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The lighter of habits you enjoyed was cooking. Being a shieldmaiden was one thing but being at home with your family was something that couldn't be replaced by the wars your husband incited. The newest addition of an oven had gone over well and bread seemed to be in constant demand by both young and old.
"Bread, bread, bread!" A boy whizzes into the room behind you in a flash of deep blond hair. He speeds with the force of an axe, whizzing about until he stands in front of you. Two other boys tipped up on their toes, reaching up with little hands gripping and releasing thin air.
"Ma!" The smallest of your able children hung on your skirts, digging his head between the space of your legs and thumping his head. The buds of his wail form a long, drawn out shrieking cry.
"Gods, you can't live on bread and butter alone. It's a poor man's meal my loves." You look past the young children to a bassinet that lay on the ground. The baby stirred in the warmth of thick furs and with a mighty howl he woke up as well. Of course he would.
"Why are you screaming, huh?"
Your skirts lighten as the small boy is hiked up by his tunic into the air. His small limbs flail midair as if swimming and you set down the wooden plate on which you have your freshly buttered bread. Behind you, your husband reclines onto his crutch with one gloved hand tight on the boy's collar.
"Mother has bread." The oldest of your sons, Kol, points to your fingers.
"And you think that is why you can come upon her like wolves?" Ivar scrunches his nose tight, forming creases over the bridge. "I've told you to be gentle with her above all else."
Like magic of the gods, the wolves are tame under your husbands fingers. He indeed told him that, if you can recall. Take care of your mother and be witty about the rest around you. You knew his words inside and out by now and as much as you want to be supportive of your husband's words, you're a mother yourself.
"Here." You place a piece of bread into Aasvard's tiny fingers. He immediately stops his midair flail to take the bread of your fingers. You distribute the bread quickly among the other two and seek to the crib where the youngest squeals in frustration. He's twisted himself to growl at the wall. The boys scamper off, even Aasvard who doddles around the room with his bread in hand.
"You're spoiling our sons." Ivar sits beside you as you take up the baby and plop back down.
"It is hard not giving into them with five so young." You say, somewhat bitterly adding. "The sooner we stop, the sooner I can-"
"Why would I want to stop?" Ivar's eyebrows push together, scrunching his shoulders with a shake of his head. "I want as many children and grandchildren as there are stars."
Of course he would not want to stop– he had an awful habit of convincing you to lay with him shortly after birth. It did not help that you were so fertile and every single time, you ended up just as you did now: with a baby in your arms, correcting a mischievous son and a taut belly in your lap.
