Your little boy didn't want to walk. Maybe, in a way, that was a good thing. He should have been walking months ago. But months ago, Hvitserk was on a raid with his brother Bjorn. So perhaps in a way that it was ideal that he was still crawling about with his tunic fixed on his body and a dopey smile on his lips everytime you told him to stand up. He would stand up with his father or you, but never to walk alone.
"He won't, I'm telling you." You mumble as you slip your knife to slice through vegetables.
"Come here, come to your fadir." Hvitserk was bent low on the ground, furs still placed around his neck from where he had just come in. His son's eyes, more reminiscent of his grandfather's than Hvitserk's, crawled forward with a rippling cackle. Hvitserk drops back onto his ass with a sigh.
"Why does he not want to walk?" Hvitserk grumbles as the little boy settles himself over his legs, making it a quaint little game to crawl over as if he were sailing through his legs like waves. Hvitserk smelled of the salty air and, yes, sweat. Even you wouldn't touch him now. As his little son ran to his toys of wooden figurines, Hvitserk stood up, coming behind you and moving in close. His calloused hands sweep over your waist.
"He'll walk in his own time." You say otherwise unaffected, continuing your pace of cutting. Hvitserk grunts, kissing the top of your head. He then shifts to the side of your cheek and jaw, drifting lower and lower until he comes upon neck. The knife clatters of your hands, drifting your hand back to trace his woven braids with a hum when it hits you.
It's quiet. Far, far, far too quiet.
"Siarr?" You move away from Hvitserk, bopping his hands across your waist and turning to where your son should have been. Except as you lean over the area you worked in, you're frozen by the sight of little Siarr. His chubby little feet hold him upright, toes flat against the ground when usually he would try his best to tippy toe when you held his hand. Hvitserk still tries to give you a kiss when you smack him.
"Siarr!" You shout to catch Hvitserk's attention. The little boy bends his knees slightly, almost as if he was about to drop that round little butt on the ground.
"No no no, it's okay baby. C'mere." You try to coax him forward, honey blond hair flat against his forehead. Hvitserk drops down to his knees, smacking you with his hand to do the same. You quickly oblige. Rather than follow after you however, Siar takes his first true steps in an unspecified direction toward a fat, fluffy dog called Hylli.
"Siarr come back to your fadir!" You try to catch his attention. Inevitably he loses his balance, falling head first into the dog's fluffy stomach. Hylli's head snaps forward, snout peeking against the boy's head for a wet lick. Siarr breaks out into hysterics almost immediately and was snatched up by his father, who whines against his chest despite trying to reach out for you.
"He did it!" Hvitserk shrieked, running around the room as if he was the one that just took his first steps. Your little son's hysterics turn into bubbly laughter that mirrors Hvitserk's own. He hops around you, taking your wrist to spin you into his chest.
"Of course he did it." You peck a kiss to his lips.
"He is walking!" Hvitserk jumps. The infectious energy he spills over takes you over like a plague, dancing and hopping with him like an idiot too. The house is shaking and Hylli barks, woof after woof turning anyone's eyes to the young prince's home. With Hvitserk home, it was just another day living beside the ridiculous prince.
