NOVEL NEXT Chapter 2: preperation
Svein straightened, regaining his composure before calling for the next prisoner. His voice rang through the hall like a hammer striking an anvil.
"Eric Tryggvason, step forward."
A tall but visibly shaken man was led into the firelit chamber, his hands bound with rough rope. The crowd murmured in hushed voices as he was forced to his knees before the Earl's high seat.
"You stand accused of the murder of Vesel, outside of combat, this past January." Svein's tone was sharp, unwavering. "How do you plead?"
Eric swallowed hard, his gaze flickering between the Earl and the watching crowd. "It wasn't murder, my lord. I killed him in self-defense—"
"Liar!"
The accusation cut through the hall like a dagger. A woman—most likely Vesel's sister—had shot to her feet, her face red with grief and fury. A few others in the crowd nodded in agreement, their expressions dark.
Svein smirked, turning back to Eric with a gaze that held little sympathy. "If it wasn't murder, why didn't you confess to the first person you saw, as our law dictates?" He took a step forward, his voice laced with mockery. "In fact, you passed several houses before reporting it. Why wait?"
Eric's breath hitched, but he forced himself to answer. "I thought the victim's family might be living in them, my lord." His body trembled slightly, yet his voice held firm, clinging to any shred of control he had left.
A ripple of laughter passed through the gathered villagers. Svein chuckled, shaking his head. "The law is clear—if a man kills in self-defense, he may pass two houses, but never a third." His expression turned cold. "Yet you did."
The hall fell silent, the weight of judgment thick in the air.The flickering torchlight cast deep shadows on his face as he continued.
"Tell us what happened."
Eric swallowed hard, his voice unsteady but determined. "It was an argument, my lord. Over land. Vesel and I had quarreled before, but this time… he pulled a knife first." His eyes darted toward the gathered villagers, seeking any sign of support. "He struck first—I had no choice but to defend myself."
A scoff came from the woman who had yelled earlier—Vesel's sister. She took a bold step forward, her voice cutting through the hall like ice.
"Lies! You wanted that land for yourself! That's why my brother is dead!"
Eric's jaw clenched. "That's not true!"
She turned to the Earl, her eyes burning with grief and anger. "My lord, he's a coward! A lying coward!"
The insult struck Eric harder than the accusation itself. He snapped his head toward her, his fists clenching. "I am no coward!" he shouted.
A few voices in the crowd stirred, some shouting in support, others in anger. The tension mounted, but before it could boil over, Earl Haraldson raised his hand.
"Enough."
The hall instantly fell silent. The Earl's voice, though quiet, held the weight of finality. He leaned forward, fixing Eric with an unwavering stare.
"The normal procedure has not been followed. And because of that, this crime cannot be ignored in exchange for compensation." His tone was calm, measured, yet firm. "Murder is a dishonorable deed, carried out in secret, unacknowledged. It festers like rot among us, giving rise to revenge killings—including against your own family."
Eric's breath was shallow, his hands trembling slightly at his sides. But he gathered himself, squaring his shoulders. "You knew of my claim to the land, my lord. You knew—"
"Silence."
The single word from the Earl stopped him cold. Haraldson's eyes swept over the room. "You have all heard the accusations. Now, look upon the accused."
A ripple of movement passed through the crowd as every villager fixed their gaze on Eric, some with scorn, others with pity.
"Raise your hand if you find him guilty."
One by one, hands rose into the air, slow and deliberate. The Earl's sharp eyes moved from face to face, gauging the response. Then he stopped.
Bjorn's hand remained at his side.
The stillness in the hall became suffocating. Earl Haraldson's expression did not change, but his gaze lingered on the boy.
"The decision must be unanimous."
Ragnar shifted uneasily where he stood. He glanced at his son and saw Bjorn's hand was still down. A tightness gripped his chest. Slowly, he leaned in and gave Bjorn a firm nudge.
Bjorn hesitated. Then, reluctantly, he raised his hand.
The judgment was made.
Earl Haraldson's voice rang out, firm and unwavering.
"Eric Tryggvason, you have been found guilty of murder."
A voice erupted from the crowd. "Yes! Justice!" Others murmured in agreement, nodding their heads as they watched Eric's fate unfold.
The Earl leaned forward slightly, his piercing gaze never leaving the condemned man. "How do you wish to die?"
Eric swallowed hard, his face pale but his voice steady. "By beheading, my lord."
A moment of silence hung in the air, the weight of the judgment settling over the hall. Finally, the Earl gave a slow nod.
