There was something wrong with the baby.

Instantaneous knowledge of that fact struck Azalla like a bolt of lightning.

His shins were less than half the length they should have been; his feet turned inward at the ankle; and several of his toes were fused together. The midwife had seen babies born with club feet before, but this child's condition was far more complex. In addition to the deformities in his legs, both his hands were missing the middle finger and were split down the middle towards the palm, causing them to resemble the pinchers of a scorpion.

With the exception of his legs below the knee and his hands, however, the child appeared to be quite ordinary. He was of an average size for a newborn babe, neither too large nor too small. His brown skin was slick with fluids and streaks of blood, his black hair soaked and sticking to his head in messy whorls. He had a healthy cry and a steady pulse, and his muscle tone and mobility were what would be expected of a newborn.

"My baby!" Anúrnissa gasped, her face glistening with sweat. "I would look upon my child!"

"My lady, you must wait until the cord is cut and the baby is cleansed," Azalla replied, a pinched smile upon her face as she looked up over the sheet. "Just lean back and rest for a while."

She wondered what the new mother would think of her child. In Nurn, sickly or deformed babies were often rejected by their parents, because of the hardships involved in raising such a child. Unwanted infants were abandoned in the waste places, where they would be left to die from exposure and starvation. If fortune smiled upon the child, its cries might be heard by a kindhearted passerby, who would take pity upon the child and rescue it. Since the parents knew not the ultimate fate of the discarded baby, any guilt they might have felt for abandoning their offspring would be mitigated by this sense of uncertainty. After all, it was not as though they had laid hands on the infant and ended its life themselves, and there was always the possibility that someone would find the child and claim it for their own.

Many of the women in the chamber tried to move in closer to catch a glimpse of the new baby, but Zamara and the other handmaidens made everyone stand back at a distance for the privacy of mother and child. As a servant wiped over Anúrnissa's face with a cool rag, Azalla tied off the umbilical cord and cut the child free. All the mucus clinging to the babe's face was wiped away, and he was sprinkled with natron powder to absorb the blood and other fluids, then rinsed clean. The midwife's assistant tended to the mother, cleansing between her thighs and changing the soiled linens at her feet. Wrapping the newborn up in a cloth, Azalla held him to her bosom but did not immediately present him to Anúrnissa.

"My lady, I must warn you that your child's legs and hands did not form properly," Azalla began hesitantly.

Anúrnissa looked stricken. "What… what do you mean?"

Kneeling beside the birthing chair, the midwife drew back the cloth from the baby's lower body. Anúrnissa stared at the baby, his skin so much lighter than hers, still discolored and wrinkled from the womb. He flailed his little arms and legs, crying. Her heart ached with pity when she saw the child's deformed legs and hands, and she reached out for him.

"Given how his legs and feet are shaped, I fear he will never be able to walk," the midwife pronounced apologetically. "I have never seen a child with such a condition, so I do not know if his hands will grow strong and hale despite their unusual shape."

"The servants can push him around in a cart, so he shall not want for lack of legs," Anúrnissa remarked, dismissing the midwife's concerns. "Now give me my child. I would hold him in my arms." She did not care if her son was deformed. He was her son, whom she had carried in her womb for nine months.

Smiling gently, Azalla helped Anúrnissa pull back her robe and then placed the infant to the lady's breast. Anúrnissa looked down lovingly upon the suckling child, caressing his head with her palm and cooing softly. After the baby had suckled for a while, Anúrnissa's womb contracted again as her body began to pass the afterbirth. When all was over, the midwife cleansed the lady's private parts and instructed her assistant to gather up all of the bloody towels, sheets, and pillows for disposal. Then Azalla and several servants helped Anúrnissa into her bed, propping her up with pillows and returning her babe to her arms.

