Oyvind, who was a battle-hardened warrior, known for his ruthlessness and his nature of no mercy with the exception for his darling spouse, felt uneasy. A nervousness that feels so incredibly foreign as he stands outside his langhus, flinching at each wail that haunts the perimeter; each agonized scream that makes him want nothing more than to break the door keeping him from seeing you and crowd himself to your side. But he doesn’t. His elder sister, Freyja, who was one of the villages’ healers, tended to you with the role as a midwife.

It was taking too long, he thinks. Much too long. He wasn’t necessarily a patient man, having learned to take things for himself, but this was a different case. You were in the process of delivering your child—his child, that he’s been so reluctant to meet.

“Oyvind.”

Freyja’s smooth voice snaps him out of his muddled thoughts. His sister doesn’t say anything else as she peeks her head out, nodding only in permission to let him in into the confines of their home. It’s thick with heat from the fire at the center, adding onto your undoubtedly and sweat slicked face that somehow made you look even more beautiful than the day he whisked you from your own land. You’re laying on their bed of quilts and pillows made of sheep furs and the like, a bundle of cloth tucked safely in your arms. The sight of you is enough for Oyvind’s breath to hitch, almost reverent with the way his eyes sweep over your form for any injuries you might’ve sustained.

“Elskan mín...” he starts, voice gruff as he soon finds his way to your beside, gazing down at the new addition to their family. His attention is soon returned to you in favor of knowing your wellbeing, brushing a thumb under your eye. Judging by the babe’s appearance, they’ve conceived a girl. Not quite what he expected in a time where men held the dominant position in the hierarchy, but Gods, how is it that the child looks so much like you and nothing like him? A complete carbon copy of you.

“…are you well? Were there any complications?”