It's a cool-warm night. One that might be nearly perfect. The moons brimming full, spilling light over its edges and into the brilliantly pin-pricked pool of the dark sky. There's a playful breeze stirring the garden blooms, blowing clean and fresh and new. It's a night too beautiful for even the weariest to huddle in-doors. For the moment, the world here is quiet and almost still, as if even nature itself holds its breath in awe. And waits.
It's an almost perfect night, save for the intermittent and uneven screams which pitch first painfully high and then drown in low groans.
The screams keep the people at Kasugayama waiting. The men drink and sit, play games and talk of things that have nothing to do with those screams. The women coo in commiseration, for those screams were their screams once upon a time, and they smile secret, knowing smiles. These people know these sounds, for birth is one of the few constants of this time. And so they wait, and the waiting sees them long into this almost perfect night.
Elsewhere the lord of Kasugayama also waits, in a place as close to those screams as the midwives will allow him. For him, though, the waiting is an agony. Kenshin sits with his face in his hands until those screams drive him unwittingly to his feet. His low groans of utter anguish meet and meld with y/n's groans of pain. His hand grips the hilt of his sword, over and over, until the knuckles burn white, but there's no enemy here. Not one that Kenshin can fight.
Sasuke and Yukimura have long since left, unnerved by the screaming and the pain it signals on the other side of the screen and by Kenshin's unsteady violence which has no outlet. Only Shingen remains, steadfast and confident as always. He rarely speaks. Of everyone, he knows when words are needed and when they are superfluous. Of everyone, he can read Kenshin. And by this time, he too has grown to love y/n just as the others have. He waits not because waiting is the only thing to do, but because of his camaraderie with and love for these two people.
Another scream rends the momentary silence, shattering Kenshin's already fractured nerves. The hand on the sword tightens reflexively, unable to do anything else.
"I'm going in! It's taking too long," Kenshin says, in a voice choked with fear.
"You're not and you don't know if it is or not," Shingen says, for the hundredth, maybe thousandth time.
"You can't stop me. I'll kill you," Kenshin threatens, also for the hundredth time. Shingen sighs tiredly. There's an end to even his nearly limitless patience.
"You'll only cause y/n trouble," he explains slowly, watching as his words sink in just as they have over and over throughout this long night, "Besides, I don't think it will be long now."
Kenshin's hand can't relax though. It clings to his weapon like it's a talisman against death and ruin. Like it can protect the struggling woman on the other side of the screen. Shingen unfolds his long legs, stiff with sitting, and rises to his feet the picture of grace and ease and nonchalance. Shingen puts his large hand on Kenshin's shoulder, stilling the latter in the middle of his mindless, frantic pacing. Another scream causes Kenshin's body to stiffen again, and he looks into his allies eyes, unconsciously seeking the assurance that will be there just as it has been.
"Listen, Kenshin. The screams are growing closer together. It won't be long now," he smiles in that confident way that makes people want to listen. And believe him. "Relax."
"Shingen," Kenshin's voice is small and pale and lost. It's almost begging. It's so different from the usual Kenshin that it almost startles Shingen out of his cool, "How can you know that? I've seen this go wrong over and over. I've dreamt it."
"This isn't a dream, Kenshin."
"I know it's not!" Kenshin spits, jerking his shoulder out of Shingen's grip.