"Your wish is granted." His voice carried the authority of a man who had made such decisions many times before. "You shall be executed tomorrow."
There was a pause, a heartbeat of stillness before he spoke again, his tone shifting. "After which, we shall feast and speak of the summer raids."
A cheer erupted from the crowd, hands clapping against wooden tables, boots stomping on the dirt-packed floor. The anticipation of war and plunder overpowered the brief shadow of death that had loomed over the hall just moments ago.
For Eric, there was nothing left but the inevitable. He bowed his head, accepting his fate, as the hall filled with the sound of celebration.
(timeskip)
The crisp morning air was thick with anticipation. The scent of damp earth and burning torches filled the space as the gathered villagers stood in a wide circle, their breath visible in the cold. At the center stood two men, facing each other.
Knut, the accused thief, gripped his axe and shield tightly, his knuckles white with tension. His face was pale, but his eyes held the desperation of a man who knew he was doomed but refused to surrender. Across from him stood Jeanyx, his presence alone making the crowd uneasy.
He was dressed in dark leather and furs, his twin serrated sickles gleaming ominously in the morning light. The weapons, curved like a predator's claws, looked as though they were crafted for one purpose—pain. He spun them slowly in his hands, a silent promise of what was to come.
The Jarl stepped forward. "Knut, this is your final chance to choose the removal of your hand. Deny it, and you will face your opponent in battle."
A final mercy. A rational man would have taken it. But Knut, either too proud or too foolish, clenched his jaw and shook his head.
The Jarl nodded. "Very well. Let the trial begin."
A hush fell over the crowd, the only sound being the distant cawing of crows circling above, as if waiting for the inevitable.
Knut raised his shield and shifted his stance, gripping the axe tightly. He took a deep breath, then lunged forward, roaring as he swung his weapon down in a desperate attempt to strike first.
Jeanyx did not move.
At the last moment, just before the axe could reach him, he stepped to the side with effortless grace. The blade carved through empty air, and before Knut could recover, Jeanyx's sickle slashed outward.
A sharp cry escaped Knut's lips as a jagged gash tore across his arm, forcing him to stumble back. The wound wasn't deep—but that was by design.
Jeanyx tilted his head slightly, his dark purple eyes gleaming with amusement.
"You're already bleeding," he murmured, his voice almost disappointed.
Knut gritted his teeth, rage flaring in his eyes. He charged again, shield raised, hoping to ram into Jeanyx and knock him off balance. But the warrior was faster.
With a flick of his wrist, Jeanyx hooked one of his sickles behind Knut's shield arm and yanked hard. The shield was ripped away, spinning into the dirt. Knut barely had time to react before Jeanyx's other sickle lashed out, its serrated edge raking across the exposed flesh of his thigh.
Knut crumpled to one knee with a howl of pain, his axe slipping from his grasp. Blood oozed from the wound, dark and glistening, pooling in the dust beneath him.
The crowd remained silent, watching in grim fascination. None of them pitied Knut—not because he had stolen, but because he had chosen to fight Jeanyx.
Jeanyx crouched beside his fallen opponent, tapping one of his sickles lightly against the ground.
"You're making this too easy."
Knut, panting heavily, tried to scramble backward, but Jeanyx was already moving.
With a fluid motion, he kicked Knut onto his back, then stepped onto his arm, pinning it down. Before Knut could react, Jeanyx drove one sickle deep into the muscle of his forearm and twisted.
A scream ripped through the air.
The serrated edges tore through flesh, muscle, and tendon, sending waves of agony through Knut's body. He writhed, eyes wide with pain, but Jeanyx did not stop. He pulled the sickle free with a slow, deliberate motion, ensuring that every serration dragged against raw, exposed nerves.
Knut's screams turned to ragged gasps, his body shuddering violently. His remaining hand clawed at the dirt, desperate for escape, but there was nowhere to run.
Jeanyx leaned in close, his voice a whisper.
"This is what happens when you steal."
Then, without warning, he brought the blunt end of his sickle down onto Knut's knee with a sickening crunch.
The joint shattered. Knut's body arched in agony before collapsing limply. He tried to scream again, but his voice was hoarse and broken. Tears streamed down his face, mixing with the blood staining the ground.
Still, Jeanyx was not finished.
He circled Knut's twitching form, dragging one of his sickles along the dirt, leaving a thin, jagged line in its wake.
"You wanted a fight," he mused. "But this isn't a fight. This is an execution—you're just too slow to realize it."
