267. Faith.
The Fylkir had shaved his head!
Around the end of summer in 869. The Fylkir had been eagerly promoting the Julian calendar imported from Rome, but as we all know, culture was not something that could be changed overnight just because one person shouted at the top of their lungs.
Even if the one doing the shouting was the Demigod of the North Sea.
Yet the demigod's voice was indeed loud enough that people gradually began to grasp the concept of the era they were living in. It had already been three years since the Fylkir's ascension.
The fifth month of summer in the year 3 of the Fylkir's Calendar.
Beyond the exciting news of exploration and battle unfolding in the western sea, and the tidings of the Horse Riders carried from beyond the eastern sea, there was another piece of news the people of the North Sea were waiting for. It was the news of the birth of the Fylkir's second child, carried in the womb of Drottning Inga.
Would it be a son? A daughter? Would another mighty babe be born, like the Hvíthrafn, the white raven Sigmarr? The time of birth was drawing near—I must go offer prayers at the temple of Hel!
Just as the temple of Hel's income was increasing roughly through this stream of consciousness, utterly unexpected news began in Árós and spread throughout the North Sea via swift-footed, loose-tongued merchants and soldiers.
It was that the Fylkir had shaved his head.
"But why on earth!?"
"Odin! You wicked schemer! Balding Odin!! Have you finally revealed your wretched nature to our Fylkir!"
"This is a conspiracy! The Fylkir shaving his head!"
The North Sea people, who possessed a profound interest in hairstyles, beards, and attire, all railed against gods other than Hel, or against the sky and the sea, anxiously awaiting further news, their hearts trembling over whether something had befallen their demigod.
And soon after, upon hearing the full account of the affair that followed, every one of them burst into admiration or even raised their cups with tears forming in their eyes.
"As of today, I withdraw my support for the Fylkir."
"Wha, what!? Are you mad!?"
"From this day forth, I break free of the relationship of mere support, and the Fylkir and I become one in a single body. An attack on the Fylkir shall be considered an attack on me."
"...Mad in a different sense, then."
From those who shed tears of emotion and renewed their vows of loyalty to the Fylkir.
[squeak- squeak- snip- snip- squeak-]
[creaaaak-]
"Haa-um. Father, did you hear the news? Well, the reason the Fylkir cut his hair— Huh? F-Father! What are you doing right now!"
[squeak- squeak-]
"My son. Since you are here, lend me a hand. Seeing as Jarl Ivar and the Fylkir have both shed their burdensome hair, what purpose is there for me to hold onto this? Only after many winters have passed did I realize the truth. Hair is fine whether you have it or not. Hehehe... In the end, all things shall die...
I shall henceforth devote my body and soul to Goddess Hel and the Fylkir. So please, help me."
"*Sniff!* Father, give me that razor...!"
To the men who had been secretly agonizing over hair that was thinning and vanishing, each finally cast away their last lingering attachment and attained enlightenment, thereby nurturing a deeper spiritual bond with Goddess Hel and the Fylkir.
Thereafter, bald monks wearing women's necklaces and the golden skull masks, the symbol of Hel, appeared throughout the North Sea to aid those in difficult circumstances, or ventured deep into the mountains and forests to record their own lives. Once again, North Sea society was being stirred in a strange direction, but to Helgi Ragnarsson, the protagonist of all these events, none of this was important at the moment.
"The foolish man~ stays awake all night~ pondering all his worries~ weariness brings the morning~ and all his troubles remain the same as before~"
[swish- swish-]
A large bed filled with the scent of a baby. Sigmarr, listening to Inga's voice, lay asleep on his stomach atop my torso, his tiny eyes closed.
Every time I felt the warmth this little child conveyed to me, a cosmic enlightenment came upon me. Just as Inga's song said, useless thoughts vanished, and all that remained in my heart was this child, Inga, and the presence of the second one who would soon join us.
