FATHERHOOD
He felt a familiar tug at his thigh. He looked down. Niehstu was his last one, a little bit taller now than his knee. She wouldn’t talk much, as her siblings were making fun of her errors and she grew into the habit of holding an adult by the clothes and walking around with them quietly to explore their small world. She was impressed by everything, probably the happiest of all his children. Or so it seemed to him. When she wanted something she would just give you a tug and stare without a word. It was a surprise to him that he could understand her silent wishes, though maybe she was just content with having his attention. “ You want to ride too?” he asked. She looked all the way up at the great beast next to her. She gripped on her little dress. Fearful as she was she nodded coyly. He snorted a chuckle and picked her up. He placed her on the saddle, supporting her back with one hand , the other offering her the reins. Her legs were dangling from either side, too short to reach at any stirrups. Still she took the reins in small hands and yanked them enough to make noise. She turned to look at him proudly and then tapped her heels against the saddle, bouncing cheerfully on it. The steed was not moving. It turned to look at its master lazily, waving its tail to scare away annoying flies. None the less she was happy enough, and so she started to speak. She was talking to the horse no doubt, excited by the looks of it, but her words he could not understand, they seemed to be of her own making. He felt the need to smile but instead he cursed under his breath. A family can make a weak man out of a strong one, he thought.
It was summer and the skies were blue. Far in the distance his son was riding his horse, galloping around carefree. His golden hair waved in the air and it would seem that the strength in him was growing. Winfred thought of his younger years. His dreams and ambitions. But even if he rode off with the Eored now it would not be the same. It is was not as if he could not ride his warhorse anymore or wield his sword. It was not as if he lost his nerve. It was that the shine of those deeds now was forever dimmed by the coming of his children, their glory reduced by something not often told in stories, nor sang in songs of old, even though it was more ancient than any them. And there was no quitting that.
Back at the porch of his house, he knew his own father was sitting, gazing at him the same way he looked at his own offsprings. Riddermark, as once the old man warned him, now felt different to him. The kings, the wars, the great tales now only seemed a facade for something less shiny but more concrete that held their world together. A solid line of watchful fathers going back to the beginning of time. And he was now one of them.
