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sagabrielle · 1 year ago

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Call of Giants (Sihtric x Reader)

My little norse pagan ass wrote this cause im on vacation and i am self inserting. This has very little plot, it is just self indulgent cause I love my fictional husband v much <3! Pretend this happens somewhere between S4 and S5.

Words: 1.6K

No warnings. (Jotnar=Giants, for those that are unfamiliar. feel free to send me a message if you are confused about the concept but still want to understand what reader is saying in this fic!)

The fire cracked, logs shifting as they burned away. A late autumn storm had set in, sheets of rain falling in a harsh rhythm, thrumming against the roof and window panels. The night was growing old, and truthfully, you should have been in bed—there would be work to do in the morning, of which required rest. But, the storm called to you, beckoned you to stay awake and listen to the call of the Divine.

Sihtric set his cup back onto the table as he finished off the rest of his ale. Faithful as always, he stayed by your side. Whether it was because he listened to the storm as well, or because he only slept restfully when you were beside him, you hadn’t questioned. Either way, you were more than happy to lean your weight against his side, seeking out his warmth as the air grew colder.

He leaned down, his breath against the cuff of your ear, “What do the Gods speak of, my love?” Sihtric had his own way of interpreting the Gods, but he had long since become accustomed to your way.

Thunder rolled, closer than it had been a few moments before. With it, the rain seemed to pound down even harder, though that seemed impossible. Your gaze turned away from the flickering fire toward Sihtric.

“They do not speak. This,” you said, motioning to the roof, “is the echoes of Ymir himself.”

Sihtric leaned back, a brow raised, “What makes you say that?”

You smiled then, matching the curious—almost mischievous—look your husband had. There weren’t many people around willing to listen to your rambling, but he had always indulged you. It was half the reason you had agreed to marry him.

“Listen to the wind,” you said in a whisper, “it sounds like…sadness.”

He paused, waiting for the next clap of thunder. The bench you sat at rumbled along with it, Sihtrics discarded cup clattering against the wood. Once the thunder had ceased again, the wind became clear. A low, nearly indistinguishable song. It whistled a soft, melancholy sound, that was occasionally drowned out by the pouring rain and thunder.

“Why tonight?” Sihtric questioned, eyeing you.

Leaning your head against his shoulder, you shrugged. It was obvious by the way Sihtric remained silent that he was expecting some sort of answer.

You snorted softly, “There is no explanation for the way of the Jotnar, Sihtric. They are not like the Gods. They are much more ancient.”

“Even Ymir? Without his body?”

“It would seem so, “ you said, sealing your lips as the thunder rolled again. It was right overhead, the loudest the thunder would be all night. The noise was so loud you could practically feel it in your chest. Even when you expected it, the sheer volume of it managed to startle you. Every flinch of yours was met with a calming squeeze from your husband.

Silence had fallen between you again. Comfortable, and neither expecting the other to speak. You listened to the wind, and Sihtric was content enough to simply watch you.

Lightning lit up the room this time, followed by the expected thunder. A creaking from the bed frame upstairs, then a dull thud let you know someone was awake. You could feel Sihtric's chest rumble with a quiet laugh.

"Which one do you think that is?" He craned his neck to peer at the staircase, squinting through the darkness.

Light footsteps padded down the stairs, dragging a blanket behind him. Three year old Finnolf. On most nights, he slept wedged in between you and Sihtric. You assumed that when he went looking and found neither parent, he had been less than pleased.

"It is only thunder, my little one," you said, beckoning him forward. Silently, with tiredness in his eyes, he obeyed you. Sihtric pulled the boy into his lap, making sure to bring the blanket with him.

Placing a series of quick kisses to the boy's fat cheek, Finnolf didn't seem convinced by your logic. His brow furrowed, burying himself into his fathers hold.

"It woke me," he said, voice muffled. Brushing your fingers through his tangled, dark hair, you cooed. Finnolf tensed as thunder rolled again, hands gripping tightly to Sihtric's shirt.

"Are you frightened, Finn?" Sihtric asked, looking down at his son’s scrunched up face. The boy did not answer.

With the storm still raging on, you had assumed at least one child would awaken. Not long ago, it had been the eldest crawling into your bed to seek comfort. Now, they barely stirred at the noise. Finnolf was the exact age they were, you realized, when they had been afraid. Something about being three years old, and dually terrified of the sound of the ancient Gods.

