181. Winter Sun (3).
181. Winter Sun (3).
Snow fell, and someone somewhere starved or froze to death.
It was the winter of 867 in Europe, and not a single cheerful tale could be found.
While the world, bleached pure white, stoked its warmth with gossip about 'Sigmarr Helgison'— the one piece of news that at least sang of life—
Whether the rest of the world cared or not, the gaze of Helgi Ragnarsson, who was perhaps living through the most important and happiest time of his life, never strayed from his wife and son.
"Euh—! Eu-euh-heh! Euuuung— eu—"
"That sound is not hunger or a soiled cloth. He must be bored! Sigmarr! Here—"
The sight of Sigmarr, who had barely managed to open his eyes and was flailing his short little limbs about, held within it a fatal cuteness.
His parents, Helgi and Inga, naturally never tried to leave Sigmarr's side for a moment. But anyone who caught even a single glimpse of Sigmarr found themselves utterly— smitten with Felag's son, and though one might think someone would find that strange.
No one did. Why? Because he was that cute.
People had learned for the first time that even a newborn baby could be handsome!
So to speak, could one say that his face was its own probability?
"Eu— euheh— eu— eu-eu—"
According to Drottning Áslaug, who had experienced childbirth many times, and the elder godar who were also skilled midwives, not only was Inga's delivery itself unfathomable, but Sigmarr's condition was also unfathomable.
Firstly.
Inga's labor had been far too easy. No, from the pregnancy itself, not only was there no morning sickness to speak of, but even with a body at full term, hadn't she shown vigorous activity right up until the day of delivery?
Furthermore, from the moment Inga felt labor pains until she gave birth to Sigmarr, hardly any time had passed—barely enough to finish a light meal. (About 30 minutes)
Yes, even allowing for all concessions, it wasn't as if there had never been a pregnant woman who delivered as smoothly as Inga. Drottning Áslaug herself had also given birth to her children with relative ease.
Of course, she hadn't experienced as effortless(?) a birth as Inga, but nonetheless.
If up to this point a compromise could still be reached within the realm of reason, the second question was something closer to sheer astonishment.
Helgi and Inga's son.
Sigmarr was healthy. Far too healthy.
First of all, looking at the height, muscles, and bone structure of Helgi and Inga, everyone had thought that no frail child could possibly come from between the two of them. But—
As if to say, 'You dared to judge me by your petty thoughts. Foolish, you humans.', Sigmarr was born with a body nearly twice the size of Hardaknut.
Even that Hardaknut had been counted among the robust infants, so was Sigmarr to be considered a super-robust infant?
And there was something even stranger. This baby, no matter how one looked at it, was far too fast.
"Sigmarr, do you like being in your father's arms that much? Helgi, the child keeps smiling."
"He must find my large frame somehow snug. For my son's happiness, I don't care if my chest gets soaked with drool."
"Oh my. You two are just too adorable."
"Euheh— eu-eu-eu— eu— eung— eu—"
Helgi and Inga might not feel anything particularly strange, but that child had only been in this world for a mere two weeks.
Usually, no matter how fast, a baby began babbling only after at least two months.
Why, and how, could he be like that?
What did it mean that a baby barely two weeks old was acting like a seasoned six-month-old and clinging to his father's chest?
That was fast—far too fast. Something was not ordinary. Something... something was happening.
The two Drottnings, Áslaug and Asta, as well as all the godar and serving women who had been prepared to care for Inga, Ethelthrith, Sigmarr, and Hardaknut, were thrown into confusion.
But soon realizing that it was Felag Helgi 'Sterkr' who held this mysterious baby in his arms, they merely let out exclamations of wonder inwardly.
'A dragon has sired a dragon.'
'The blood of Sterkr flows strong...!'
'The line of Felag will not easily be shaken.'
As was typical of the godar, such thoughts, which carried a somewhat divine nuance, quickly became rumor. And it did not take long for everyone in Árós to learn of the extraordinary nature of Inga and Sigmarr.
Here in the midst of this winter, where there was little else to do.
The people of Árós, who had only been seeking an excuse to eat and play, had found the previous week's 'Sigmarr's Birth Celebration Festival' insufficient. This time they held a 'Sigmarr's Health Celebration(?) Festival,' and the names of Helgi, Inga, and Sigmarr resounded through every street.
But still, Helgi and Inga paid no mind at all.
"Eu— eu..."
"Inga. Sigmarr seems to be falling asleep."
