Work Text:
Kattegat
Ivar was in a good mood today, sitting at a bench in the Great Hall with his soulmate Sansa, their infant daughter wrapped securely in a sling across her chest. Approved people could get close enough to admire the new baby, while she still felt sheltered and able to feed or sleep whenever she wanted. Ivar smiled and laughed and traded gooey glances with his wife, a novelty no one had gotten tired of yet.
Unfortunately, Ubbe was not in a position to appreciate it. He and his own soulmate, Silje, were on day three of no sleep as their own slightly older infant continued crying and wailing. Of course, someone else could have tended him, but they were too worried to rest whenever anyone offered.
“The healer says there’s nothing wrong with him,” Silje was despairing to Torvi. Nothing wrong that was known, anyway. And the unknown was worse.
The Great Hall had its usual level of noise and distraction, but apparently Ivar, seated across the table, had been paying more attention than they realized. “I will tell you what is wrong with it,” he announced grandly, throwing a chicken bone at Ubbe to get his attention. Ivar avoided speaking directly to his brothers’ wives as much as possible, claiming it was about respect, but somehow it always felt like just the opposite.
“You are an expert on babies now, hmm?” Ubbe replied carefully. Jovial as he currently appeared, Ivar was still Ivar and could be easily set off, and Ubbe’s patience was not at its strongest these days.
“Yes, the gods have graced me with this knowledge,” Ivar assured him beatifically, reminding Ubbe very much of some of Floki’s pronouncements.
“Okay, what is wrong with him?” Ubbe sighed.
“You,” Ivar assessed bluntly. “You are the problem.” He pointed to encompass Silje as well, before going back to ignoring her, which was frankly preferable. Ubbe steeled himself for the rest of the explanation. “What do babies know? They know nothing. All they know is what you tell them. And you are all upset, and so you are telling it there is something to be upset about.” Ivar shrugged as if the conclusion was obvious. “And so it gets upset also and it cries. So it is your fault.”
Ubbe rubbed his eyes tiredly, taking some encouragement from the fact that everyone else who was listening seemed as confused and/or appalled as he felt. “Ivar… are you telling me to calm down?”
“Yes.” Ivar sensed some skepticism. “I am a very calm person,” he asserted. “Around babies,” he amended, which was slightly more realistic. He made another attempt, obviously trying to find a small explanation for small minds. “It is like a goat.”
“How is my son like a goat, Ivar?” Ubbe asked wearily. He would have just left the table, but he was too tired.
“If you are upset or hesitant, the goat will sense it, and give you a hard time,” Ivar expanded nonsensically. “Everyone knows this. You must approach the goat calmly and in good spirits, and then you can cut its throat very easily.”
Ubbe blinked slowly. Had he become sleep-deprived enough to hallucinate? No, that sounded like the kind of thing Ivar would really say, being as obsessed with sacrifices as he was.
Ivar rolled his eyes. “Come on, hand it over,” he suggested, gesturing for the baby. “I will fix it.”
Ubbe did not have to look at his wife to know what she was thinking. “No f-----g way,” he said, with great calmness.
Ivar clearly felt he was being ridiculous. “I am not going to hurt it!” he insisted. “Don’t be stupid. Do you want it fixed or not?”
Ubbe could feel himself weakening. His son was bawling away in his wife’s arms, face red, so tiny and helpless and loud, but what if he used up all his strength crying for no reason? What if Ubbe and Silje were just making it worse? What if the twisted and poorly-lit maze that was Ivar’s mind had actually stumbled onto the right answer?
He was right about the goats. Everyone did know that.
Ubbe could not give in entirely. “Sansa—” he began, even though he knew Ivar hated it when other men spoke to his wife without permission. Ivar’s expression immediately darkened, but Sansa jumped in quickly.
“Ivar is so good with the baby,” she endorsed wholeheartedly, and he beamed. “So gentle and so patient.”
“As a real man should be,” Ivar boasted.
“He even sings to her and tells her stories,” Sansa added.
“I tell her all about her ancestors’ glorious battles, and the fierce revenge we take on our enemies,” Ivar agreed, poking into Sansa’s bundle to coo at his daughter.
Ubbe gave a half-smile at this, something he never thought he would witness from his youngest brother, and dared to glance down at Silje. She was almost asleep leaning against him, dark circles under her eyes, and he couldn’t bear to see his soulmate in such distress. He sighed, and Ivar knew he had won, wriggling with glee.
“It will be alright,” Ubbe assured Silje, with more confidence than he felt, carefully taking the baby from her. With one final hesitation, he passed the child across the table to Ivar.
Ivar cradled him properly but barely looked at him, going back to eating. “It’s alright, little one,” Sansa murmured, stroking the baby’s head gently.
“Don’t pay attention to this one,” Ivar instructed her. “Pay attention to that one,” meaning their own. “In a few minutes, it will realize it is being held by a calm person, and quiet down. Hvitserk!” he summoned. “Tell the story about the hunting trip where you fell in the bear s—t.”
Hvitserk made a put-upon noise. “Why do you like that story so much?”
“Because you look stupid and it’s funny,” Ivar answered, obviously.
Hvitserk rolled his eyes but started to tell the story, which was pretty funny, and Ubbe found himself getting caught up in it. After a few minutes, though, he realized—“He’s not crying anymore!”
“No, why should it cry?” Ivar shrugged. “I am calm. It is like I’m carrying a loaf of bread.”
Ubbe tried to lean over and make sure the baby was still breathing. Sansa checked and gave him the okay. “He is fast asleep, so tired,” she said soothingly.
“You go get some sleep,” Ivar allowed. It sounded like a good idea—when did Ivar start having good ideas, away from the battlefield?—but Ubbe and Silje were reluctant to leave the baby behind. “I will give it to Torvi when I’m bored with it,” Ivar assured them, thus roping Torvi in.
“I will bring him home later,” Torvi promised Ubbe and Silje. “You deserve some rest.”
“But remember, it was your fault!” Ivar called helpfully after them.