24th March 1103

Sigurd gazed down at his spent body. His cheeks were grey and bloodless, his closed eyes and trembling lashes sunk into the dark hollow of his bony sockets. Blood. That’s all it was. All these years of scraped knees as a child, the tiny cuts and scratches, the paper cuts and nicks of his life. Squeezing blood from a small wound, fascinated as it beaded on his skin then sucking it frantically in some primal response to not let any drop escape his body. He now understood his animal fear of being bled when struck with a fever. This was life. Blood. Life, pumping and rushing through his veins, feeding his body. Now it had all drained away he wondered what it was that kept his stuttering heart whispering in his chest. It was all that was left and he longed for it to stop now because it ached so.

The door softly clicked open, tiptoeing footsteps on the wooden floor, a slight intake of breath and a sigh.

This was what kept his heart beating, the woman who walked proudly to his bedside, her head held high. A tiny bundle was clutched in her arm, the other dangling loose at her side. He saw the tension in that hand, the fingers clenched into a half fist and for the first time he understood that it was so because if it was not her hand would have trembled uncontrollably. If only he could take it now between his strong fingers and hold it there until it need tremble no longer. But it was too late for that. It was too late for so very many things.

She stared down at him, her eyes wide, lips firmly pressed into a pale line. Her hair dangled down her back in sweaty curls, her face flushed and pink, her eyes circled with dark rings of exhaustion.

“Sigurd,” she murmured and her voice cracked and faltered.

She took a deep shuddering breath and calmer now, a hint of fierce pride, “This is your son. Rowan. I named him for your father”

His son. His longed for child. The butterfly baby. Rowan. He peeked around the curtain of Varda’s tangled hair and the boy peered out at him, with wide defiant eyes. Varda’s eyes.

Why now? It seemed so unfair. But so it was and he understood now why his wasted body had waited.

The body on the bed began to suck in breath, a harsh ratcheting noise that scraped at his ears. Varda shuddered, hoisting the baby high on her shoulder, pressing his tiny face into the warm curve of her neck. In the last months, Sigurd had been allowed to lay his head there, his lips against the soft skin. He envied his son. He envied Varda. But only a moment, for he was thankful they had each other. He only wished he could stay.

“Sigurd…” Varda whispered, almost muffled by swaddling as she clutched the baby tighter.

The body on the bed coughed and spluttered, and Sigurd felt the stuttering heart gasp as though squeezed in a vicelike grip.

“I never told you,” her face was hidden by tendrils of dark, soft hair, “what a good man… a good husband you were to me.”

She took a deep breath, measuring her words, “What you did. Was so brave… I’m… I’m so sorry.”

She turned away from the bed, away from his dying body as tears slid slowly down her cheeks and onto the baby’s face. It snuffled and squirmed in her arms, then grew quiet as though sensing her pain. Varda, his Varda, who had never let him see her cry, not even now. But she did not realise that the body was a lifeless husk and now she faced him full, beautiful in her grief, her trembling lips, her pink-stained face, her wrinkled brow. He had never seen such raw vulnerability from his hard, strong wife and disconcerted he longed to press that face to his chest until she felt safe again.

But he had places to go. He could not stay, much as he wished to. And besides, they needed him. They could not make it there alone. A small body bumped against his, resting her head on his arm.

The heart wrenched and twinged as the body gasped for air.

“Is it time papa?” the small boy asked.

He nodded slowy, the little girl reaching for his hand.

With a last throb the heart sputtered out and finally the residual ache subsided.

“Yes. It’s time.”

He looked at his wife and whispered, “Goodbye my love. Take good care of him. And Rowan, you take good care of your mother, ” he looked down at the children surrounding him, “Don’t worry Varda. They are all safe now. We will find the way together. Goodbye…”

And he was gone.