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"Leave us," he intoned, hoping his confident facade wasn't noticeably flawed.
The mother reluctantly complied, her eyes lingering on the small bundle as she quit the room. She had required help from Zachariah in enough cases to know that in Kere's house, Zach's word was to be obeyed.
He went to work, beginning by checking the child's pulse and breath rate. He bent, turning his head to the side, his ear over the child's grey lips, and waited.
After moments he began to worry, and placed a sinewy hand over the child's still chest. Feeling a faint, languid beat, he relaxed.
He straightened and dipped his thumb into an oily liquid, housed in a squat, rotund vial. He smeared the holy substance first across his forehead, then the babe's. There was no point to this procedure; he had failed to pray to Kere to ask for his stark yet benevolent attention, and could expect none of the god's might to assist him at the critical moment. Even if He was watching, without sufficient time spent in supplication for the request, Kere would do naught, as would any other of the divine beings, when simply asked by their priests.
Still, he annointed her, and went about the rest of the usual routine, some of it necessary, some not. Performing the regular actions soothed him; after all, he still had to request the strength needed from himself.
He lit the incense, the final activity, and then stood there, mute, motionless, eyes closed. He remained so for a time, the only sound betraying the existence of life his deep, regular breathing.
Finally, after several minutes, he opened his eyes. He was ready.