"Shh— shh shh shh— There once was a warrior named Ragnar— Ragnar wore furry breeches— Helgi. Try rocking him slowly. Sigmarr seems to like anything that moves. He faced the fire-breathing dragon—"
The young couple and the newborn baby were simply. Sharing each other's warmth and the sound of their breathing in one space, spending time together and savoring this moment.
*****
Though it was my old house, it did not feel cramped at all. As a house that had, from the moment of its making, been declared to be the grandest longhouse in the history of the North.
Compared to my new house on the more modern(?) Felag's Hill, it naturally had many inconvenient aspects since it preserved a great deal of traditional values.
But still, this longhouse, which looked exactly like an overturned great longship, had a homely, lived-in flavor.
Watching Sigmarr, with a smile sweeter than wine gracing his chubby cheeks and babbling something to me in the language of babies, made all the worries of the world vanish.
No, this child became the whole world's worry. All my flesh and spirit were directed entirely at this child. There was no room for anything else.
When Inga entered that scene, of course, the story changed. But while our couple focused so intensely on the child, welcome guests came by in succession and then took their leave.
The first guests to knock on my door were the two Konungrs who had remained in Árós, the Black King Halfdan and Olaf.
These two, old bloodlines of the Geat tribe who had become markedly closer after retiring, offered their congratulations to Inga and me along with gifts for a young child (a sword, a shield) according to the custom of Norsemen, and then settled themselves down in my longhouse for a good while.
"Uhlululululu— ullulululu—"
"Congratulations, Felag, Drottning. I never imagined I would be saying such words to Felag's child. He is truly a most lovable child. I offer my congratulations once more. May the protection of Hel linger near Sigmarr."
Now that I had become a parent, I could not help but like anyone who liked my child. Naturally, I returned my thanks to the Black King Halfdan and Olaf and presented them with high-quality leather as a gift, but the two Konungrs cast the gift aside and were swept up in Sigmarr's charm. They grew busy saying that now they too wished to see grandchildren and that they must write letters to their own sons (Harald, Tostein).
Why did my heart feel so gratified? Sigmarr had contributed to raising the birth rate of the North Sea nobles barely two weeks after being born. Indeed, a child of the sun. His vitality was strong!
At the same time, Damian arrived to offer me congratulations along with Bithynian specialty wine directly managed by the Roman Imperial household.
In Damian's case, as a native eunuch who had served two Roman Emperors, he was a figure quite skilled with young children.
Damian won Sigmarr's smile, which until then had been shown only to Inga and me, in barely ten minutes.
Damian, whose tongue had attained an artful realm, naturally satisfied Inga's heart and mine with all sorts of rhetorical flourishes and flattery. But he left a suggestive remark, saying that signs of a second child were showing between Michael and Eudokia.
And the very moment I heard those words from Damian, my mind, which had been floating above the clouds, gradually began its descent back into reality.
'Rentakios sent word that a child may have come again between Basileus and Basilissa. Thus I mention it, but with the succession of the North Sea and the Roman Empire already established, could not the future descendants of the imperial household freely travel between the two empires?'
And if, by chance, affection should blossom between the children of the two imperial lines, then that too would be fate.
Damian, who left those parting words as he covered his mouth with his wine glass, must surely have been smiling.
Inga, who paid no mind at all to matters of state but leaned closer to pretending not to know what she did know, naturally let the remark pass, saying she truly hoped it would be so. Damian, too, did not raise the subject further.
Because he had achieved his objective of planting a new possibility in my mind.
'Eastern Rome. A marriage alliance with Eastern Rome?'
It was not impossible. It might even be a good thing.
But I did not wish to be hasty. There was no guarantee that recklessly deciding my newborn child's future, and the future of children not yet born, solely for political ends would not end up looking like that mess with Lothar.
And so, just as my wise wife had suggested, I merely nodded my thanks to Damian and left it at that.
Thus, when the number of people residing in my hall had increased to three (Sigurd was treated as a full resident who had simply settled in), at last Konungr Bagsecg, along with my brother Halfdan, and Halfdan's wife Bothild, came storming in.
"Where is he! My brother Felag's son! Where is my sun-blessed nephew Sigmarr!"
Halfdan, who burst open the door of the hall which had been filled with soft music and quiet laughter and strode in, immediately shouted at the top of his lungs. Thanks to that, Hardaknut burst into tears, but Sigmarr's entire attention was captivated by the dazzling skill of Damian, who was right before his nose, playing a game of 'hiding jewels with both hands.'
Sigmarr, who liked anything shiny, naturally paid no heed whatsoever to his immature uncle's yell. And Halfdan ended up getting an earful from his mother Áslaug.
