Work Text:
NORWAY - LATE WINTER - 978 AD
The baby wouldn’t stop crying.
No matter what she did, he continued to cry in pathetic wails and she wondered if he could feel her own distress. Curled into her furs, the dark eyed, dark haired newborn’s face was scrunched in abject anger as he clutched at her collar, using his powerful lungs to express his displeasure. But at what, she could only guess. The only thing louder than his cries was that of the thunder outside; a very rare Winter storm that raged and blew outside their tiny hut. Lightning crashed and it startled her with its fierceness; the storms rage and ire doing nothing but renewing the baby’s crying all the louder.
“Shh, liten kriger,” she whispered, desperately, rocking him and moving away from the window as she rubbed his back. His birth had been meant to be a happy occasion but had been marred by the loss of her oldest child. Only several weeks old, he had been born into strife – this household was heavy with grief and loneliness. She was at her wit's end, unable to find a way to calm her little son, who seemed fit to be tied.
She heard another crash of lightning and a small gasp near a window. “Finn, darling, come away from the window,” she held out a hand toward her elder son, fingers wiggling toward him. “Come now, do as mama says,” she responded patiently, despite it being tested by the crying infant against her shoulder.
The little boy didn’t need to be told a second time, hurrying toward his mother and burying his face into her side. He was trembling, never one for storms. She smoothed her fingers over his dark hair and bounced the baby against her shoulder; he had stopped wailing, thankfully, but was still snuffling and fussing against her shoulder.
Her mind went to her husband, who she had lied to about the whereabouts of their daughter; a deal she had made for the children she held now had cost her dearly. Tucking her lower lip between her teeth, the little one against her was now merely rubbing his face tiredly against her furs, fussing as if he now was fighting sleep. She kissed his little forehead and bounced some more, starting to sing a lullaby for him.
“Mama, when will Papa be home?” came the small voice at her hip. She looked down and gave him a small smile, one that she didn’t feel.
“Soon, elskede, soon.” She hoped. “Now come away to bed while your brother is asleep,” she encouraged, motioning him toward the furs that she shared with her husband when he was home – but slept in with her children while he was away. Blowing out a candle, she moved to the bedroll and sat down beside Finn. “Do you want a story?”
“Yes!” came the excited response.
“Alright then,” she said, rubbing the baby’s back, who had begrudgingly fallen asleep on her shoulder while the storm still raged outside. “The wonderful ash-tree, Ygdrasil, made a far-spreading shade against the fierce heat of the sun in summer …. ”