The name Leofric...
It meant "beloved ruler," though I doubt Ingrid or Einar had chosen it for its grandeur or ambition. I wasn't even sure why the name's meaning had leapt to the front of my mind. But It had a warmth to it, soft on the tongue, bright and boyish. Leofric. Leo when I whispered it gently while bouncing him in my lap, trying to soothe him during one of those long twilight hours when everything outside turned blue and hushed. He had a crown of wispy blonde hair that stuck up in all directions, Einar's stubborn frown whenever he got sleepy or impatient, and Ingrid's gentle eyes—hazel-green and impossibly big for his tiny face. He smelled like milk, firewood and the faint herbal soap Ingrid used on his clothes.
I adored him.
Which, if you'd asked me before, I might have doubted. The idea of a sibling had always sounded like a recipe for chaos and divided attention. More mouths to feed. More noise in the house. More trouble. But Leofric? Leofric was something else entirely. A tiny, gurgling beacon of joy who laughed when I floated pebbles for him and reached out to swat them with chubby fists like some royal kitten trying to knock stars out of the sky. He made the cold house feel warmer just by being in it. Even when he cried, it was hard not to love him for the sheer aliveness of it.
Caring for him became part of my rhythm—natural, instinctive, like breathing. I learned how to hold him when he needed to burp, how to jiggle him just the right way when he fussed, and how to hum nonsense songs that soothed him better than any lullaby. Ingrid showed me how to wrap him properly when the cold crept in, and I took to it fast. It felt good to be trusted with him. Important.
Some days I'd wake up before anyone else, tuck an extra blanket around Ingrid, and carry Leofric out to the hearth to rock him beside the fire. I'd float toys for him—bits of wood carved into animal shapes, feathers, tiny bundles of cloth Ingrid had sewn into clumsy dolls—and watch his eyes follow them with wide-eyed wonder. One time I made a little whirlwind of dried leaves spin in the air just above his head. He giggled so hard he scared the chickens when I took him outside later.
He liked games. He liked faces. He liked the sound of my voice when I changed it mid-sentence to something ridiculous, and he especially liked when I made his arms dance in time to silly rhymes I half-remembered from my old life. Once, while Ingrid napped and I was left alone with him for the first time, I panicked when he started crying uncontrollably—only to discover he'd just dropped his cloth doll. The moment I floated it back into his reach, he beamed like I'd given him the moon.
The magic helped more than I expected. I could float his cloths across the room when he had an accident, lift his bottle without waking him, or stir the soup without taking him from my lap. It became second nature—like having invisible hands always ready to help. I even started using it to help Ingrid with her chores when Leofric let us, fetching herbs, folding blankets, or shooing embers back into place in the fire.
The house changed too. It felt fuller. Softer. We fell into new habits. Ingrid's humming was more constant now, even if sometimes tinged with exhaustion. She smiled more, too—even when the nights were long. Einar came home faster and more often, always finding an excuse to check in—even if it was just to ask how the axe was holding up or if the goat looked strange. He tried to act aloof, but I caught him more than once crouched low by the cradle, gently touching Leofric's fingers like they were something rare and holy. And once, he actually smiled when Leofric sneezed unexpectedly, like it had knocked some wall down inside him.
There were moments I'll never forget. The time Leofric managed to roll over for the first time and Ingrid and I practically burst into applause. The first time he fell asleep in my arms and stayed asleep for more than an hour. The way he tried to mimic our words with a string of nonsense babble that made me laugh so hard I had nearly dropped him.
When the priest, Father Aldwin, made his house call, it was as much a social ritual as a spiritual one. He arrived with a woolen cloak dusted with snow and a calm, knowing smile. He asked questions, some real, some symbolic. Was the child feeding? Sleeping? Had god been thanked? Had Ingrid bled too much? Had he been named?
Then he sat by the hearth with Ingrid, said prayers in Latin and Old English, and passed a charmstone over Leofric's brow. He glanced at me a few times—not coldly, not cruelly, but like he was trying to make sense of something. Like he knew I was out of place, but wasn't sure how or why.
"You watch over him?" he asked, voice low, not a challenge but a curiosity.
I nodded. "Always."
"Good." He pressed the stone gently to the baby's forehead. "He's blessed. But even blessings need guardians."
He left shortly after, but his words lingered. Guardians. I didn't know if he meant me in the everyday sense, or something deeper, older—like he saw something in me he wasn't ready to name.
That night, after everyone slept, I sat by the cradle and watched Leofric's tiny chest rise and fall. I didn't feel tired. I felt... grounded. Solid in a way I hadn't felt since waking in this world. Like something inside me had finally settled.
He was so small. So impossibly fragile. And somehow, so important.
He gave me something no amount of magic ever could.