1048 — Nidaros, Norway
Winter had already begun its encroach, and frost covered everything outside the royal compound of Nidaros. Snow drifted in quiet sheets past the carved windows of the main hall, where the warmth of the hearth provided a dim but comforting glow. Outside, a wooden wall separated the halls of Harald Hardrada from the rest of Nidaros.
Within one of the smaller adjoining chambers, the air was thick and silent, broken only by the crackling of a small brazier in the corner. A few voices murmured, hushed and reverent, and the steady breathing of a young woman echoed softly. She was Elisiv of Kiev.
She was propped up with fur-covered cushions, her golden hair damp and unruly as it clung to her forehead, her pale face glistening with the effort of labour. She breathed deeply, her eyes half-shut, drifting in and out of a world that seemed far from the heavy wooden rafters overhead.
The midwives worked silently, two women moving with deft hands that spoke of experience. One wiped Elisiv's forehead gently with a piece of linen while the other crouched, her voice low, murmuring encouragement in old Norse.
Elisiv clenched her jaw as another wave of pain surged through her body, every muscle tightening. Her breaths turned into shallow gasps, and she closed her eyes, squeezing the edge of the blanket beneath her. She felt the midwife's cool hands on her legs, "It will be over soon, milady."
A tremor of anticipation filled the air. Outside, beyond the wooden partition, footsteps fell quietly along the corridor. Harald paced back and forth, his long strides measured, his hands clasped behind his back.
Two axes rattled on his hip as he walked, only hinting at the restless energy he held within. Though Harald had spent decades facing armies and battling the seas, what lay behind the door was entirely different—a battle he could not charge into, a struggle he could not control.
He paused at the door as if to step in, then stopped. The sound of his wife's voice calling out—a sudden, deep groan—made him wince. He inhaled sharply, staring at the polished wooden surface, feeling the helplessness that had seldom touched him in his many years.
Harald's blue eyes glanced toward the hearth; the fire glowing against the heavy darkness gathering at the corners of the hall. He knew he had to be patient, to let the midwives and the gods see her through. Quietly, he offered a prayer to Frigg, the goddess of motherhood.
"She will be well, my king," came the soft voice of Tora, standing at the edge of the room. Tora Torbergsdottir, who had been Harald's partner through many nights like these, watched him, her eyes steady. She knew the look on his face; it was a rare glimpse of a man torn between his duties and his heart.
Harald turned to her, his expression masked, and nodded. Tora had seen the same vulnerability when she herself had brought Magnus into the world.
Suddenly, a new sound broke through the dim murmurs—the first wailing cry of a new-born. Harald froze, and his heart leapt to his throat. He turned to the door, then glanced at Tora, whose lips lifted in a quiet smile. She nodded, as if giving him permission, and Harald, taking a breath, moved towards the door and gently pushed it open.
Inside, Elisiv leaned back against the fur-covered cushions, her eyes heavy but her face softened with relief. In her arms, a tiny bundle squirmed, wrapped in linen, a tiny head of dark hair just visible beneath the swaddling cloth. One of the midwives leaned over her, speaking softly, while another busied herself with cleaning away the tools of labour.
Elisiv turned her head as Harald entered, her tired eyes meeting his. She smiled faintly, the pride of a mother, the light of exhaustion giving way to an expression that spoke of pure relief. Harald moved quietly; the man who had faced countless foes suddenly made gentle. He knelt beside her, eyes fixed on the child in her arms.
"It is a boy, Harald," Elisiv whispered, her voice breaking as she spoke, her lips curving into a full smile. She pulled back the linen to reveal the boy's face—round and flushed, eyes squeezed shut, the tiny mouth still crying in protest at this new, cold world. The child's wail was full of determination, a force that seemed too great for a being so small.
"A boy," Harald repeated, a smile tugging at his lips. He reached out, his hand calloused and broad, brushing gently over the infant's head. The child's cries quieted, and Harald marvelled at the softness beneath his touch.
"We shall name him Rurik," Harald said softly, the name a tribute to the old kings of the Rus, a nod to Elisiv's heritage as well as a name that bore strength. Somehow, he knew this was the child's true name.
It was a name he hoped would carry power, that would someday be spoken in halls far and wide, by voices filled with both fear and respect. Elisiv nodded, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.
"Rurik," she whispered, her gaze shifting to her child. She could already see the journey ahead for him—the weight of his father's legacy and the bloodline that ran through his veins.
She kissed the child's forehead softly, her lips lingering against his warmth. The boy would have a difficult world to grow into, a world of ambition, of warriors and crowns. But tonight, none of that mattered. Tonight, he was simply Rurik, her son, and he was safe.
Harald rose to his feet, his eyes not leaving his wife and child, and called to the midwife. "Wine," he said, his voice carrying a tone of celebration now. "For the queen, and for all those who helped her today. And send word to the men. Let them know that a new son is born in this hall. Let them light torches for Rurik."
Elisiv smiled as Harald kissed her forehead—a rare gesture of tenderness. The midwife quickly poured the wine, and the air in the room seemed to relax, a new warmth filling the space that the fire alone could not provide.
Elisiv felt her eyes grow heavy, her arms cradling Rurik close as she let the weight of the moment settle into her weary bones. The long night had given way to something precious—her first son, and she couldn't be happier.
Outside the wooden palisade, the news travelled swiftly, carried by excited voices, the flames of newly lit torches flickering against the deep winter darkness.
Yet, one person was not as excited as everyone else. Slowly, Tora walked back to her own chamber, brows furrowed in a complicated expression. She had, of course, congratulated the new parents, but inwardly, she became worried about the future.
When she opened the door to her chamber, there she found her own son, Magnus, being cared for by Tora's personal servant. By now, Magnus was two years old, and growing like a weed. As soon as his mother entered, he looked up and smiled at her.
"Hello, little Magnus" she smiled back while crouching down next to him and caressing his soft hair. "It turns out you might have to work a little harder to earn your rightful place by Harald's side… but don't worry, your mother will help you."