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Before dawn, the house lay steeped in blue-grey quiet. Frost clung to the small windowpanes, tracing white veins across the glass. The wind pressed softly against the thin daub walls.
A faint creak of a floorboard tip toed closer,
“Da…?”
The whisper was tiny.
A small hand, clumsy with sleep and excitement, patted blindly at his shoulder.
Askeladd inhaled sharply. Not startled. Just instantly awake, the way a man becomes when a lifetime has taught him never to sleep too deeply.
He rolled his head on the pillow, eyes narrowing out of habit before softening when he saw her.
His daughter stood shivering beside the bed, wrapped in a wool shawl that dragged behind her like a cape. Wild curls framed her flushed cheeks. Her toes curled on the cold floorboards, puffing tiny white breaths into the dim room.
“It’s Calan Gaeaf,” she breathed, leaning in until her tiny nose nearly brushed his. Her grin trembled with excitement.
“It’s today.”
He exhaled a quiet huff of laughter, a ghost of amusement tugging at the edges of his rugged face.
“Aye,” he murmured, voice low and rough with sleep. “Though the sun’s not even awake yet.”
She bounced once — a little hop that sent the shawl sliding off her narrow shoulders.
“But the spirits are,” she whispered, eyes huge.
A smirk tugged at his mouth. He reached out, scooping her up effortlessly and guiding her onto the bed so her bare feet wouldn’t suffer the floor.
“Spirits don’t like noisy children,” he warned in a playful whisper, tapping the tip of her nose. “They’ll think you’re tryin’ to scare ’em off.”
She slapped both hands over her mouth to trap her laughter.
“Can we wake Mama?” she asked, muffled.
He shifted just enough to look at you.
Curled beneath the furs, soft and warm. Cheek pressed to the pillow. Hair spilling across your throat like silk. Peace resting gently over your features.
A faint smile tugged at his lips; something unguarded flickered in his eyes — something he’d show to no one but the two of you.
“No,” he said softly. “Let’s let her rest. She deserves it.”
He rose from the bed with quiet ease, his daughter scrambling into his arms again before he padded into the main room. The cold greeted them at once — a crisp bite to the air.
She tucked her face into the warm space beneath his jaw.
“Cold mornings build strong bones,” he murmured, rubbing her back. “Besides… It makes the fire sweeter.”
He set her down beside the hearth and crouched, raking the coals with a poker. Sparks flitted upward like tiny glowing insects. His daughter watched in breathless fascination.
“Da, can I add the twigs?” she asked, tightening her grip on the sack of sticks she’d collected last night.
“Slowly,” he said. “Let them catch, not smother.”
She bent forward with exaggerated care, dropping them one by one. Askeladd kept a steadying hand to her chest, shielding her from the heat.
The fire stirred, stretching into life. Orange light spilled into the room, softening the shadows.
“You see?” he murmured. “Even small things make a difference if you place them right.”
She beamed, warming her hands, bouncing lightly on her toes.
–
They lingered by the hearth as the warmth grew. He gently detangled her curls with slow fingertips while she whispered half-awake observations about the neighbor children and who might already be up.
Then her hand snagged the hem of his tunic.
“Can we make Mama’s porridge now?”
He raised a brow.
“Already plotting to steal my duties, are you?”
She giggled and clung tighter as he stood — her little feet stepping onto his, riding along as he waddled them into the kitchen.
–
The kitchen filled with soft domestic sounds:
the scrape of a wooden spoon, gentle bubbling of water, the deep timbre of his quiet hums as they worked together.
She stood on a low stool, stirring with all the solemn concentration in the world, tongue peeking at the corner of her mouth. He braced the bowl with a steady hand.
“You’re too excited to sit still,” he teased.
“It’s the spirits,” she whispered with a seriousness reserved only for children. “They woke me today.”
He paused, not worried, just thoughtful. His Welsh blood carried stories as old as the hills themselves. He was glad this, too, lived in her.
“Aye,” he said with a soft smile. “They walk close today. Which is why we honor them. And keep close to the fire.”
She sprinkled berries with far too much enthusiasm, a few bounced off the rim — which he caught in his hand with impressive reflexes, tossing one into the air and catching it neatly in his mouth.
She gasped, delighted, and threw another for him to catch — it bounced off his chin and disappeared in his beard.
She burst into giggles.
He pressed a dramatic hand to his chest, feigning grave injury, then plucked the lost berry from his beard and popped it into his mouth with a wink.
“Come now,” he said, brushing her cheek with his thumb to wipe a smear of honey.
“Before your mother thinks we burned the place down.”
She hugged his side with all her little strength, the stool wobbling dangerously; he caught her with one arm and set her gently onto the floor.
Her small hand immediately sought his, swallowed completely by his large one. He brushed his thumb over her knuckles instinctively.
And he carried the warm bowl down the hall while she skipped behind, trying to step exactly where he stepped, mimicking his long strides with quick little ones.
–
They crept back into the bedroom — but your eyes were already blinking open, stirred by warmth and the smell of honey.
Your daughter squealed and launched herself into the bed.
“Mama! Mama! We made breakfast!”
You sat up, brushing your hair back, smiling warmly. He knelt beside you, one knee sinking into the furs, holding out the bowl with a steady hand braced near your hip.
“Happy Calan Gaeaf, cariad.”
He leaned in and kissed your temple.
–
After breakfast, the three of you dressed warmly — wool cloaks, fur-lined shawls, dried herbs tied into your daughter’s belt to ward off wandering spirits. He fastened the rowan-wood charm around her neck, the one you’d carved together the night before.
When you stepped outside, breath puffing white, you noticed something beside the door:
A woven basket. Heavy. Decorated in evergreen, holly berries, scraps of dyed cloth. Linen-wrapped parcels. Carved figures. Herbs. Dried apples threaded on string.
Your daughter gasped, hands flying to her cheeks.
“Mam! Da! Look! The spirits brought gifts!”
He raised a brow, feigning mild surprise, but you could see the faintest flicker of pride at the corner of his mouth.
“Ah, it seems the ancestors favored us this year,” he said, stroking his beard thoughtfully.
Your daughter knelt in the snow, touching each gift with reverence, whispering awe-filled things under her breath.
You slipped an arm around his waist, narrowing your eyes at him with playful accusation. He wrapped his cloak around you without thinking, drawing you into his warmth.
“Lucius,” you murmured into his chest, “you did this.”
His hand slid up your back, slow and steady.
“For you and her?” he whispered. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do.”
He kissed your forehead — lips lingering, soft as falling snow.
Your daughter’s laughter rang across the frost-bright morning, clear as a bell. The wind still bit at your cheeks, but as he held you close, the world softened, warm by the small family you’d built together.