Gnawing at your lower lip, you thought of what to say. How to say it. The stories of the Gods were violent, scary, to a child. They had certainly once scared you. It was unlikely to soothe the child, especially if you reiterated what you had told your husband just a moment prior. Finnolf wouldn’t find it half as fascinating, nor comforting.

“You know thunder is that of Thor, Finnolf,” you said, reminding him of the stories he already knew. Stories you had whispered to him as a baby, when he still cried in the night. He remembered some from his siblings, as well, he had told you, particularly the ones of Thor.

“Yes,” he said in a yawn, his round eyes visibly heavy.

You hummed, “Then, you should know not to be afraid. Thor is our greatest protector, and this thunder is just him protecting us.”

It was the story most children were told. Of Thor using his hammer to defend Midgard, and the people in it. As an adult, you knew it to be mostly a metaphor, but most children took it at face value. Perhaps a strategy used by the ancestors to soothe their own children centuries ago.

Finnolf remained quiet, content to fall back asleep on his father. Sihtric cut his eyes toward you, an unspoken question. You simply nodded, standing from the bench and wrapping your wool shawl tighter around your shoulders.

It was undoubtedly time for bed.

A bowl of water extinguished the fire in a hiss of popping wood and a cloud of steam. The fireplace on the second floor would have to be lit, so you took up the rest of the wood from the stack into your arms and trailed behind Sihtric as he made his way upstairs.

Passing by the other beds, you counted your sleeping children. None stirred, essentially dead to the world as the storm passed overhead. It seemed that only the poor pup Sihtric carried was bothered by the racket.

Sihtric approached the boy's bed, intending to tuck him away there, but as he lowered Finnolf down, the boy promptly wrapped himself tighter around his father.

"No, Dada," he whined, adamantly keeping himself attached to Sihtric who grimaced. Thin arms wound tightly around his neck left him little choice in the matter.

You snickered as you passed, "Let him stay with us tonight."

He relented, but you could see the silent disapproval on Sihtric's sharp features, "He sleeps with us most nights."

Setting the wood next to the fireplace, you didn't bother to disagree. Silently, you pulled back the heavy fur blankets and quilts, slipping your shoes off, the shawl tossed onto the dresser. The surface of the bed was cold—it would take body heat to render it otherwise. The air had gone bitter with the storm, leaving the tips of your fingers cool to the touch.

As you slid into bed, Sihtric deposited Finnolf into your hold. Happily wrapping himself around you, nose dug into the crook of your neck, he finally seemed sated. Sleep took over him, despite the continuous, distant rumble of thunder. Eyelids fell closed. then his breathing evened out to something slow and steady.

Sihtric crouched by the fireplace as he set the kindling and wood alight. A small fire would be enough to chase away the chill through the night. He lingered for a moment, warming his face and hands.

You settled further into bed, eyes still on Sihtric. He frowned slightly—not in an upset manner, but somewhat disconcerted. His chest visibly heaved, then he stood, intent on joining you in bed. Watching as he approached, you waited for him to speak what was evidently on his mind, but when that never happened, you pressed anyway.

“Does something bother you?” A softly posed question that brings his gaze to meet yours, and he seemed to ease a bit. Sliding into bed next to you, Finnolf cramped between two warm bodies, Sihtric spoke in a quiet voice, as to not wake his family.

“I am wondering what has the Giants upset,” he said, brows creased, “What could possibly disturb them.”

You thought for a moment. It was hard to tell what had the Giants speaking so loudly, why they did it in such a roaring display. It was true that the Jotnar were unpredictable, but even the storm seemed…suspicious. If not outright concerning.

“It could be many things, love. There is no point in trying to understand the Jotnar. The Gods will take care with what they need to.” The Aesir and Vanir alike were always at war with the tribe of Giants. Perhaps, you thought, the storm was that. Was that first Giant—Ymir—lamenting in old memories. It felt reminiscent of what happened with the Christians, you realized. Of how the war was seemingly never going to end.

“I suppose,” Sihtric whispered, his hand snaking up to take hold of the hammer you wore around your neck. “But you said it yourself; it sounds like sadness.”

#ladies #this was written on top of the 25k fic i have for him #cause i have /mental illness/#the last kingdom #tlk #sihtric #sihtric kjartansson #sihtric x reader #and yes finnolf is a name play on finan #because sihtric loves his brother

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