Rollo awoke to the sensation of someone tracing lines against his back, a soft touch by a soft hand that was just enough to stir him from his slumber. He twitched beneath the touch, rolling his shoulder against the wandering finger tips.
"Tickles…" He mumbled against the pillow he clutched beneath his head. The tracing continued in spite of his passive opposition to it.
"What do they mean?" Gisla asked in a low voice behind him.
"What?" He kept his eyes shut, refusing it to be morning already. He knew what she was asking, of course. She had demonstrated silent curiosity toward his tattoos since they began to share close quarters several months back. This was the first time she had said anything aloud to him about them.
"These markings. What are they here for?" She said curiously.
"They tell stories. Stories of my ancestors and those of the Viking's gods." Rollo answered with his prepared lines. He had been waiting for her curiosity, for her questions about the people from his homeland. He was surprised how resistant he was to share with her now in this moment, "home" seemed to be miles and decades from where he was now. With his wife.
"Will you tell me these stories?" Gisla pushed gently.
"Maybe, someday." He felt her abandon her mission to trace each line etched in his skin and instead felt her hand inch toward his chest, wrapping her arm around his midsection. Gisla seemed to accept his compromise of a later day, something that surprised him. He finally relented his quest for more sleep and turned on the feather mattress to face his wife.
"No more illness?" He asked, pushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Gisla shook her head while propping it up with a bent elbow. Rollo saw the dark circles that had begun to appear beneath her eyes over the last few days, a clear sign that she was not sleeping enough despite the apothecary's best efforts to a remedy. His brow sunk in concern as he studied his princess. It had become some bewitched habit for Gisla to take ill in the darkest of hours of night, retching up all she consumed in the preceding hours into the porcelain bowl that was kept beneath their bed. At first Rollo had tried to ignore the sick sounds that awoke him, knowing she would only be vexed if he tried intervene. But after several nights of this he could not keep his restraint in pretending that it was not happening. He had be begun to awake with her, lighting the candle kept at their bedside and sliding down to the floor next to her. Holding back her long length of hair and placing a strong hand against her back until the retching that quaked her thin frame stopped some time later. As he had expected, she at first fought against his actions, preferring to be alone. But she quickly learned that her protests were in vain and every night the terrible hour would end with her allowing him to her lift back to the mattress, tucking her back beneath the thick bed linens.
Rollo would not express his opinion aloud as to what he thought was the cause to this illness, but he knew it was as an opinion that was shared with the surgeons of the court, those that had seen to Gisla. A child could be in their near future.
The thought exhilarated and astounded Rollo all at ounce. It was not something that the pair had discussed in their brief marriage, though the expectation had certainly been there by those nosy Frenchmen of the court. He had rarely allowed himself to think of children for himself. That was part of Ragnar's obsession, a bloodline to continue the Lothbrok dynasty. Rollo had never had anything to pass down to any progeny, his violent and instable existence had never allowed it. That is until he started his life here in Paris, his life with Gisla. And now it suddenly became a possibility and Rollo began to feel a glimmer of hopefulness ignite somewhere deep inside. It would not yet be put to words, but maybe a son, or daughter, would come soon.
Gisla touched a thumb to Rollo's wrinkled brow, kneading it until it was smooth again. She would not allow him to worry about her, it would just be wasted. With a sigh Rollo wrapped his strong arms around the princess, bringing her against his chest and bury nose against her rose scented hair.
"It is almost Spring." She lips whispered against his shoulder. "Your brother and his people will be back to raid the city." It was not something that needed to be reminded of but he knew that she worried all the same. She sighed and turned in his arms, her back fitting perfectly against his large frame.
"I will allow no harm to come to you." He said, almost growling. This time his hand traced his way around her, finding its way to her abdomen where it stilled. "None of you."
"I believe you." Gisla spoke softly.