“I Can’t Bear Children,” She Told Giant Viking — He Grinned, “My Five Sons Already Love You”
Chapter 6
The cottage had never been so full.
Five boys and their father, crowded into a space designed for one solitary woman — and yet, somehow, it felt more like home than it had in seven years.
Leif claimed the spot nearest the fire, spreading out his salvaged belongings with the territorial instinct of a young wolf. Bjorn organized the sleeping arrangements with military precision, assigning corners and blankets with an authority that made his father smile. Eric helped Brinhild prepare a simple meal, his movements careful and deliberate, as if he was trying to prove he could be useful. Olaf hovered near the herbs drying from the rafters, asking quiet questions about which plants treated which ailments.
And Ulf, exhausted from the ordeal, fell asleep in Brinhild’s arms before the stew was finished cooking.
She sat by the fire, holding him, watching his face relax into dreams. The wooden horse was gone — lost to the wreckage of the hall — but he still slept with his hand curled as if holding it, his fingers twitching occasionally in remembered grip.
The other boys eventually settled, their chatter fading into the steady rhythm of breathing. Bjorn snored. Leif talked in his sleep. Olaf curled into a tight ball, as if trying to take up as little space as possible. Eric lay awake for a long time, staring at the ceiling, his young mind wrestling with worries he was too proud to voice.
And Hal sat across from Brinhild, his back against the wall, watching her with an expression she couldn’t quite name.
“You’re good with them,” he said quietly. “Natural.”
“I’ve had practice.” She shifted Ulf’s weight in her arms. “I used to dream about this, you know. Filling this cottage with children. Aar and I talked about it constantly — how many we wanted, what we’d name them, how we’d raise them.”
“What did you decide?”
“Three. Maybe four. Aar wanted a son first.” She smiled at the memory. “He said he needed someone to teach how to carve.”
“And then the fever came.”
“And then the fever came.”
The fire crackled between them, filling the silence with its warm voice. Outside, the wind was beginning to die down, the worst of the storm passing.
“Can I show you something?” she asked.
He nodded.
She shifted Ulf carefully, settling him against a cushion, then rose and crossed to her wooden chest. She opened it slowly, lifting layers of folded linens, until her fingers found what she was searching for.
A small leather pouch, tied with a faded ribbon.
She brought it back to the fire and sat down, opening the pouch with hands that trembled slightly. Inside were three objects: a tiny silver bracelet, a lock of dark hair tied with thread, and a folded piece of parchment yellowed with age.
“My mother made this bracelet for her first grandchild,” she said, holding up the silver band. “She died before Aar and I even married. She never knew the child never came.”
She set it aside and picked up the lock of hair. “This was Aar’s. I cut it the night he died. I told myself it was to remember him, but I think — I think I needed something physical to hold onto.”
Finally, she unfolded the parchment. Her hands were steady now, as if she’d made peace with whatever the paper contained.
“I found this in Aar’s things after he died. He must have written it during his last winter, when he knew he wouldn’t recover.”
She read aloud, her voice barely above a whisper:
*”My dearest Brinhild,*
*If you’re reading this, I’m gone. I’m sorry I couldn’t stay longer. I would have given anything for more time with you.*
*But I need you to know something: the greatest joy of my life wasn’t the children we didn’t have. It was the years we did. You made me happier than any man deserves to be, and if our time was shorter than we hoped, it was still more than enough to fill my entire heart.*
*Don’t spend the rest of your life missing me. Spend it finding reasons to smile.*
*I’ll be watching. And I’ll be proud.*”
She folded the letter carefully, pressing it to her chest for a moment before returning it to the pouch.
“He knew,” she said softly. “He knew I would struggle to move on. He knew I would bury myself in grief and call it loyalty. So he wrote me permission to be happy.”
“What are you going to do with it?” Hal asked.
She looked across the fire at him — at his storm-blue eyes, his weathered face, his callused hands that had held her so gently. Then she looked at the five boys sleeping around her hearth, their young faces peaceful in the firelight.
“I’m going to honor it,” she said.