The Scottish evening was cool and misty, the smell of heather strong upon the air; Kenshin took a deep, fortifying breath, reveling in the sense of power that permeated one of the great dragon homelands. It sank into his very bones, thrumming with the promise of life and strength.
It had been decided that Kaoru should deliver here, where even the earth and air would lend their energies to her. A hospital was out of the question—Kenshin had already had to wipe an obstetrician's memory after an ultrasound revealed a pair of wings and a tail.
How on earth was Kenshin supposed to know that dragon fetuses changed form in the womb? He'd only been a hatchling himself before the massacre.
Kaoru had done so well during the delivery. It had been quick and easy—easier than it should have been, based on what Kenshin knew of humans delivering their young, but Shishou had been there with healing and analgesic magics, helping bring his godson into the world. Kenshin's Master had taken an unhealthy, almost obsessive interest in Kaoru and the baby, to the point that Kenshin had snapped that he needed to find his own maiden.
The warm little bundle in his arms stirred, and Kenshin rocked gently, purring deep in his chest to soothe his newborn son. Kenji snuggled closer, sighing as he sank back into sleep.
He was fascinated by the tiny person in his arms. Red and wrinkled, Kenji had a fine cap of silky red hair, and eyes of a deep sea-blue. A perfect little hand curled around Kenshin's forefinger, white and fragile against his father's sword-callused skin, tipped with miniature needle-point claws. His soul was a spark of fire, warm and cinnamon-gold like his mother's.
Together in the quiet misty evening, father and son watched the moon rise.