacing look of his elongated canines. "My son," he announced.
He left the room, still holding the infant out in front of him with both hands. He stepped outside into the night air, onto the wide veranda where hundreds of nobles of soldiers stood patiently below the stairs. He held the infant in the air above his head, making the baby squeal and squirm in fright. "My son!" He yelled.
The crowd erupted in cheers and the soldiers triumphantly waved their spears in the air. The heir apparent was born.
The Lord re-entered the birthing room where the mother sat as serenely poised as he had left her. He was now bobbing the infant up and down in his arms, too quickly for the midwife's liking but she was not stupid enough to say so. "He is good," he grinned. "You have done well."
She lowered her eyes and smiled demurely under the compliment.
He studied the infant's face again, eyes taking stock of every feature, categorizing those that came from him and those that came from his mother. "Sesshoumaru," he said quietly. The room was silent, almost holding its breath. "His name will be Sesshoumaru."