In small groups or one by one, the assembled women approached Anúrnissa to give her their congratulations and look upon the new baby. The exuberance of the crowd seemed somewhat muted now, for the strange shape of the child's hands and legs intimidated the women and made them feel awkward. The birth of a baby was an occasion of great joy and celebration, but the fact this child had been born with deformities was a great misfortune. Anúrnissa's true friends felt sorry for her and her child, but they were uncertain whether they should try to comfort her or act as though nothing was wrong. Other women who were less close to the new mother whispered among themselves, theorizing that Esarhaddon uHuzziya or even Anúrnissa herself had offended the Master of the Fates of Arda, and so their child had been stricken with a terrible malady. Perhaps the entire family was cursed, they reflected darkly…

Nobo dreaded telling the news to his master, but he must do it, for he was the chamberlain of the manor, the man responsible for his lord's household and everything that happened within it. Still, he was hesitant even to ask admittance to Esarhaddon's chambers. He had come there to deliver the grim news, and he sorrowed when he thought about it, for he knew how Esarhaddon had been looking forward to hearing news of Lady Anúrnissa. Even though he had arrived at the villa around midnight, Esarhaddon had forsaken his bed even earlier than usual that morning, rising long before dawn, unable to sleep for worry and anticipation. Nobo found him sitting at the head of his magnificent oak table, an untouched goblet of wine before him.

"Nobo, what news of the Lady Anúrnissa?" Esarhaddon asked, concern and hope in his voice.

"You have another son, Master Esarhaddon."

"Cause to celebrate!" Esarhaddon exclaimed. "I had hoped that it would be a son."

"But, my lord... I do not know how to say this. There are problems..." The chamberlain hesitated.

Esarhaddon stared at the eunuch and gripped his forearm. "Problems? What kind of problems? What are you saying, Nobo?"

"Forgive me, Master, but the child is deformed." Nobo's high-pitched voice trembled slightly.

Esarhaddon rose to his feet. "What do you mean, deformed!"

"Master, perhaps I am putting this poorly, for I am not versed in medical things." Nobo glanced towards the door. "The midwife came along with me and waits outside the chambers. Perhaps you should speak to her." His voice was questioning.

"Yes, let her in to the room," Esarhaddon answered gruffly. "I want to hear what she has to say."

Nobo briefly left the chamber and returned with the midwife. "My lord," Azalla bowed politely, "I fear that I bear bad news."

"I gathered that from Nobo."

"While your son appears to be healthy, his legs and feet are severely deformed, and I doubt he will ever be able to walk. His hands, too, have been stricken by this malady, causing them to resemble the pinchers of a scorpion."

"What has caused this?!" Esarhaddon exclaimed, his face contorted in sorrow.

"I do not know the answer to that question, my lord." The midwife shook her head sadly. Perhaps it was indeed as some of the women suspected – Esarhaddon or Anúrnissa had committed some offense against the Lord of Mordor – but she dared not give voice to this thought. While the merchant lord was held in high esteem by the Tower, he was not known to be a devout follower of the Lord of Mordor, and neither was his Second Wife. Perhaps they were being punished for their ingratitude. After all, what the Lord of Gifts gave, He could also tarnish or take away.

Despairing, Esarhaddon put his hand to his forehead. "I cannot believe my son is some sort of monster!"

"My lord, he is not a monster!" Azalla exclaimed indignantly, fighting the urge to roll her eyes in disgust. "He has certain handicaps, yes. Everyone has liabilities to one degree or another. His are just more extreme than most."

Esarhaddon sighed and turned away from the midwife. He took the untouched goblet and downed it in a single swallow. "Mistress Azalla, go take your rest, for I know that you had a long and difficult night. I know you did all you could, and I am in your debt. I want you to remain here in my hall as long as you think necessary, and supervise the care of the lady and my son. I will have servants show you to rooms where you and your assistant will lodge."

The women who had journeyed to the villa to bring comfort to Lady Anúrnissa in her time of travail had gathered in the School of Industry's expansive dining hall for breakfast. Several of Anúrnissa's closest friends would be remaining with her for a few days while she convalesced, but most of the women planned to leave shortly after breakfast and return to their homes in Blûgund and the surrounding countryside. Soon the village would be abuzz with gossip about Esarhaddon uHuzziya's new son, that poor child that was born with deformed hands and legs. Everyone would have their own theories about why this calamity occurred, and they would all shake their heads and cluck their tongues in pity as they conjectured on what sort of heinous thing the merchant or his wife had done to anger the Master of the Fates of Arda.

With all her friends and acquaintances at breakfast, the new mother was alone, with only her handmaiden Zamara in attendance. She had decided to take a quiet meal in her chambers, the babe sleeping beside her, nestled between pillows on the divan. A gentle smile upon her face, she looked down at him, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest, how his little hands clenched and unclenched as he slept. With her pet finches filling her ears with their merry song, she felt at peace with the world.

