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Not The Father We Imagined
Aug. 23rd, 2021 08:42 pmFor Nexus Writing Prompt: 1. "You could stand to be the responsible one, for once."
Tom had given him the strangest look hours ago when he had offered to watch their baby so the two could have some time to themselves away from the baby and the madness. After all the rockers put them through, the old man deserved a break. It was his wife that convinced Tom that the punk would be a safe caretaker for their delicate little girl.
The instructions were specific but the punk listened dutifully before taking the little girl into his arms. Vars didn't have much experience with children this young but he had wanted them when he was married. Maybe he would never have his own but he loved the feeling the moment Zayda was in his arms. She grabbed at the wolf around his neck giggling and his heart melted. She was perfect, all the way down to her odd green eyes.
What was he to do with the little girl in her frilly blue dress, such contrast to his worn leather and chains but the Norwegian didn't care. Being a baby he didn't even try English and spoke to her in Norwegian, the pretty little red head with curls all over, sticking up every which way. Vars gave her a kiss on the forehead and carried the little girl down to breakfast with him, late because he was with the Jones before they left for a couple days. People stared and Vars gave them nasty looks at first before distracted by the little girl. She was curious about everything, especially his jewelry. While he ate he watched her inspect each piece, tiny fingers wrapping around the various pendants around the punk's neck and wrists. He was without his spikes today due to the curious hands and delicate fingers.
Breakfast done he went back to the room he shared with the other punk. Vars had cleaned it in the morning to prepare for having a baby there. He certainly didn't need to worry about bottles and whatever else was left laying around. Walking into the empty room he isn't sure if he is glad or disappointed that Viktor is out. There is part of him, the part of him that bonded closely to partners, that wanted Viktor there, to sit with him, baby in arms like he had imagined doing with his wife so many times. The baby cooed oddly when he felt his heart sinking, depressed still about the loss of his wife. He hated her and still loved her, it hurt inside. Zayda seemed to sense it as she laid her head on his shoulder and held tight to his neck.
“Er du ikke den søteste babyen?” Vars asked as he pulled her in close, laughing when she tried to kiss his cheek, an awkward sort of open mouthed baby kiss. She hadn't quite got the idea of lips pressed into a kiss but that was ok. It meant the same thing.
“Hva vil du gjøre? Bør vi lese?” Of course all he got in return was gleeful squeals. He imagined his accent and foreign language was what caused her to brighten when he spoke, it was novel. All babies liked to experience new things.
“Her kan du ha Jörmungand, og jeg skal lese.” Vars told her as he sat down on the plush chair in the room before offering Zayda his twisted armband to play with. The book was one he always kept on hand, an old book that he had for years, filled Norse myths. Not the Christianized modern versions but the originals with all their meaning and blood intacted, the battles and the poetics. He read it to her in old Norse, a language he was still learning from an elder in the punk community back home. He knew enough though to read to the baby from the book.
Vars settled into the chair, Zayda tucked into the crook of his arm and the book open. She leaned her head on him, playing with the ring and staring at the pages. In this moment there was something primal at work, a rightness that he couldn't ignore. Parts of him had died when he lost his wife; dreams, wants, life. He had given up on whole chunks of his life but this moment, with this odd, delicate baby pulled all of them back to the surface. Though he kept on reading, tears welled up unbidden and unstoppable, as if the pain he carried for so long was seeping out with his words until eventually the tears ceased as suddenly as they had stared. He felt exhausted, but it was a pleasant tired. More like coming off the stage than the world weary exhaustion the punk normally felt. Having a child with him was right, in his soul this caused a singing feeling of freedom. As he read on his mind left the words he was speaking to dwell on where he was. Perhaps this was the gods seeing fit to heal his wounds, the ones deep inside that no one saw and he never exposed. Zayda felt touched by the gods in Vars' eyes and that made her important, not that she wasn't already.
Kicking up his feet on the table he relaxed into the chair with the crimson haired child, reading stories older than either of them, forgotten long before either of them were born. In this moment, things fell into place and the perspective of unfettering himself from his past seemed within reach.
