Ragnar's first year passed in a blur of small moments.
Kaelan catalogued each one like a miser counting gold. The first time Ragnar rolled over. The first time he laughed—a real laugh, bubbling up from somewhere deep. The first time he reached for his father's face, small fingers grasping at Kaelan's nose with surprising strength.
"He's going to be a warrior," Bjorn declared, watching the baby attack a wooden toy with fierce concentration. "Look at that grip. Look at that determination."
"He's trying to eat the toy," Sigrid pointed out.
"Same thing at his age. Warriors eat their enemies."
Kaelan laughed. He laughed more now than he ever had in his old life. It surprised him sometimes, the sound of his own joy. But he couldn't help it. This small creature had rewired something in him, opened a door he hadn't known was closed.
Ragnar noticed when his father was happy. He always turned toward the sound of Kaelan's laugh, his blue eyes wide and curious, as if trying to understand what made this giant man produce such strange noises.
"He knows you," Sigrid said one night, watching them together. "He knows when you're near. He relaxes."
Kaelan looked at his son, asleep in his arms. The tiny chest rose and fell. The small face was peaceful.
"I know the feeling," he said quietly.
---
The second year brought movement.
Ragnar crawled first—a determined scoot that took him across the longhouse floor with surprising speed. Then he pulled himself up on furniture, on people, on anything that would hold his weight. He stood, wobbling, arms outstretched, a look of intense concentration on his face.
Then he fell.
And tried again.
And fell again.
And tried again.
Kaelan watched this cycle with a mixture of pride and sympathy. He wanted to help, to steady his son, to prevent the falls. But Sigrid stopped him.
"He has to learn," she said. "Falling is part of it. Getting up is the important part."
So Kaelan watched. And Ragnar fell. And got up. And fell again.
The first step came on a warm summer evening.
The family sat outside the longhouse, enjoying the last of the daylight. Ragnar stood near his mother, holding onto her leg for balance. Kaelan sat a few feet away, watching.
Ragnar looked at his father. Then at the space between them. Then back at his father.
He let go of Sigrid's leg.
For a moment, he stood alone, wobbling. Then he took a step. Then another. Then he was walking—stumbling, really, arms out for balance—straight toward Kaelan.
Kaelan caught him as he fell, sweeping him up into his arms.
"Did you see that?" he asked, his voice thick. "Did you see him walk?"
Sigrid was already there, her eyes bright. "I saw. Our boy is growing up."
Ragnar, oblivious to the momentousness of his achievement, grabbed a fistful of Kaelan's hair and yanked.
Kaelan laughed through the pain. "Worth it."
---
That winter brought a new challenge.
Ragnar fell ill.
It started with a cough, then a fever, then days of listlessness that terrified Kaelan more than any battle ever had. He sat by his son's side constantly, refusing to eat or sleep, watching the small chest rise and fall.
Gudrun tended the boy with calm expertise, applying compresses, forcing fluids, chanting old prayers. Sigrid helped, her face drawn but steady. Kaelan could only watch.
"He'll be fine," Gudrun said, not for the first time. "Children get sick. It's how they grow strong."
"What if he doesn't?" Kaelan's voice was raw. "What if—"
"Then you'll have held him and loved him for every moment he had." Gudrun met his eyes. "But that won't happen. He's strong. Your strong. His mother's strong. He'll fight."
Kaelan nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
For three days, Ragnar hovered between sickness and health. For three days, Kaelan didn't leave his side. For three days, he learned what every parent learns: that love is terror, that hope is agony, that holding on is the only choice.
On the fourth day, the fever broke.
Ragnar opened his eyes. Looked at his father. Smiled.
Kaelan wept.
---
After that, something shifted between them.
Ragnar, now fully recovered, seemed to understand that his father had been there through the darkness. He reached for Kaelan more often, preferred his arms for sleeping, looked for him first when he woke.
"He knows," Sigrid said. "He knows you stayed."
Kaelan held his son close. "I'll always stay. Always."
---
The spring brought Ragnar's second birthday.
The village celebrated—not as grandly as the first harvest festival, but with genuine joy. Ragnar, now walking and talking in short bursts, was the center of attention. He accepted this with the casual arrogance of a toddler, accepting gifts and praise as his due.
Leif presented him with a small carved wolf. "For when you're old enough to understand what your father is."
Ragnar grabbed the wolf and immediately tried to eat it.
"He gets that from you," Sigrid said to Kaelan.
"Eating things?"
"Determination. Focus. Never giving up."
Kaelan smiled. "I'll take that."
---
That night, after the celebration ended and Ragnar slept, Kaelan and Sigrid sat by the fire.
"He's two," Sigrid said quietly. "It feels like yesterday he was born."
Kaelan nodded. "Time moves strangely now. Faster and slower at once."
"Is that what immortality feels like?"
"I don't know. I'm still learning." He took her hand. "But I know this—every moment with you and him is precious. I'll never take a single one for granted."
Sigrid leaned against him. "Good. Because there are going to be a lot of moments. And I plan to enjoy every one."
They sat together, watching the fire, listening to their son breathe in his sleep.
Perfect.
---
END OF CHAPTER 12
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