Knut's breath came in short, ragged bursts. His body was wrecked—one arm torn open, one knee crushed, his strength drained by blood loss. He was barely conscious, but his eyes flickered with one last spark of defiance.
Jeanyx exhaled softly.
"Very well. I'll end it."
For the first time, there was mercy in his voice. But it was the mercy of a predator granting a swift death to a wounded animal.
He raised his sickles one final time.
Then, with two lightning-fast strikes, he opened Knut's throat.
The body twitched, blood spurting in rhythmic pulses before stilling completely. The dirt beneath him turned crimson.
A hush fell over the gathering.
Jeanyx stood over the lifeless form, his weapons dripping with blood. He turned his gaze toward the Jarl, expression unreadable.
The Jarl studied him for a long moment before giving a slow, approving nod.
"Justice has been served."
The tension in the air shattered as the crowd erupted in cheers and murmurs, some shaking their heads in awe, others murmuring prayers to the gods.
For Knut, there would be no Valhalla—only an unmarked grave, and the whisper of his name as a cautionary tale for those who might follow in his footsteps.
And for Jeanyx, there was no triumph, no celebration.
Only the quiet, lingering weight of his title.
The crowd gathered once more in the execution square, their murmurs blending with the crisp morning wind. The scent of damp earth and burning torches filled the air as they waited in anticipation. Some whispered among themselves, others stood in solemn silence, their eyes fixed on the wooden platform where justice would be carried out.
The sound of heavy boots against the wooden planks broke the murmurs as Eric Trygvasson was led forward by the executioner. Shackled at the wrists, his posture was straight, his gaze unwavering. He did not plead, did not struggle—he smiled.
Bjorn, standing beside his father, frowned. The expression on the condemned man's face unsettled him. He tugged at Ragnar's sleeve.
"Why is he smiling, father?"
Ragnar looked down at his son, his own expression unreadable, before shifting his gaze back to Eric.
"Because he wants to die well," Ragnar explained, his voice calm yet firm. "Without fear, to atone for his sins." He placed a hand on Bjorn's shoulder. "You must watch, for his sake."
Rollo, standing just behind them, crossed his arms. "It's his only hope of reaching Valhalla."
Bjorn swallowed hard but did not look away.
Eric took slow, deliberate steps toward the execution block, never breaking his stride. The executioner, clad in dark furs, guided him with a firm grip, though it was unnecessary—Eric was walking to his fate willingly. As he reached the block, he knelt and placed his head upon it without hesitation, his breath steady, his smile faint but resolute.
The crowd fell silent. The only sound was the wind rustling through the trees.
The executioner raised his axe. The polished steel gleamed under the morning light, catching the eyes of the spectators. Then, in one swift, practiced motion—
THWACK.
The axe sliced through flesh and bone, severing Eric's head cleanly. The body twitched once before falling still. A heartbeat later, the crowd erupted in cheers and applause, voices rising in exultation.
Some men clapped each other on the back. Others raised their fists. A few women murmured prayers to the gods, acknowledging Eric's courage.
But then—
"Feed him to your pigs."
Earl Haraldson's voice cut through the cheers like a blade, and at once, the jubilation ceased. The crowd fell into a stunned silence, eyes turning to their leader.
The Jarl stepped forward, his expression dark, his presence commanding. His gaze swept over the gathering before he spoke again, his tone heavy with finality.
"And I curse him."
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
"May he never enter Valhalla."
Murmurs of shock spread among the onlookers. Some exchanged uneasy glances, others shifted uncomfortably where they stood. Even the executioner hesitated, his hands tightening around the axe handle.
"May he never feast with the gods."
A deep, uneasy hush fell over the square.
Bjorn's brow furrowed. He turned to his father, his young face shadowed with confusion. "Why did he do that?"
Ragnar did not answer immediately. His jaw tightened, his eyes locked onto the Jarl. The weight of the curse was not lost on him. To die bravely was one thing—but to be denied Valhalla, to be condemned to wander the void for eternity, forgotten and forsaken, was a fate worse than death.
Eric had faced his end as a warrior. He had died well.
And yet, with a few simple words, Earl Haraldson had erased that honor.
Ragnar exhaled, his voice low. "Because even in death… he wanted to take everything from him."
Bjorn's grip on his father's sleeve tightened.
The wind howled through the village, as if carrying Eric's lost spirit away.
The hall was alive with firelight, the warm glow flickering over the faces of warriors, chieftains, and kin gathered for the sacred ceremony. The scent of roasted meats and spiced ale mingled with the musk of damp furs, sweat, and the lingering acridness of the execution earlier that day. The air hummed with anticipation.