Tom had given him the strangest look hours ago when he had offered to watch their baby so the two could have some time to themselves away from the baby and the madness. After all the rockers put them through, the old man deserved a break. It was his wife that convinced Tom that the punk would be a safe caretaker for their delicate little girl.
The instructions were specific but the punk listened dutifully before taking the little girl into his arms. Vars didn't have much experience with children this young but he had wanted them when he was married. Maybe he would never have his own but he loved the feeling the moment Zayda was in his arms. She grabbed at the wolf around his neck giggling and his heart melted. She was perfect, all the way down to her odd green eyes.
What was he to do with the little girl in her frilly blue dress, such contrast to his worn leather and chains but the Norwegian didn't care. Being a baby he didn't even try English and spoke to her in Norwegian, the pretty little red head with curls all over, sticking up every which way. Vars gave her a kiss on the forehead and carried the little girl down to breakfast with him, late because he was with the Jones before they left for a couple days. People stared and Vars gave them nasty looks at first before distracted by the little girl. She was curious about everything, especially his jewelry. While he ate he watched her inspect each piece, tiny fingers wrapping around the various pendants around the punk's neck and wrists. He was without his spikes today due to the curious hands and delicate fingers.
Breakfast done he went back to the room he shared with the other punk. Vars had cleaned it in the morning to prepare for having a baby there. He certainly didn't need to worry about bottles and whatever else was left laying around. Walking into the empty room he isn't sure if he is glad or disappointed that Viktor is out. There is part of him, the part of him that bonded closely to partners, that wanted Viktor there, to sit with him, baby in arms like he had imagined doing with his wife so many times. The baby cooed oddly when he felt his heart sinking, depressed still about the loss of his wife. He hated her and still loved her, it hurt inside. Zayda seemed to sense it as she laid her head on his shoulder and held tight to his neck.
“Er du ikke den søteste babyen?” Vars asked as he pulled her in close, laughing when she tried to kiss his cheek, an awkward sort of open mouthed baby kiss. She hadn't quite got the idea of lips pressed into a kiss but that was ok. It meant the same thing.
“Hva vil du gjøre? Bør vi lese?” Of course all he got in return was gleeful squeals. He imagined his accent and foreign language was what caused her to brighten when he spoke, it was novel. All babies liked to experience new things.
“Her kan du ha Jörmungand, og jeg skal lese.” Vars told her as he sat down on the plush chair in the room before offering Zayda his twisted armband to play with. The book was one he always kept on hand, an old book that he had for years, filled Norse myths. Not the Christianized modern versions but the originals with all their meaning and blood intacted, the battles and the poetics. He read it to her in old Norse, a language he was still learning from an elder in the punk community back home. He knew enough though to read to the baby from the book.
Vars settled into the chair, Zayda tucked into the crook of his arm and the book open. She leaned her head on him, playing with the ring and staring at the pages. In this moment there was something primal at work, a rightness that he couldn't ignore. Parts of him had died when he lost his wife; dreams, wants, life. He had given up on whole chunks of his life but this moment, with this odd, delicate baby pulled all of them back to the surface. Though he kept on reading, tears welled up unbidden and unstoppable, as if the pain he carried for so long was seeping out with his words until eventually the tears ceased as suddenly as they had stared. He felt exhausted, but it was a pleasant tired. More like coming off the stage than the world weary exhaustion the punk normally felt. Having a child with him was right, in his soul this caused a singing feeling of freedom. As he read on his mind left the words he was speaking to dwell on where he was. Perhaps this was the gods seeing fit to heal his wounds, the ones deep inside that no one saw and he never exposed. Zayda felt touched by the gods in Vars' eyes and that made her important, not that she wasn't already.
Kicking up his feet on the table he relaxed into the chair with the crimson haired child, reading stories older than either of them, forgotten long before either of them were born. In this moment, things fell into place and the perspective of unfettering himself from his past seemed within reach.