"Halfdan! Quiet down! How is it that you never change!"
"Uh— hem. Mother, you were here too? My apologies, Mother."
The two mothers' terrifying gazes poured down upon Halfdan, who had woken the barely-asleep Hardaknut. Bothild, leaving Halfdan to sweat coldly in place, hurried over to Hardaknut and Sigmarr's side.
"Good heavens— the children are so beautiful. Inga, Ethelthrith. They are truly children like jewels."
From Bothild's eyes as she gazed at the robust infant and the super-robust infant, each held in their mother's arms, honey seemed to drip. Ethelthrith, distracted with soothing Hardaknut, and Inga, holding Sigmarr who was flailing his short arms as if trying to seize the jewel flashing— flick— flick— between Damian's hands, both smiled brightly and talked with Bothild.
In order to give the women their own time, I subtly shifted my position. Halfdan, whose soul had been half devoured by Sigurd and me, who had arranged a gloomy space for the menfolk only, trudged over.
"Damn. I'm a proper Jarl of a region now, you know. Yet still, I can't so much as twitch in front of Mother!"
Dear, dear.
It was a feeling I'd gained after having a child myself, but when a child comes, a man truly grows.
I had always thought that Björn and Ivar treated Halfdan, Sigurd, me, and Ubba as if they were looking at their own sons simply because of the age difference.
But watching Halfdan today, I understood. This fellow was still immature.
'You think so too, right, Sigurd?'
'Of course, Helgi. Halfdan still has a long way to go.'
Sigurd and I exchanged meaningful glances.
Halfdan, caught between the two adults like a 'bystander,' saw that look and spoke in a sulky voice.
"What. What's with that unpleasant expression? Still, the fact that you two are idiots hasn't changed! Though my nephews are beautiful!"
Halfdan spouting such idiotic nonsense. Normally I would have chided him and joined in, but Sigurd and I, now having become adults, merely wore pleased smiles and just nodded at him.
"Damn, it's like looking at Björn and Ivar."
[Gulp— gulp—]
At last, Halfdan burst into a hearty laugh and coolly drank down his ale. Following his lead, Sigurd and I also raised our own cups.
"It is truly peaceful. Seeing this, I think I understand why you serve the goddess Hel. Helgi. It must mean there is no need to die beneath a sword's edge while singing of Valhalla's glory."
With the harmonious laughter and gentle singing as a backdrop. Gazing at his wife, mother, the Konungrs of his father's generation, and the precious children, Halfdan revealed his innermost thoughts in a solemn voice.
"Yet people still raise their cups to Odin and Tyr, and they sing of Thor and Frey. Half the winter has already passed. The Jutes and the warriors of Old Saxony have mostly finished their war preparations."
The foolish atmosphere that had lingered around Sigurd and me also slid down our throats beneath a drink of ale. What took its place were the green eyes of wolves preparing for a great hunt.
"The land of East Frankia is a mess, just as always. Practically speaking, the land of the Old Saxons we will face is ruled by a man named Bruno. He is the son of the former Dux, Liudolf."
Halfdan's eyes, as he calmly unspooled his intelligence, seemed already directed toward Hamburg and beyond.
"It seems the war with Moravia didn't go as they'd planned. This is already a terrible winter, and I hear they're enduring worse hardship. Isn't that a sound of opportunity for us? Beyond simple containment, I'm thinking of getting a grip on Hamburg this time."
Was the irrepressible ambition of a Ragnarsson lodged in Halfdan's chest as well?
In truth, it was something that the Jutes, crouching beyond the Dane Wall, would eventually have to choose one day. Either strike out, or keep merely holding the line forever.
I had long since finished preparing to trust and support my brother's decision, whichever side it fell on.
"I've made a few amusing toys, which will surely be of great help. Let's go look at them together. It's not far eith—"
"Urp—!?"
Before I could even finish voicing the words spinning busily in my head, I saw Bothild, who had been wearing a happy smile on the opposite side, unable to drink what was in her cup as she gave a dry heave.
"—ther."
"Whoa—?"
It seemed, somehow, that the yang energy brought by the child of the sun had reached my brother as well.
☆☆☆☆☆Reference☆☆☆☆☆
Unknown authorUnknown author, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
The Dux of Saxony. Portrait of Bruno.
AnonymousUnknown author, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
His younger brother. Portrait of Otto.
Saxony. These are two figures from Sachsen to keep an eye on...!
Actually, one of Otto's descendants is a truly terrifying fellow, so... he's caught my interest a bit more lol