Vikings Drabbles

⤭ ice ice baby

a family day of ice fishing yields a question and a surprise. or a short tale of domestic life with Ragnar. inspired by Jasper Pääkkönen's Instagram stories with Travis.

THE DARK WATERS have turned to a sheet of white-and-black ice, stretching out into the horizon, past where the fjord widens, and the inlet spills into the Northern Sea. Long past is the warm days of summer —now there is only the cold bite of the whipping wind and dancing blue-green lights in the winter skies. A part of you yearns for warmer weather —a home where the water does not freeze each night and plants do not shrivel away until the kiss of spring. Ragnar tells you such places exist to the west, and one day, you will sail there with him. Until then, you must keep the land and pray the gods are merciful enough to make this winter shorter and gentler than the last.

It's with a soft groan you wake, stirring to the sound of your son and daughter pattering about, already bickering over something so early. You know there are chores to be done, and neither you nor your husband will be able to remain tucked away for much longer, but you'll take the moment, however long it may last. Shifting, you press your face into Ragnar's chest. Though his laugh is quiet, you can feel it rumble from deep in his stomach —or maybe it is a hunger pang. His arms tighten around your middle, chin resting atop the crown of your head. "Your children are awake," Ragnar mutters, his words laced with mirth as he sees Hjalmarr chasing after Björn.

"They're not mine when they're like this," you tell him. Your children are well-behaved, not rambunctious demons sent from Helheim to terrorize the last minutes of the morning's peace and quiet. Sighing, you roll onto your back —looking up at the rafters of the small home and then to Ragnar. His gaze, clear and blue like the summer skies, is focused on you with the beginnings of a smile tugging at his lips. He props up his head on a bent arm, thinking of what he can do for the day to lessen your burdens.

BREAKFAST IS A bowl of porridge with salted herring and dried wild berries from the last days of summer. Ragnar sets aside his empty bowl, washing down the last bite with watered ale, then leans forward on the table toward Björn and Hjalmarr sitting opposite you and him. He's finally settled on what it is he can do to give you some time to yourself. "Let's go fishing," he says. With the snowpack, fresh fish could be kept for days on end to fill all your bellies, and extra could always be salted, dried, and added to the reserves. They both grin, hurriedly devouring the remaining porridge and clambering over one another for their winter furs and cloaks.

A few days ago, there'd been heavy snow that'd kept everyone cooped up inside, and since the storm passed, Björn and Hjalmarr had been anxious to get outside again —or visit their uncle. Ragnar gathers the fishing line, lures, and two axes, placing everything in a woven basket to carry down to the inlet. You drape his winter cloak over his shoulders, securing the tie and clasp under his chin, biding him good luck with a kiss on the cheek. Then you turn to your son and daughter, kissing their foreheads too. They frown, hoping you would have gone with them. "Won't you come, mother?" Hjalmarr asks. Her eyes —a mirror reflection of her father's— are wide and pleading, and it's impossible to say no.

Ragnar treads out onto the ice first, tapping a walking stick before each step, then waves to the shore once he's far enough out, beckoning you and the children to follow. Björn and Hjalmarr carry a sturdy stick, tapping the ice as they go, just as their father did. Before cutting a hole in the ice, Ragnar lays out the piece of twine, unknotting it in places, then spaces out the wooden lures —hand-carved chips of bark and scraps from Floki's shipyard shaped into small fishes and writhing worms— and hooks. He begins securing each one on the line with a loop, showing Björn and Hjalmarr. It's not the first time they've been ice fishing, but with time all lessons could fade from memory.