Rollo leaned in toward Ragnar and Bjorn, his voice low but firm.
"Someone told me he wanted that land for himself," Rollo muttered, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the hall. "And he knew Trygvasson had the best claim to it, but refused to sell it."
Bjorn's young face was shadowed with unease, but Rollo merely chuckled, clapping him on the shoulder.
"You hear that, boy?" he said, his tone edged with a grim amusement. "This is how things are done around here."
Bjorn said nothing, though his gaze lingered on the Jarl, standing tall before the gathered men and women.
A hush fell over the hall as two boys stepped forward.
"Olaf, son of Ingolf. Bjorn, son of Ragnar."
Earl Haraldson's voice carried the weight of ceremony, commanding respect and obedience. The boys stood before him, eyes wide but steady. A servant came forward, bearing a small dish filled with coarse salt and a handful of dark, fertile earth.
"May you accept this gift of salt and earth to remind yourself that you belong to both the land and the sea."
The boys dipped their fingers into the dish, pressing the salt and soil to their lips in solemn acceptance.
The Jarl's gaze darkened as he lifted two gleaming arm rings—symbols of loyalty, of oath, of eternal bond to their lord.
"These arm rings bind you in loyalty to me, your lord, your chieftain." His voice was steady, unwavering. "Any oath that you swear on these rings must be honored and kept."
He paused, letting the words sink in before speaking again.
"Do you understand and swear to this?"
The boys straightened, their voices firm despite their youth.
"Yes, lord."
Earl Haraldson's eyes flickered with satisfaction as he continued.
"And do you freely give your fealty to me, your lord, your chieftain?"
"Yes, lord."
A slow nod.
"Good. You may put on the arm rings."
The boys slid the rings onto their wrists, the cold metal biting against their skin. The weight of it was more than just iron—it was duty, expectation, and submission to the Jarl's rule.
The Chieftain's wife stepped forward, her face soft with warmth. "Come here." She chuckled lightly, brushing Bjorn's hair as he hesitated, then stepped closer. The tension eased, and laughter broke out among the crowd.
"Wooooo!" someone cheered.
A roar of applause and cheers followed, tankards raised high as the feast officially began.
Earl Haraldson's sword clanked against the table, silencing the hall just long enough to declare:
"Let us feast!"
The hall erupted with excitement. Meat and mead flowed freely, and the tension of the earlier execution seemed to melt away. But not for Ragnar.
He leaned forward, voice cutting through the revelry.
"My lord," he began, his tone respectful but firm. "We all want to feast, but we also want to know where we will be raiding this summer."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the room. Men turned, eyes gleaming with curiosity and expectation.
The Jarl exhaled, waving a hand. "Can't it wait, Ragnar?"
Before Ragnar could reply, Rollo stepped in.
"No." His voice was sharp. "Tell us. We want to know." He glanced around at the men gathered. "We have a right to know."
The room stilled. All eyes fell on Earl Haraldson.
The Jarl studied the faces before him, then relented with a sigh. "Very well." He straightened, his expression unreadable. "We will raid east again, to the Eastlands, and into Russia."
Groans and mutters followed. Ragnar tensed.
"Every year we go to the same places," he said, his voice carrying just enough challenge to make heads turn.
Silence settled once more.
"But there is an alternative…"
A ripple of quiet murmuring spread through the hall. Interest sparked in several pairs of eyes. The idea of something new, something greater—
Earl Haraldson scoffed. "Oh yes, yes. Choice, yes." His voice dripped with mock amusement. "I have heard of these rumors, these stories—that if we travel west, we will somehow reach a land that is rich and plentiful."
A few chuckles. Then, full-bodied laughter from some of the older warriors.
The Jarl smirked. "But I tell you that I will not risk my ships or my reputation on such a deluded fantasy."
Ragnar's jaw tightened.
Earl Haraldson's voice hardened, his gaze sharp. "They are my ships. I pay for them... and they go where I tell them to go." He straightened, lifting his goblet. "Now, that's the end of the matter."
He raised his cup.
"Let's feast!"
The hall cheered, lifting their drinks in celebration. But Ragnar barely heard them. His fingers tightened around his own cup as his mind whirled.
There was an alternative.
And whether the Jarl liked it or not…
He would find a way.