They were profound lyrics for a lullaby, but perhaps the words of a lullaby sung by a mother held no real meaning in themselves. After all, Sigmarr would always nod off whenever Inga sang in her beautiful, soothing voice, eventually flopping down limp.
Seeing this, blood could not be denied, for I too recalled dozing off whenever I heard my mother Asta's singing (mostly ancient words praising Hel).
Yet the feeling of a mother's singing and a wife's singing was slightly different. Listening to my mother's song made me feel endlessly peaceful. But listening to my wife's song stirred an even greater desire for Inga within me.
[wriggle-wriggle- swish-swish-]
So, minimizing the vibrations transmitted to Sigmarr as much as possible, I drew slightly closer to Inga, who lay reclining at an angle, employing an adapted crawl—a lying-down passing posture. Then, Inga would caress my head this way and that with both hands.
Hoot-
A voice full of mischief.
"It was awkward at first, but still, you look so cool. Touching it like this somehow puts my heart at ease. It's cute, seems like a slightly bigger version of Sigmarr's head."
[swish- swish-]
Heh heh.
That was my sly laugh.
"I'm glad you weren't too surprised. Now that you've shaved it anyway, how about I change the style a little?"
"Change the style? How?"
"Hup!"
To look at Inga's face and converse, I took the Bridge pose. An advanced yoga posture that makes the body arch like a bow using both arms and both legs (...).
An ordinary human would be busy controlling their breath, but my physical body had reached a state that defied all common sense.
"Shave the sides and back as they are now or cut them very short, and grow out the front or top to sweep it back or braid it. How's that?"
Isn't the pinnacle of men's haircuts ultimately the two-block cut! Until now, the men of the North Sea had either maintained a shaggy bob, the so-called bowl cut, or, following my lead, preferred to grow their hair long and sweep it back.
It seemed the time had finally come to show them true style.
"I'll braid your hair for you, Helgi. Any hairstyle suits you well."
Smiling, Inga held both sides of my face and slowly drew near; her lips touched mine and then parted.
Hmm.
I needed to lower the angle of the bridge a bit. My trousers were about to become a little uncomfortable—
"Huh?"
Something had just wriggled. Not something inside my trousers, nor was it Sigmarr lying on my stomach. It was definitely inside Inga's belly.
"Helgi...!"
As I hurriedly turned my body while cradling Sigmarr, Inga cried out to me in a hushed voice with an expression mixed with laughter and surprise.
Then she gestured, drawing me close around her swollen belly.
Feeling my heart pounding wildly, I slowly extended my left arm and gently placed it on Inga's belly.
[swish- ... nudge!]
"Huh?"
Had it felt that touch? Or was it a sign of protest, telling me to take my hand away? What was certain was that this little one, far smaller than even tiny Sigmarr, had nudged my hand from across Inga's belly.
"Ah-"
It wasn't the first time the second one had wriggled, but every time I experienced such a moment, I felt myself infinitely diminished beneath the mystery of life and the vast laws of the universe.
"Oo-"
Wriggle-wriggle. Nudge.
Then, as if waking from a nap, I slowly moved Sigmarr, who had been squirming in my arm and reaching out one hand, toward Inga's belly. Carefully, so that Inga and the second one would not be hurt.
And the moment Sigmarr's tiny palm touched Inga's belly, the second one reacted again.
"Oohoo- Dongsaeng, my dongsaeng."
"Yes, Sigmarr. That's your little sibling."
Inga's tender hand stroked Sigmarr's head, and Sigmarr soon wriggled out of my arms and pressed his left cheek against Inga's belly.
"Oohoo- Dongsaeng."
And Inga and I smiled together as we watched that sight.
*****
"Increase speed."
"Ay Ay, my Cyning! It is the Cyning's command! Increase speed!"
"Let's go, you barnacle-ridden bastards! Row the oars!"
[Bwooo-!! Bwooo- Bwooo-]
The North Sea was rough and harsh. And here were men who had adapted to its high waves.
