269. Faith (3).
A child was born! Thank you, Hel!
Thank you for keeping my wife and child safe! Just, thank you for everything! I had to go to the Temple of Hel today—the one I hadn't visited in a while—with a generous donation!
My wife Inga, who normally never cared for raspberries—to my eyes she was nothing but lovely—once she carried our second child, she developed a strange craving for raspberries, so we had named the unborn baby Sweet.
It was the 9th century. Not terribly dark, but in an era often called the Dark Ages, the only methods to determine an unborn child's sex were all sorts of superstitions and the intuition of an experienced midwife. Having one son already, I had hoped for a daughter this time.
A slightly smaller chubby baby than the great king-sized lump Sigmarr had been came forth into the world, and I faintly heard its mighty roar.
"Waaah-! Waaah-! Waeh-! Waeh-!"
Unlike me, who had fallen into a panic from the moment her water broke, Inga had moved with the indifference of a brave lioness, given me a kiss with a "I'll be back," and then strode boldly into the forbidden zone. In what felt like less than five minutes, she had brought a new life whole into this world.
"What!? Is it out!? Is it out!? My second nephew is born into this world!!"
"Ub-ub-uweeeeng-!"
"Eueu-euaaaang!"
"Looks like it's out! What! Is it a boy! A girl! Helgi! Is it a son!? A daughter!?"
'How the hell should I know.'
Still, unlike me—who, while keeping calmer than when Sigmarr was born, was tracking the sounds beyond the sturdy door and stone walls with my acute hearing—Halfdan and Sigurdeu, whose entire families had come to Árós to see our stepmother upon the news of Inga's impending labor, were flailing about with bewildered eyes.
Then the newborns burst out crying all at once: Halfdan's daughter Eydis and Sigurdeu's son Hardaknut.
Waaah! Waaah! Waaaah! Waaaah!
Hardaknut, around two and a half, and Eydis, around one and a half, cried at the drop of a hat, and they seemed to have grown even more sorrowful now because their fathers were making a ruckus.
Watching these adorable nephews, I felt once again that Sigmarr, who was staring with an extremely serious expression at the door Inga had gone through from within my arms, was anything but ordinary.
Sigmarr's age was now about one and three-quarters.
"Hey, both of you, be still. Why are you making such a fuss like people seeing a birth for the first time? You'd do well to maintain some dignity as Jarl and as head of a household."
Ivar, watching Halfdan and Sigurdeu careen about, shook his head from side to side. Each time his head turned, the light caught it and flashed brilliantly—a dizzying sight.
And as with most brothers in this world, the elder's rebuke was often met with the younger's defiance. Halfdan and Sigurdeu, their faces flushed, turned their heads sharply as if about to snap back at Ivar, but—
seeing Ivar's gleaming pate, they soon wore pitying expressions and, abandoning whatever they were about to say, clamped their mouths shut.
"W-what!? You bastards! What's with those looks!? You think you won't go bald!? You think yours will stay lush forever!? And don't you see Helgi over there, he shaved his head!? Don't you feel anything seeing that!? You third and fourth sons are worse than the youngest! My bald comrades throughout the North Sea won't let you get away with—!"
"Father, please calm down. The babies are listening."
"Hahaha..."
Ivar was having a fit and foaming at the mouth, Baldr was trying to calm him, and beside them, Erik—Björn's first son and our eldest nephew—was laughing awkwardly.
Truly, I could not hide my shame. Why did our brothers always turn things into a madhouse the moment three or more of them gathered?
Shaking off the headache that was creeping up on me, I saw the forbidden door, which had been shut like an iron fortress, open before me.
At the appearance of our stepmother, a white cloth upon her head, the worthless fathers behind me deflated instantly; unlike them, only the grandchildren who found Grandma not so scary kept crying.
"Helgi."
"Mother."
My stepmother gently took hold of my Örn-hand. Her gaze upon me held both happiness and pride. Without further words, I followed her guiding hand, and soon my own mother opened the door to the inner chamber and came out.
