Victory Garden
From the Drabble Games: "Sweetheart, what did you bury in the garden?” requested by @little-red-83 || Also incorporating “Imagine Bard holding your hands in his and his thumbs rubbing over the back of your hands” from @imaginexhobbit || More Bard fics || Drabble games fics || Fanfiction masterlist
The climb up the stairs to your modest Lake-town home is taking more effort with each passing day - and this is only day 160 of carrying your first child, fathered by your first and only love.
At least today you don’t have any sacks of food or fabric to carry. If you did, Bard would be there to scoop them away from you. He would also try to scoop you up, while he was at it, but thankfully you convinced him to stop doing that a month ago. Bard doesn’t need to prove his strength or love for you in this way anymore. In fact, he shows such adoration – cooing baby talk to your belly, kissing it, kissing you, loving you tenderly in the night, preparing supper after his long days on the lake, massaging your aching feet without you ever having to ask - that you doubt that there’s anything more he could possibly do.
All you need now is for him to greet you on the landing with a warm embrace and a kiss. But when you finally reach the top, Bard’s not there. He’s not on the lake, that you’re sure of. After working nearly a fortnight with no break, you made him rest today, even though your boss couldn’t let you take time away from working at the tavern. Fortunately, she only needed you for a couple of hours. You and Bard will be able to see the sun set together.
You open the door and call for him. He’s not home.
Bard shows up an hour later, his hands and the knees of his breeches dirty. He smells wonderfully earthy, not fishy, thank the gods. It’s not that you mind the the smell. You’re used to it, of course. But to a woman with child, even familiar odors can attack the nose with sudden brutality.
“Where have you been?” you ask, resting across the soft bench in front of the unlit hearth. You’re covered in a plaid blanket, your favorite. You tried to read from a new book of fantastic tales, but fell asleep before turning the first page.
“Oh, just taking care of a few things, my love.” Bard dips his hands in the washing basin across the room and wipes them clean with the nearby towel before approaching you. He crouches down and smiles that broad smile that deepens the lines in his face. This smile is part shifty, part ecstatic, all loving.
He places that kiss you’ve been longing for softly on your lips. When he pulls away, you stroke his hair, waiting for more of an explanation.
“You didn’t have to go to work today, or to the market,” you point out, “so what were you taking care of?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” The smile returns, more devilish than ever. Getting on his knees, he slides down to your round belly and kisses it through the fabric of your dress. “Your mother is very, very nosy, little Sigrid!”
You gasp. “So, you think it’s a girl, and you like the name now, too?”
Your relatives and anyone with an opinion on the matter has told you you’re having a girl by the way you’re carrying - low - and by the extra “cushion” in your face. But you? You’re simply going on a very strong feeling that you know isn’t wrong.
As for “Sigrid,” Bard has been too polite to flat-out say “no” to it, but you’ve seen his lip curl ever-so-slightly the few times you’ve brought up the name that means “victory.” He usually ends baby-naming discussions with “we’ll get it sorted later.”
“I do like it,” Bard says now, his smile spreading from ear to ear. “And if it is a girl, as you are so convinced it is, I think that should be her name. Now, if it’s a boy…”
“Bard the second, of course.”
He grimaces. “Please don’t put that on him, darling. I was thinking ‘Bain.’ It’s very strong, just like Sigrid.”
You nod, thinking about it, then suddenly remember that Bard has expertly avoided your original question.
“So, where were you?”
He suddenly jumps up.
“Are you hungry? I am. I made some stew while you were at work.”
“I had some. It was delicious. Where were you?”
“It’s not ready.”
“What’s ‘it’?”
“I should say, you’ll see it in due time.”
You sit up, swing your legs off the bench and take his hands in yours as you look up at him.
“Bard, whatever it is, I can take it.”
“But can I? That’s the true question.”
“BARD!”
He laughs and pulls you to your feet.
“Are you up for a short walk?” he asks.
“Certainly.”
“Actually, I have a better idea.”
And with that, he whisks you off your feet and into his arms. You scream his name and kick your feet.
“Please, please let me do this for you,” he says.
“Bard, you’re the strongest man I know, but what if you drop us?”
“I promise on my very life I will not drop you or our Sigrid.”
Alright, he’s said the name twice now. You know that wherever he’s about to take you has something to do with the baby.
“Very well,” you sigh. “Onward, coach!”
He laughs and somehow manages to grab your favorite blanket and open and close the front door without fumbling. The flight down the stairs in his arms feels like a dream. He’s taking his time negotiating each step, and yet moving so fluidly you feel as if you’re floating.
Although you can’t take your eyes off each other, you never for one moment worry that he’ll stumble or wander into the inlet. He knows exactly where he’s going, and you trust him with your life.
You haven’t been paying very much attention to the path he’s taking or the people greeting you both and all the “oh, isn’t that the sweetest thing!” types of comments. You feel like you’re on your honeymoon again, just the two of you…well, the three of you now.
Soon, Bard sets you gently on your feet.
“Here we are,” he says, gesturing toward the plot of land in front of you. You squint and blink a few times, taking it all in.
“Um…my old garden?” you ask.
“Isn’t it something?” He puts his hands on his hips and puffs out his chest.
Actually, it’s nothing. This was your little side project a while ago. You declined Bard’s help because, after neglecting and therefore killing the house plant that your husband had given you as a birthday gift, you were determined to prove to yourself that you had a green thumb.
But, just like with the house plant, you chose passionate times in bed with Bard over tending to your seedlings. And who could blame you, really?
You attributed your failed garden on the poor soil and never looked back.
The earth before you looks rich and dark, not at all like it did during your gardening attempts.
“Have you been amending the soil?” you ask.
Bard nods. “I’ve done a bit of reading and talking to some of the old-timers about what to do.”
You look more closely at the dirt, which has obviously been turned. Some sections have been shaped into long, small hills.
“Sweetheart, what did you bury in the garden?”
“Bury!” Bard rears his head back and laughs. “Does it look like funeral plots?”
You shrug. “I have no idea what it’s supposed to look like.”
Bard takes your hand and leads you to the stone bench. After wrapping you both with the blanket, you huddle together, his arms around you.
“I know it’s untidy,” he says, “that’s why I was a bit nervous to show you.”
“Oh, no. And I pressured you!”
“No, no, it’s alright, love.” He takes a deep breath. “So, I’ve been thinking about what I could give you and our child that would keep giving. Something that you could count on, that would nourish you and keep reminding you both how much I love you.” He squeezes you closer to him. “And as I was trying to come up with something, for some reason I remembered how most people gave our marriage a month at best - most of those same people we passed on the way here, as a matter of fact. They told us we were too young and too headstrong.”
“We were,” you say, smiling.
“But that didn’t stop us, did it?” He nuzzles your nose. “And I know it’s petty, but every time I see those naysayers, I think, ‘we won.’ It’s been four years, and now we’re having our first child. Then it came to me, the thing I could give you: a garden, filled with all kinds of vegetables and berries. Our very own victory garden, for our growing family.” He brings his warm hands to yours, resting on your round tummy, just in time to feel your baby stretching about. He caresses his thumbs across your skin.
“We love it,” you say, placing your hand on his, “and we love you.”
As you plant a kiss on his mouth, you are in total awe of this man. A little more than an hour ago, you thought there was nothing more Bard could do to show his love.
Now, overlooking your victory garden as the sun sets, you understand that you’re probably always going to underestimate him, and you couldn’t be happier.