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Helga breathes heavily, air shaking through her lungs, while Thors sits beside her. He rests a hand on her forehead, skin burning under his palm.
She sleeps restlessly on a hastily made palliasse, under the roof of a small tent Thors’ had set up the moment their boat hit land. They hadn’t left with much, but Thors has always been confident in his survival skills, he knew what he’d need to bring and what he’d be able to gather and make while on the move.
He glances past Helga, watching Ylva’s body rise and fall lightly in her blanket-filled basket. She babbles incoherently in her sleep, wiggling under her blanket.
Thors shifts, ringing out a cool wet cloth out in the grass underfoot. He swipes damp blonde hair from his wife's forehead, replacing it with the cloth. His heart aches in his chest as Helga’s closed eyes wince.
He runs his fingers through her hair, Thors knows he shouldn’t get too close. But in that moment, all he wants is to be near her, comfort the woman who left everything she’d ever known to be with him.
Helga didn’t have a place in Jomsborg other than being the chieftains daughter, so while it may not have been too hard to part with the place, her family is still there. The Jomsvikings is the only world she’s ever known, and he took her from that. She had agreed, even encouraging them both to leave but he can’t help the way his guts twists at the thought of her giving up her home to run away with him.
Ylva stirs, twisting her head from side to side as Thors sits next to Helga. The baby begins to paw at the edges of the basket. He stands, walking hastily to the baby now wide awake.
“Hello dear,” He mutters, Ylva looks up at him with wide dusty blue eyes. He hesitates, putting a hand on her head for a moment before picking the baby up. Thors squints his eyes as he tries to remember all the little details Helga gave him on how to properly hold her. Ylva’s chubby face suddenly falls, tears begin to tumble down her cheeks.
“No, no,” Thors glances over to his sleeping wife, who stirs, but doesn’t wake. He raises his daughter, keeping one hand supporting her neck (he’ll never forget the scolding he got for that), while the other keeps her tucked to his chest. He starts to bounce her, lightly shushing as he goes. “It’s alright Ylva, don’t cry.”
Thors has always hated holding Ylva, not because he didn’t love his child. She’s just so fragile. Helga has explained over and over how to best hold an infant but that’s never lessened his hesitation, one wrong move and he could hurt her.
The thought is enough to make him physically sick. His eyes soften, no matter how much Helga insists he won’t squeeze too tight or push a little too hard while playing with her, there’s always the part of his brain that scares him into keeping his distance from Ylva.
Ylva twists in his arms, tears tumbling down her face, her cheeks flushing a deep red. Thors’ shoulders tighten, he starts to shush her a little more while rubbing her back.
“Ylva please,” He whispers.
“She’s probably just hungry,” a small voice comes from behind him, and Thors winces. He wanted to keep Helga asleep. “There's a bottle of goat's milk in the bag, I don’t want to get her sick.”
She smiles softly, while her eyes look up at him unfocused. He sighs, eyes drooping while taking in his wife. He hates how small she looks, how delicate, as if one knock from the wind would shatter her.
Because the woman he knew would stand up to the wind like a mountain. In just the short time Thors has seen her in a romantic light, she amazed him in ways he could never explain.
He turns, holding Ylva to his chest, he searches the bag they’d thrown together before leaving Jomsborg. He finds the tin bottle under a spare baby blanket, Helga shifts, turning to lay on her side, blanket pulled up to her chin.
“I packed a bronze vessel with it.” Again, he digs through the leather bag before pulling out a clay pot. One side is a handle while the other is a spout. “Have her drink through it slowly.”
Thors nods silently, setting the still sobbing infant down for a moment to prepare a midnight snack. He furrows his brows, putting far too much focus into not spilling the baby’s food.
Ylva thrashes in her anger, kicking out her feet. Hitting Thors’ arm lightly, he flinches, spilling a bit of the milk onto the grass below him. He grumbles, shaking his head and Helga shifts, moving the blanket off herself. She kneels on wobbly legs, reaching a hand out to rest on her husband’s shoulder.
“Thors.”
He turns his head as Helga moves to rest her palm on his cheek. His eyes meet hers for a moment before he leans lightly into the touch. He loved hearing her say his name, no malice, no strict orders, and no unimaginable expectations. Just Thors.
She moves her hand, Thors mourns the missing touch for a moment, before Helga gently takes the vessel from him. He holds the tin bottle, tipping it lightly while Helga raises the vessel to catch the milk. She hands the vessel back to her husband, and tilts her head towards their daughter.
“Hold it up to her mouth, have her drink it slowly.” He follows her directions, scooping up the still crying infant, he tips the vessel for Ylva to drink and she starts to calm down, the tears beginning to ebb.
“You’re a wonderful father,” Thors tightens at the compliment. “Once we’re far away from Jomsborg, you’ll be able to embrace the peace.
“I hope so,” He says finally. Thors values her words, but cannot fully accept them. How could he possibly be a good father after everything he took from so many people. Countless children, rendered parentless because of him.
Thors bounces Ylva lightly as she drinks, wiping tears from her reddened cheeks. After draining most of the vessel, Ylva shakes her head and babbles loudly.
“You can set her down now,” Helga shifts herself away from the two, instinctively. “She’ll fall asleep herself, apparently she’s not as fussy as other babies.”
Thors moves, tucking the babbling baby under her blanket, pressing a kiss to her forehead. He turns back to his wife, sitting on the grass below them. He scoops her up, Helga instinctively putting a hand to his chest.
“You should be resting too. You’ll get better faster that way,”
“You’re too kind to me,” Helga chuckles softly as Thors lowers her down onto the palliasse. He shakes his head, pulling the blanket back up to cover her.
“Not at all,” He rests his forehead against hers for a moment. “You, my love, are far too good for me.”
An unspoken silence befalls the two. Thors isn’t exactly a guiltless man, and this woman, with a heart pure as gold, found a way to love him. He doesn’t deserve that.
“Now, sleep,” He presses a kiss to Helga’s cheek. She crinkles her nose and lightly pushes him away.
“You’ll get sick alongside me,” her eyes droop slightly.
“Can’t have that now can we?” Thors whispers, standing up straight, taking a few steps back towards the basket that carried a babbling baby. “I’ll stay up a bit longer, just to keep watch.”
Helga hums, closing her eyes and breathing in deeply. Thors brushes the back of his finger across Ylva’s cheek as she swats at him with her tiny limbs.
Maybe he didn’t deserve the woman at his side or the new life he helped create, but now people depended on him. People who loved him, not people who only valued him for his skill with a sword. And he’d hold onto the honor of loving them back for as long as he possibly could.