That sense of peace fled the moment Anúrnissa saw Esarhaddon standing in the doorway. Dread and shame clenched her heart, for she feared how her husband would react to their son. While Esarhaddon could be a loving man, he desired that all facets of his life be ordered according to his will. Often Anúrnissa felt that he fancied himself a king instead of a merchant, his villa his kingdom, and his family his subjects. Though he made a show of revering the tribal deities of Harad – unless he was in the presence of Sauron's Faithful; in which case, he was a devout follower of the Lord of Mordor – the only god he truly worshipped was himself. Having a son who was afflicted with lameness and deformity would be an uncomfortable reminder that Esarhaddon had little control over the courses of his own life, and that whatever power he believed he possessed was nothing more than a tremulous illusion.

"Good morning, my dear," he told her as he sank down to the divan, his movements slow and cautious so as not to wake the baby. In his hands he held a small wooden box. "Yesterday I visited the Grand Bazaar in Turkûrzgoi and purchased this for you. I hope you like them."

"Oh, my lord, thank you!" Taking the box from him, she carefully opened the lid. Inside were two dozen bird's nest baklava, a sweet pastry made of fine strings of dough wrapped round and round until they formed small hollow stacks. A small mound of pistachios had been piled up inside each stack, resembling eggs in a bird's nest.

"I know how much you love birds… and sweets," Esarhaddon chuckled. He reached out his hand, his fingers caressing the side of her face. Smiling, she leaned into his palm, nuzzling his hand with her cheek.

"You are so good to me, my lord." Hesitantly she drew away from him. "Would… would you like to see your new son?"

"Yes, my dear."

In truth, he dreaded even to look upon the child. He could only imagine what people would say about him behind his back. They would ridicule him for having a son who was a cripple, and his enemies would rejoice in his misfortune. In his tribe back in Harad, a man's worth was judged by the number of children he sired, and it was the aspiration of every man to father many healthy sons and daughters. A deformed child was considered defective, a sign of some failing on the part of the parents. Esarhaddon worried that people would start claiming that someone had laid a curse upon the family, or that they had angered the Lord of Mordor. These were not rumors one wanted to have circulating, for if people thought he was cursed, he might start losing customers and miss out on important deals and contracts.

Anúrnissa turned away from her husband and gingerly picked up the sleeping infant. The child began to protest, but his mother's soft cooing soothed the offense he felt at being disturbed. Holding the baby in her arms, she presented him to her husband.

Esarhaddon's gaze was instantly drawn to the child's claw-like hands. The midwife had not lied when she had said they resembled a scorpion's pinchers. He pulled back the coverings which had been wrapped around the infant and looked upon the deformities which twisted his son's legs. He felt his senses recoil with sorrow and disbelief.

Anúrnissa saw the disapproval upon her husband's face, and she fought against the tears which threatened to well up in her eyes. "My lord, do not be ashamed of the boy. He cannot help what Fate has dealt."

"No, I suppose not." A long, uncomfortable silence descended upon the room, which Esarhaddon finally dared to break. "I would hold my son."

Perhaps that had been a mistake. The baby yowled boisterously at being taken from his mother's arms, but Esarhaddon was able to calm him with softly spoken words. He thought about Uzalla, Abaru, and Kabtu when they had been wee babes, smiling to himself as he felt a pang of tender nostalgia. Though this child certainly looked different from any he had ever seen, the boy was still his son.

"The little babe has had a hard time, but I think with good food and good care, he will grow." Anúrnissa looked earnestly into her husband's eyes. "He is a sweet child, my lord, and you should not be ashamed of him. He might grow to be a son of whom you can be proud."

Esarhaddon gazed down into the newborn's face for a long moment. "If this child is to survive, he will have to fight his way through life with the ferocity of a lion. Therefore, his name shall be Mindin." He chuckled as he waggled his finger and the child tried to grasp it with his hand.

"A good name, my lord," Anúrnissa exclaimed, starting to feel more at ease. "My little lion," she cooed as she leaned down and kissed her baby's head. "And my big lion," she purred as she snuggled against Esarhaddon's side, her hand stroking over his chest.