Then, without a word, Mother Asta, her eyes slightly reddened, embraced the body of her son who had grown too large. Though her arms were slender, they were the widest, most vast embrace in the world to me. As I leaned my head into that embrace, Sigmarr, who was in my left arm, also whined and threw his arms around his grandmother's neck.
"Gramma~ hold me~"
"There, there, come here, Sigmarr."
Sigmarr, having scooted right into Grandma's arms, looked utterly at ease. Though his weight must have been considerable, Mother showed no sign of discomfort, and she gestured for me to go inside.
Hoo- haa- Let's do one more. Hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo- fweeeewwww-
With two deep breaths, I steadied my anxious heart, and placing my palm against the slightly open door to the inner chamber, I slowly stepped inside.
The space was filled with the scent of life. As the hardworking midwives and servants hurriedly moved about, tidying up, on the bed that had been made generously large to suit Inga's tall stature, the most beautiful person in the world held the most beautiful living creature in her arms and looked at me.
"Helgi."
"Inga."
Using the sound of my name as a landmark, I took each step, and the increasingly close visual stimulus diligently assaulted my cerebral cortex.
What was I even saying? Honestly, I didn't care about the cerebral cortex's actions at all. Had my brain already started to break? Had I briefly derailed because I couldn't handle such an intense stimulus?
[Srrk-]
I sat in the large chair the servants had placed beside the bed and stroked Inga's arm—that precious arm that held our second child, Sweet, in its embrace.
And as I looked at the tiny, delicate creature in her arms, its cry was just as loud as the nephews outside.
"Waaah! Waaah! Waaah!"
Rather than pitiful or heartbreaking, the cry seemed to declare fiercely that the little one had finally come alive into this world, so my chest swelled with pride and my eyes stung a little.
"Wah- Grammy! Lil sib. My lil sib."
"Yes, Sigmarr. Our Sigmarr, that's your little sibling, isn't it? Oh my, how wonderful, our grandchild!"
Under Grandma's skilled attack on both of Sigmarr's chubby cheeks and belly, Sigmarr let out a cute laugh, but his eyes remained fixed on his little sibling's large head, never moving.
"Helgi. Our Sweet, now please give him a name."
At Inga's softly smiling voice, I came to my senses a little, tilted my head, and spoke to the crying Sweet.
"Randulfr. Your name is Randulfr, my son."
I had actually wanted to give the child the name Ragnar. A name that was called a great Konungr, hailed as a hero, yet reigned as terror to those beyond the sea. But in my memory, he was a father who fished by the river with me, gave me a toy wooden sword, and revealed his hidden anguish.
I had wanted to pass on that man's name.
But I let it go. Because bestowing too great a name would only place a pointless burden on this child. Instead, I took just the first sound that honored my father and gave him a new name.
Randulfr. Rǫnd shield, Wulf wolf. Become one who fiercely protects what is precious.
"Randulfr, our Sweet. My son Randulfr."
"Randulfr, my son."
"Waaah~! Waaah~! Wah-ah~ Waaah~! Waaah~!"
"Grandma! My little brother! Randulfr! My little brother!"
Mother's voice, soothing Sigmarr as he squirmed and stretched his arms toward his little brother. And Randulfr's voice, crying earnestly. With those sounds as our backdrop, Inga and I pressed our foreheads together and laughed.
*****
The birth of Fylkir Helgi Ragnarsson's second son, Randolf Helgison.
While this big news, hot topic, a nuclear bomb that sounded the alarm to the loosened North Sea and Western European social circles, spread in real time across the North Sea Empire and lands beyond, the Fylkir's palace bustled with activity.
"Mjǫll! Is the meal for Hamburg's Jarl Sigurdeu and his wife being prepared!?"
"I'll check!"
"Nanna! The baby's tub and hot water!?"
"It's ready!"
Everywhere, the swift-footed and quick-handed servants of the palace moved as if flying, hurrying about their tasks.
"Svíarr! The Jarl from the eastern village is coming again, I hear!"
"Eastern village? How many villages are there to the east of Árós!?"
"I don't really know either! But they said so, so let's prepare a seat!"
