The snow fell in heavy sheets beyond the longhouse, piling high against the timber walls and muffling the world outside. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of burning pine, sweat, and the sharp, metallic tang of blood. You laid on a bed of furs, your body gripped by the relentless pain of childbirth. Your hair clung to your forehead, damp with effort, and your hands clutched the wool beneath you as another contraction tore through you. The women of the tribe surrounded you, their faces lit by the flickering hearth: Astrid, the healer with hands like knotted oak; Gudrun, broad-shouldered and stern, her eyes sharp with focus; Sigrid, whose deft fingers had delivered half the babes in the village; and young Freya, barely sixteen, wide-eyed but eager to prove herself. They moved with practiced purpose, their voices a low hum of encouragement and ancient chants to Freya-the-goddess, pleading for strength and mercy.

A year ago, you had been no one to these women—a spoil of war, dragged from your green homeland across the sea after the Viking raid that burned her village to ash. The chieftain, Torvald, had spared you from the thrall’s chains, his ice-blue eyes lingering on your defiance even as you stood trembling among the captives. He’d claimed you as his bride. You, a foreigner with a lilting tongue and gods of your own, and him, a man carved from the harsh stone of this frozen island, his life ruled by axe and oath.

The twins inside you were impatient, their coming swift and unyielding. “Breathe, girl,” Astrid rasped, pressing a cool cloth to your brow. You’d heard the women whisper that twins were a rare gift, a sign of the gods’ favor, but also a danger. Not all mothers survived. Not all babes did either.

“The first is coming,” Sigrid said as she knelt between your legs. Gudrun stood ready with a clean woolen cloth, while Freya stoked the fire, her hands trembling slightly. The women’s chants grew louder, a rhythm to anchor you. The first boy came in a rush, his cry sharp and defiant, cutting through the haze of pain. Sigrid lifted him, red and writhing, his tiny fists flailing as if already eager for a fight. “A warrior,” she said, passing him to Gudrun, who wrapped him tightly and laid him near the hearth to keep warm.

There was no pause, no mercy. The second babe was coming, and he was stubborn. The second boy emerged, quieter than his brother, his first breath a soft whimper. Sigrid worked quickly, clearing his mouth, rubbing his back until his cries joined the chorus. Freya took him, her young face glowing with relief as she swaddled him.

You collapsed against the furs, your chest heaving, your body spent but alive. The women moved with quiet efficiency, cutting cords, cleaning the babes, and checking you for tearing. Gudrun brought the twins to you, placing one in each arm. They were small, warm, their blue eyes searching your face. Your sons. Yours. A tether to this strange, cold land that was now her home.

The longhouse door burst open, letting in a gust of snow and wind that made the fire sputter. The women stiffened, hands slipping to the knives at their belts, but the figure in the doorway was no raider. Torvald, chieftain of the Iron Fjord, stood there, his fur cloak dusted with snow, his long hair crusted with ice from the sea crossing. His axe hung heavy across his back, and his face was etched with the exhaustion of war. He’d been gone months, leading a raid on distant shores, seeking gold and glory to secure the tribe’s future. No one had expected him back so soon—not in this storm, not with the seas half-frozen.

He stepped inside, his boots thudding on the packed-earth floor, and the women parted like a tide. His eyes found yours, then the bundles in your arms. For a moment, he was still, his expression unreadable beneath the grime of battle. Then he crossed the room in long strides, dropping to his knees beside her. “Wife,” he said, his voice rough from shouting orders over waves and blades. “You’ve… done this?” His gaze flicked to the twins, and something softened in his face.

(WIP)