Shoichi remembers when he was young and his mother was wasting away in front her eyes. He had cried, had said it wasn't fair. He had begged the gods for mercy. His mother had laughed even though it hurt - he could see it in the tension on her face - and rubbed her thumb over his hand.
"Sho, don't cry," she had said, "this is the way it should be. The cruelest fate is for a parent to bury their child, that is far, far worse." He had nodded even though it didn't feel like it at the time, he knew it was true. He had seen his mother's face when she buried his brother, that had been worse.
He had understood it to be true, but it wasn't until he was here, in the neonatal ICU, that he understood. When he had first come into the room, his wife at his side, there had been 25 children in 25 beds. He had watched his daughter, only glancing up from time to time, to realise that some of the children - and parents - were gone. And not because they were out of danger.
In truth, the entire hospital was like that. He, himself, probably needed some medical help for chakra poisoning, but that wouldn't be fatal unless it went untreated for months and there just weren't enough doctors to help at the moment. It didn't much matter though, he wouldn't leave his daughter's side even if there were doctors available.
Ten. There were 10 children left.
Shoichi clenched his jaw, he knew that the 15 children that were now gone - dead - had been civilian children to civilian parents. Their daughter was neither, she had chakra that showed her shinobi parentage and that could save her life. Beyond that his wife, her family was known for being long-lived - that could help. Right?
He looked at his daughter, who would remain unnamed until her survival was more likely. (God he hated that tradition, the doctors wouldn't even bring the birth certificate until it was clear whether or not they would need a death certificate too.) Her skin was so pale it was translucent, he could see her heart fluttering like a sparrow beneath the skin. She wasn't crying. The doctors had noted and said in calm, though tense, voices that it wasn't a good sign. She wasn't doing much of anything actually. Her eyes were still pale and squinting like all infants. Regardless, she was staring. Just staring and blinking slowly.
Shoichi looked at his daughter, who looked nothing like her brothers but rather a lot like himself. (As much as a newborn could look like an adult at least.) He looked at his wife with her blonde hair and bright brown eyes. He had to believe she would be fine. She had to be fine. They both had to be fine, they all had to be fine.
(Where were his sons? The attack, he hadn't seen them since the attack.)
Nine children left.
His daughter turned towards him and stared at him with blue eyes that would fade darker (if she survived). She looked like a Nara already. He laughed a bitter laugh. She was less than a day old, her skin was still red and face still smashed, but that striking gaze would not change with time. He knew it already. Shoichi swallowed a sob. He almost hated the Nara. He couldn't though. Not really. They took his mother, his brother, would they take his daughter too?
(Not if she dies first.) Eight children left.
He stood, walked five paces, then returned to his seat. He would not leave until he knew whether he had a daughter or not. (He would have daughter either way, but his tears would be the only ones to water her grave if she died now.) His wife, his lovely, sleeping wife. She was a better shinobi than he had ever been able to be. Yoko has always been better at putting her emotions aside and doing what needed to be done. (He remembers when she finally took off her mask, in both a figurative and literal sense. He will always wonder if it was all for show. If she really let go, let him in.)
Seven children left.
The sounds of crying have gotten quieter. The children dead and the parents gone. The ward is now being invaded by medic-nin who need more space to heal those injured in the Kyuubi's attack. Shoichi wonders if the high losses will mean that Yoko will have to go back into service. He wonders how she would feel about that. When she revealed that she'd been pregnant he'd been ecstatic. When he learned that she would be taking maternity leave he nodded happily because he had always hoped (dreamed, never truly believed) that his children would get to know their mother. He had been surprised when she got pregnant again instead of turning to the battlefield, to the war, like so many around them. Yoko had always been a woman made for the battle as long as they had known each other. She didn't enjoy the slaughter, but she did enjoy the battle, the balance, the dance as she called it.
When she had told him that she was pregnant for the third time it occurred to him that either, he had deeply misread his wife, or there was something going on that he didn't know about. After that, it had rather come together. Despite being an illegitimate descendant of the Senju, she was a descendant of a nearly extinct clan. She also didn't have the political clout or obvious power that would protect her from attempts to ensure that the valuable line of Senju blood didn't die out.
He wondered if she had secured something in return for whatever deal she had made, or if she had done it purely out of loyalty to Konoha.
Six children left. Five children left.
It took a moment to pull himself out the meditative fog of watching his daughter's delicate breaths to realise that there was a medic standing next to him and his wife was awake. Five children left. From twenty-five. Konoha was one of the larger shinobi villages, restricted in size by the natural walls of the area and the scrutiny that faced all visitors and immigrants. Twenty-five children and those were the ones who had been lucky enough to be protected from the direct attack of the Kyuubi's chakra by nature of still being in the womb. (Should still be in the womb.) So many more young ones across the village, especially the orphans and civilians who wouldn't have seals in place to protect their valuable heirs. (No doubt Shikamaru Nara, the newest addition to the Nara clan was fine and well as long as he hadn't been visiting the market with his mother, while he was here wondering if his daughter would… It did no good to be angry at those who hadn't even been alive to have choice in the matter. Why couldn't he let it go then?)
"Sakurai-san?"
"Hai?" Shoichi looked up the medic. Long hours and chakra usage had taken its toll, the man's eyes had marks like bruises beneath them and his hair was an oily mess. His clothes appeared to have a variety of dried liquids on them from blood to coffee and the ill fit suggested that it was borrowed.
"Do you have any injuries that need to be urgently attended to?"
"Mild chakra poisoning, but nothing immediately life-threatening. My daughter needs food however, we haven't had anyone available to help for a number of hours now."
"Of course, once I've spoken with the other occupants of the ro-" A long scream of a seal with the accompanying red light and sudden loud sobbing told Shoichi all he needed to know as the medic rushed to help.
Four children left.
Worse yet a quick glance told him that the father sitting by the now empty crib was a shinobi. His daughter's survival become more unlikely by the minute. He had to hope though, he had to believe that his wife's blood, known for its longevity, would pull through. That his daughter would pull through.
Shoichi had always wanted a daughter, or when he was younger, a little sister. He loved Taro and Hideo, loved that with all his heart and soul, would happily sacrifice to an eternal torment in the Shinigami's stomach if it would mean their happiness. He loved his sons, but he wanted a daughter.
Sleep did not come easy through the night, though once Yoko had returned to the hospital after finding their sons safe and alive (he didn't even notice she was gone) he let himself rest.
When he awoke there were only three beds still in use.
A/N: This fic takes place in a slight AU which will be mentioned in Chapter 17 and explained around Chapter 27.