"Why are there so many Jarls in this land!?"
"Fálki! The city guard said to recheck the guest list!"
"Why check it again!?"
"Someone not on the list came to the west gate, they said!"
"This is like a cartload of dung...! I'll go!"
The Huskarls in charge of guarding the Fylkir's palace were also busy in their own way, checking the movement paths of the VIPs, attending to palace guidance and seating arrangements.
It was a sight where work increased proportionally as the North Sea and Árós grew in size. The fortunate thing was that the recruitment of personnel continued steadily. Still, the daily life of a palace where all eyes of a vast empire converged could be called a battle every single day.
Of course, all this was irrelevant to those attending as honored guests. Erik Bjornsson sat beside the long, great central hearth that burned crackling—tak-tak—and took in the palace scenery with his eyes.
The eldest son of Björn the Steadfast, this Jarl who effectively ruled the area around Rouen Fortress called Suthrland, watched the bustling people with eyes full of pity.
'This year's harvest festival would be noisy, overlapping with Randulfr's birth. Fylkir's Hill would get even busier.'
Did Erik not know the suffering of this palace's people? Though he had crossed over to Rouen Fortress at his father's request and the Fylkir's advice and was toiling plenty, in truth, he had been even busier when he was in Árós.
Because the North Sea was a new empire that far surpassed the concepts of kingdoms or petty states that the Northmen had imagined in the past, and it fell entirely to Jarl Hrolf and his administrators to present the central path and guide the vacillating local lords.
Of course, the Fylkir's overwhelming ability was the most crucial factor in the birth of the North Sea Empire that had established its systems in just five years, but the efforts of administrative talents like Hrolf, Erik, and Baldr were also woven into it.
"What are you thinking about, brother?"
"Hm? Ah—Refil, it's been a while."
"Yes. It's the first time since the last wedding."
"Haha. Time has gone by that quickly. You've become even more gallant since getting married."
"Come on. I'm still a foolish young one."
"Hahaha!"
A man who looked similar had slipped into the seat beside Erik, who had been recalling his previous impression, carrying his own tray and utensils; it was Refil, Erik's brother.
Among the sons of Ragnar, who were known for their colorful personalities, Björn was renowned for being solemn and taciturn, and his two sons Erik and Refil, heavily influenced by him, also possessed serious natures, so the brothers' conversation had a very decorous feel.
"I was just thinking that the people of this palace must be terribly busy. Since the Fylkir probably won't show himself much from now on, it's only the innocent palace folk who are busy attending to all sorts of guests, I suppose."
The Fylkir's love for his family was known to everyone in the North Sea. So much so that he would shave his own head for his elder brother?
Erik cherished and loved not only his father but also his younger brother dearly, but if he were told to shave his head for Refil...? That would truly be a difficult decision.
"Well, the Fylkir's palace, isn't busyness its daily routine? With the three uncles (Ivar, Halfdan, Sigurdeu) and the nephews, and the Jarls and Konungrs who will come in slowly... It really seems like we'll have to be as quiet as a dead mouse for the time being."
The phrase 'dead mouse.' A phrase that was heard often here and there these days. To Erik, who vividly remembered the times when the neighbors' children froze to death or starved to death when a harsh winter came, it was a truly unfamiliar sentence. It was a phrase that had naturally come into use as the Fylkir's fury over swarms of rats teeming in the granaries and his intense reaction toward those beasts frequently collided.
Still young, Erik felt anew that the world had changed, and he carefully smoothed his hair with the comb his wife had given him.
"Maybe if it were me, handling administrative duties in far-off Suthrland, I wouldn't know, but you, Refil, the commander of Norrland, couldn't stay as quiet as a dead mouse."
Refil, who had just taken a large bite of thinly sliced meat and bread, his eyes grew round as if asking what that meant.
"Thirty-seven? Thirty-eight? Haven't you rested enough nights by now? Right from this winter, massive preparations will begin. We'll prepare supplies, and of course, training. And once winter ends, Father and Jarl Hestein will move personally, I imagine."
And perhaps the Fylkir himself might move. He did not add that last part.