"The Saracens are right before our noses! Leave not a single one of Satan's minions alive!"
"Faster! Fast enough to make Njord marvel! Put your eeee-effort into it!!"
Astoundingly, these were Cyning Alfred of Wessex and his warriors. After a year had passed since the independent course taken by Alquin, Northumbria's Bishop and 'Enemy of the Church,' the Catholics of Britain and all who remained under them were undergoing a massive transformation.
So much so that save for perhaps the Archbishop of Canterbury, who held deep ties with the Roman Papacy, every person in Wessex was feeling that change.
That change was none other than the fact that people's religious views were becoming considerably more flexible. The gods of the Northmen, Njord, had become a deity accepted without hesitation by the warriors of Wessex venturing out to sea, and Hel followed closely after.
Though it might be reasoned that the various superstitions of seafarers were quite famous and impossible to stop, accepting even Hel?
The Archbishop of Canterbury, aghast at this situation, and the high-minded clergy still remaining in Wessex sought God day and night, scolding, coaxing, and even pleading. But unlike the clergy who could shut their eyes and seek the Lord yet still have food brought to them punctually, for the other people of Wessex, who had to dig the earth or wield spear and shield, their neighbor's rice cake simply seemed too large and sweet.
Mercia and Wessex had been bound by a marriage alliance for nearly a hundred years, and naturally, the two kingdoms, which had enjoyed free intercourse, possessed relatives and neighbors connected by blood, though separated by distance.
The people of Wessex could see with their own eyes and hear with their own ears how Tamworth of Mercia, ruled by the fearsome Jarl Ubba, was prospering, and they could even taste and feel that fruit with their own mouths and tongues.
Moreover, new mothers, knowingly or not, brought in the symbol of Hel and even carried it within their garments. The Archbishop of Canterbury sought aid from Rome and the Pope, but Pope Hadrian II, unlike his predecessor, was locked in a power struggle under the ever-strengthening influence of Imperator Augustus.
On top of that, there were the escalating attacks by the Muslims and the rivalry with the Eastern Roman Patriarchate unfolding in the Kingdom of Bulgaria.
The Pope of Rome had expressed no official position, but he had effectively abandoned Britain.
And so Alfred had nothing left to hold him back.
"Ahoy! My King (Cyning)! The enemy's vanguard is in sight! The enemy does not flee!"
"It seems they are fellows who do not yet know my name."
Grin-
[Craaack-!]
A flash of lightning split the sky far to the south, and no sooner had Alfred's brightly smiling face been revealed than majestic thunder followed it fiercely.
Witnessing that smile up close, the adjutant dared to think to himself that the Cyning's smile seemed wicked.
"Raise the skull banner! Tell Odda to strike their right flank! We shall confront them head-on like this!"
"Aye, Cyning! Jolly Alfr— No! Raise the red banner!!"
"You lot, move it, quickly now! Signalman! Stop lazing about and send the signal!"
"Yessir! Heave-ho!! Turn to the right!"
[flutter-flutter- flutter-]
A great red pirate flag slowly ascended, buffeted by the wind, and at the same time, the signalman, frantically waving red and blue flags toward the ships stretched out behind the flagship, shouted himself hoarse, the veins on his neck bulging.
[Rumble- kaboom-! Al-lah!]
Just then, beyond the majestic thunderclap, the sounds of the Saracen pirates preparing for battle could be heard.
Amidst all that chaos, Alfred smiled with a blood-chilling grin.
☆☆☆☆☆Reference☆☆☆☆☆
Nevit Dilmen, CC BY-SA 3.0 <http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/>, via Wikimedia Commons
It's the Bridge pose lol
And the poem Inga sang.
Ósnotr maðr
hyggr sér alla vera
viðhlæjendr vini
hitki hann fiðr
þótt þeir um hann fár lesi
ef hann með snotrum sitr
It was taken from a collection of poems called Hávamál lolol... I'll attach more detailed material on this in the next chapter...!