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Part of the deal with being queen was that there were people to do everything for you -- people to help you dress, people to prepare your food, people to clean your quarters and brush your hair and prepare your retinue when you wanted to leave the castle.
And of course, they want to help her with the children.
She would let them eventually. Especially her sons, who were already clamoring to spend time with their baby sister. Enough time would pass, her daughter would become active enough and quick enough that she would need help. Duties of state would pull her unwilling from the castle.
But for now, with Shirahoshi a wonderful, bright new presence in her life, Otohime insisted on doing almost everything herself.
“Sleep little tadpole, rest your head-” she sang in quiet tones, an old lullaby her mother had sung her in near-forgotten days. Very little but impressions remained of her youngest days -- a sense of her parent’s arms, a vague impression of a kelp forest where she played hide and seek, a toy whose form she had almost forgotten, except for the bright blue eyes in its face. But the lullaby had been ever present -- sung to her as a child, sung with her as she grew. In the early days of her marriage to Neptune, when she feared what forever meant, she had sung it to herself in her chambers whenever she got overwhelmed.
And now she had sung it to all four of her children before they were old enough to begin to know what it meant. This is my first gift to you. The first of so, so many.
Shirahoshi scrubbed at her scrunched up face with unsure, grasping hands but didn’t quite wake yet.
As she switched from singing to humming the lullaby, Otohime felt a stab of something -- regret, sadness, loss -- at not being able to take her daughter and snuggle her close. She longed to fold her little girl against her body and let the world be just the two of them for a while.
She had known when she married Neptune that this might happen. The first three times, her children had been sizeable, strong and stout, but still small enough that she could cradle them in her arms for a brief, beautiful time. It made her sad, even as she sat here watching her daughter sleep, that she could never do the same for Shirahoshi.
But still … that was her own sadness, and she would take it in exchange for this healthy, vibrant child. As long as her daughter was happy, she would give up whatever she had to.
Shirahoshi squirmed a little in her sleep, fitful in the bed. Her hair floated in a light current. Otohime smoothed it back, carefully tucking it behind her daughter’s ear.
Her daughter clearly took after her father in the size department. Perhaps he would get more from him as well -- his concern for his kingdom. His strength. The way he loved his family. She wished he had a little more of the backbone he’d had when he was younger, but…
“Be careful when you find love,” she murmured to her sleeping daughter. “Every time. With friends. With a special someone. And if you, too, have children. You become a new you every time.”
As she murmured this, Shirahoshi’s fitfulness eased, the girl settling more deeply into sleep. Taking that as a sign, she kept talking.
“That’s a long way off, of course,” Otohime said, patting the girl on her head. “Years away. And maybe you never will. That’s fine too. But if you find your heart yearning, make sure you find the perfect someone. Someone who makes your heart flutter when they speak. Someone who’s just your type. Someone as smart and strong as I know you’ll be, my little tadpole.”
Shirahoshi’s tail flipped slightly, stirring a bit of sand from the floor of her room. Babies were always kept in the water for a while -- no undersea fall could hurt a child like a fall in open air could. Especially important for a child this size.
Smoothing her daughter’s hair again, she said, “Little one. I can’t wait for you to see this kingdom. To see the wide expanse of the sea. To see the kelp forest, and for you to try sweets from in town. For you to meet mermaid friends your age, who you can play tag with. I’m sure when you see it, you’ll fall in love with it the way the rest of us have.”
Otohime glanced out the window, a wistful smile on her face. Then, leaning close as though telling her baby a true secret, she added, “And someday… the surface. Someday you’ll see the sun in the blue sky. You’ll see great sailing ships upon the sea instead of under it. You’ll see festivals and carnivals, and meet so many people. Make so many friends. And sometimes, it might be hard, or scary. But you’re half me and half your father. So I know you and your brothers can handle anything.”
Shirahoshi stirred again, her eyes slowly blinking open and wandering the room until they found her mother. She reached out her hands, and Otohime took her pinky in one hand, reassuring her. Smiling, the baby settled back down.
“I’m here,” Otohime cooed. “I’m here.”
As Shirahoshi drifted back off to sleep, Otohime began humming again. It was impossible forever, but for now she wanted nothing but beautiful memories for her little girl.