Softly humming a lullaby, Tahmineh swayed, trying to summon sleep for her son. Already, he was almost to heavy for her to carry, and he was still an infant. It had been a difficult pregnancy, and an even more difficult delivery, due to his size. More than once she had cursed her imprudence, and dreaded the child of Rostam.
The morning after the episode, Tahmineh had buried her face in Farzanah's lap. The older sister just let her cry, and quietly stroked her hair. Her tears were only partially because the experience had been so awful; Tahmineh was horrified that she had been so arrogant to think it would mean something to him, that he would bear any actual tenderness for her. She was just another willing participant in Rostam's self gratification. She realized too late that absolutely nothing would have been different if she had been someone else. He would have taken advantage of the situation whether she was a servant or the daughter of the king, just so long as she was attractive and willing. He barely understood she was a princess, and he certainly had no idea that she was generous and funny. He didn't know and didn't care. Tahmineh felt small and used and and dirty.
It hadn't been long before she realized that he had, in fact, impregnated her. She resented the use of her body to further his line. Her bitterness at the experience and her anger at herself germinated a loathing toward Rostam, and the idea of another version of him disgusted her. She hated that he had been right about placing a child in her, and she abhorred the idea that it might also be a boy. It wasn't rational; she just didn't like Rostam being right. She couldn't wait to get this child out of her.
Yet somehow, after months of a hardening heart, Tahmineh found that that heart was open and full of love when her child was placed in her arms. She saw that though he was enormous, he bore little resemblance to his father. His eyes were bright and curious, and the same jade color as her own, and her mother's. He squirmed with a restlessness that communicated a fear of missing exciting things, as if his time in Tahmineh's womb had been preventing him from all manner of fun, and now that he had exited it, he meant to play.
Farzanah had stroked his face with a hand swollen and bruised from Tahmineh's grip during the delivery. "He looks just like you, especially that mischievous twinkle in his eye." At this, the boy had laughed, and his mother named him Sohrab.
As Tahmineh swayed, Sohrab looked around at all the interesting things he could be doing. He fussed because he was definitely overstimulated and needed a nap but refused to sleep, and Tahmineh was exhausted. However, there was nothing she wouldn't do for her child. She cooed and bounced, and eventually, Sohrab fell asleep. As she turned from gingerly placing him in his bed, she saw her father in the doorway. The afternoon sun slanted through the windows at a severe angle, leaving his face in shadow, yet she could feel his hunger even without seeing his expression.
"He's growing fast. It won't be long before he is as powerful as his father." The shah stepped into the room.
"Sohrab is my child. I will not have you using him as a weapon."
"He cannot escape his destiny. Look at him! He has the strength and stature of Rostam, but clearly the intelligence of one born of Samangan. How can he avoid war? What nation would not feel threatened by him and desire to to destroy him? Yet he will be like a jewel in my diadem."
Tahmineh tried to remain calm. It was true that her father was very intelligent, but not as much as he believed himself to be. He always was trying to be crafty, but his true insight came from surrounding himself with advisers who exhibited some semblance of wisdom. Tahmineh's wit was inherited from her mother.
"If it is his destiny, then there is no need to manipulate his fate. Let me enjoy the laughter of my child while I can."
The shah considered for a moment, then left the room. Tahmineh picked up Sohrab and held him tightly. She vowed to fight that supposed destiny. Her son would not be like his father. He would not be a tool to be used by his king. If he must go to war, it would be just, in protection of others, because she would raise him to care about people and not be ruled by his own enormous ego. He would be great not because of how many enemies he had vanquished, but because of the wisdom he exhibited, and the steadiness with which he would comport himself. His laugh would be heard as something that would bring delight, just as it did now, rather than something to instill fear. He would grow to be a man respected, loved, and humble.
As she held Sohrab, she experienced once again the strange sensation of gratitude that she had a son whom she adored mixed with deep apprehension that he would actually grow to be another Rostam. She consoled herself with the knowledge that she had many years to try and mold him before he became an adult, and that Rostam would have no bearing on his life. Yet that apprehension would not abate.