After leaving Anúrnissa, Esarhaddon made his way to his own chambers. He walked with head bowed, deep in thought. Why did it always seem that his family was doomed to sorrow? He had lost three wives to misfortune, illness, and childbirth; his daughter had perished from the Red Plague at the tender age of nine; and then there had been the two children who had been lost to miscarriage and stillbirth. Though he had lived with the fear that tragedy might befall Anúrnissa or her child, he had never imagined that the child would be stricken with such a terrible infirmity.

By the time he reached the door to his chambers, Esarhaddon was feeling quite morose. He was in no mood to see Abaru and Kabtu that morning, but he knew he must be the one to give them the news about their brother. He told the slave girl in attendance that he would wait in the garden for his sons and she should bring him some wine while he was waiting. The air was much cooler in the garden, and perhaps he could think clearer there. Although building the garden had cost him so much gold that it was painful, still it had been a good idea. He enjoyed its calming solitude, where he could listen to the peaceful singing of birds and hear the gentle, melodic splashing of the water in the fountain.

The sweet singing of the birds was interrupted by a childish voice calling, "Father! Father!" Esarhaddon looked up from his goblet to see Kabtu running down the path, followed at a more dignified pace by his brother Abaru. Esarhaddon was on his feet by the time his sons reached him, and he caught an exuberant Kabtu in his arms and swung him high. He looked into his young son's happy, flashing eyes, and dreaded the news he was about to tell him.

"When do we see our new brother?" Kabtu asked after Esarhaddon had set him down on a stone bench.

"Yes, Father," echoed Abaru. "We have been waiting all morning to see the baby."

"How do you two know so much?" Esarhaddon asked, raising an eyebrow.

"We knew about the party," Abaru answered. "Besides that, the servants talk."

"A little too much, I fear." Esarhaddon shook his head. "But, yes, they told you correctly. You have a new brother. What else did they tell you?"

"Nothing, Father," Abaru replied, wondering at his father's tone, which sounded far from happy.

"Father, please!" Kabtu tugged at his sleeve. "Why must we sit here all day when we want to see our little brother? We will stay only a short while."

"You will see him when I say," Esarhaddon replied in a none-too-pleasant tone.

"Yes, Father," Kabtu bowed his head. The little boy knew that he must have said something wrong, but he was not quite sure what.

"Did something happen, Father?" Abaru asked, concerned.

"Yes, something happened, son," Esarhaddon growled. "The boy is deformed, with twisted legs and claws for hands. He will never be able to walk or run."

The boys were shocked into silence. Kabtu was the first to speak. "He is still our brother."

Abaru nodded his head. "Yes, Father. He is of our blood, and we would like to see him." He had expected a healthy brother, and what his father had told them sounded so horrible. He had seen crippled beggars before while visiting the marketplace in Turkûrzgoi. He had never paid them more than a glance, having a certain innate aversion to those whose bodies were maimed or diseased. How he remembered their reeking odor, their ragged clothing, and the sores which covered their bodies. He cringed inwardly. Would that be the fate of their brother?

"Very well, I will take you to see him," Esarhaddon told them. "But do not be surprised by what you see."

However, Esarhaddon would be the one who was surprised. Kabtu, in his youthful innocence, accepted Mindin from the start, despite all his deformities. Abaru seemed a little more hesitant, but he soon warmed up to his little brother. Esarhaddon smiled as the two boys crowded around Anúrnissa, bombarding her with endless questions and chattering away about the baby and how they looked forward to the day when they could play with him.

Knowing that Anúrnissa must be exhausted, Esarhaddon dismissed his sons so that she could rest. He spoke with her a few moments, and then, bending down to give her a kiss, he bade her farewell and returned to his own chambers.

Perhaps having a deformed child would not be so bad, Esarhaddon reflected. He would have to consult with the physician Tushratta to see if he knew anything about Mindin's malady and find out if anything could be done to help the child. If there was no cure, then Esarhaddon would have to find other ways to help Mindin adapt, to bolster up his son's strengths so they would be greater than his weaknesses. He was a very influential man and had many friends and acquaintances in the military. Perhaps, when the time came for Mindin to learn how to walk, he could employ an engineer to construct some sort of conveyance to assist the child in ambulating.