Valhalla | H.S Short Story

The Third Part

Screams. Shrill and stagnant, piercing through the air and ripping her from her deep slumber. She jolted up from the bed with a gasp, rushing out of the bedroom towards the source of the screams.

Her eyes were hazy with sleep, but she was no less alarmed. It was early, the crispness in the air told her as much, although it was always cold here. The wooden floor was icy beneath her bare feet as she parted the curtain that hid their bedroom from view.

The screaming was louder, and she breathed out a laugh at the sight in front of her. Her Viking, and two little boys dangling upside down from his grasp. He swung them gently, making loud monstrous sounds as they shrieked and giggled.

"Mummy!"

Harrý laughed, setting the two boys down on the ground. He brushed his hair behind his shoulders, a great deal longer than when they'd first met. But she kept it tamed just below his shoulders with regular trims, per his request.

For the most part, he kept the sides braided, the centre in a ponytail or bun. Wound with leather, the braids decorated with leather, steel, and beads. But sometimes he'd opt for a messy bun if he was in a rush.

Although last week, he'd let Erik, their eldest, attempt to style his long curls, which earned him teasing from others at the dock as he worked on the longship repairs.

"What is that mess atop your head, friend?" Torsten laughed.

"Hold your tongue." He growled. "My little cub Erik insisted on doing my hair this morning. He would not let me leave the house otherwise."

He kept his son's hair perfectly styled. Little ponytails and braids with beads. Whatever he could get done while they wriggled around.

Their eldest son ran confidently towards her, hugging her leg with a delighted laugh. He was a soft and dreamy boy, albeit strong-willed and demanding. Two years of his pure heart and bright green eyes. Warm brown curls that, just like his dads, were wildest in the mornings.

"Erik, my love. Are you well?"

He nodded, his lower lip jutting out. She tutted, leaning down to cup his cheeks. She squished them, knowing that all he wanted was a little bit of attention. A trait he must have gotten from his father. He laughed shyly and then ran back to his daddy just as her youngest had crawled his way to her.

"Sweet Iver." She cooed, picking him up with a smile. "Were you playing with daddy?"

Her reward was a gummy smile and bright eyes. Like his father, his eyes were extremely expressive. She never had to guess what any of her boys were thinking. Like a glassy lagoon, you could see the sandy bottom of.

Erik begged to be picked up again, and his father did so, able to scoop him up with one arm and toss him around in the air. The sound of his laughter, alongside the warmth of the hearth, was home to her.

"They have eaten," he told her. "A warrior's breakfast of porridge and fruit."

"Calm yourself, they are not warriors yet."

The idea of the cruel world tainting the soft and angelic nature of her boys was almost too much to bear. She knew they had the strongest warrior to train them, as he had trained her, but even still—it did not sit well with her.

"Yet." He wriggled his brows. "I shall train them soon. They will be my mighty drengr. My blood courses through their veins, Freyja. They are destined for greatness."

At that, he pretended to drop Erik before catching him. The little boy giggled in delight. Playtime was always his favourite part of the day before daddy went off to complete his daily tasks.