[Very angry then. Her fists would have been more welcome, but he did not try again as he knelt up before her, not yet the overly proud man that would marry Princess Aslaug. That man never would have knelt. His hands turned to fists on his thighs, resisting the urge for the moment to reach out to her, to take her by the hips and drag her forward so he could press her face against her belly, flat as it was. His son was truly gone then, and his grin dropped, happiness at seeing her again tarnished by the loss of a child he never had the chance to meet, but had always wanted to.]
You are my wife. And I have only one son. [And if is true about the son she carried, is it also true of Gyda? That his daughter is dead? Feasting in the halls of the Aesir, Valhalla denied to her? His eyes shut tight, a sharp pain starting between his ribs. The Gods decided when they lived and died, their fates decided when they took their first breath, but it still hurt to know that she was gone.] When? [Soft and thick as he forced his eyes to open and look at her.] When did the gods take my daughter? My son?