Bjorn made his way back to his family, his chest swelling with pride as the arm ring glinted on his wrist. He had taken the oath, bound himself to the Jarl. Ragnar, noticing his son's slight hesitation, pulled him close with a firm hand on his shoulder. His eyes traced the arm ring with careful attention.
"Let me see!" Ragnar said, his voice low, yet filled with an almost imperceptible sense of pride.
Bjorn held out his arm, his fingers brushing against the cool metal of the ring as his father inspected it.
"It's a nice ring," Jeanyx remarked from the side, his voice rich with the quiet respect that came with recognizing a warrior's symbol. "Fit for a warrior."
Ragnar nodded, his gaze still on the ring. "A warrior... Yes, it's earned." His tone was reflective, thoughtful.
But their moment was broken as a housecarl approached with urgency in his step.
"Ragnar Lothbrok," the man called out, his voice sharp and commanding. "Earl Haraldson wants to speak with you... in private."
Ragnar's eyes flicked toward the man, and he gave a curt nod, squeezing Bjorn's shoulder.
"Stay with your Uncle," he muttered to his son, before stepping away with the housecarl.
Inside the private hall, the Jarl sat at a large wooden table, his posture relaxed yet intimidating. The firelight danced over his weathered face as he motioned for Ragnar to sit.
"Sit down."
Ragnar obliged, settling into the chair with a heavy sigh, his eyes meeting Earl Haraldson's. The room was thick with tension, but the Jarl's demeanor was calm—dangerously so.
"Are you hungry?" the Jarl asked, his voice betraying no emotion.
"Yes, lord." Ragnar replied, his voice steady but sharp, despite the sudden unease that crept into his chest.
The Jarl tilted his head slightly, his lips twitching into a faint smirk. "You want to feast in my hall? You want to sail in my ships?"
Ragnar remained silent, knowing that the questions held more weight than simple pleasantries.
The Jarl's voice hardened as he leaned forward. "Anything else you want from me?"
Ragnar swallowed, a fire of defiance burning within him, but he knew he had to tread carefully.
"Lord…" Ragnar began, but the Jarl interrupted, his tone sharp and pointed.
"You keep talking about the West... What do you know of it, hmm?" Earl Haraldson leaned back, crossing his arms. "Why are you so certain that it's a land of great riches, hmm?"
Ragnar shifted in his seat, eyes flicking briefly to the Jarl's face, but his own gaze remained steady.
"I can't be sure," Ragnar admitted, his voice quiet yet firm. "But I believe that..."
Earl Haraldson raised a hand, cutting him off. "I don't care what you believe." His voice was cold, deadly. "You insulted me out there—and not for the first time. But believe me, it will be the last."
Ragnar remained silent, but his fists tightened beneath the table. His heart pounded in his chest, but he forced himself to maintain composure.
A cold chuckle came from the doorway as Svein stepped forward, his posture rigid with authority. "Who told you you could go?" he spat, his voice thick with disdain. "You are a farmer. You should be content with your lot. Farms are few and in great demand, and there are many people here who would like to possess your land."
Ragnar's jaw clenched at the jab, but he kept his eyes locked on the Jarl.
"Do you understand what I'm saying?" Svein asked, his voice like ice.
Ragnar met his gaze with a steady defiance. "I understand."
"Then don't ever stick your nose in my face again," Svein warned, his words cutting through the tense air. "I don't trust him. Watch him."
The finality in his voice was unmistakable, and with that, Svein turned and left the room, the door slamming shut behind him.
Ragnar felt a cold shiver run down his spine, but his resolve didn't waver. He knew this was far from over.
The weight of the conversation lingered in the air, thick with the unspoken threat that the Jarl would not easily let go of Ragnar's challenge. It was clear now—the Earl had been provoked, and Ragnar had no intentions of backing down. He glanced at the Jarl one final time, his voice low but unwavering.
"The West holds promise, my lord," Ragnar said, his tone laced with purpose. "More than you think."
Earl Haraldson's gaze hardened, but he said nothing, his silence more damning than any words.
Timeskip
The cold winds whipped through the trees, carrying the scent of salt and earth. It was a restless night, and the air seemed to hang heavy with the promise of something to come. In the darkness, the looming figure of Earl Haraldson loomed, his cries echoing through the silence.
"Where are they?" he cried, his voice raw with grief, his hands shaking as he gripped the edge of his bed, his heart heavy with unanswered questions. "Where are my sons? You said you'd found them..."
A soft gasp cut through the room as the Earl jolted awake, his body soaked in sweat, his breath ragged and strained. He closed his eyes briefly, inhaling deeply in an attempt to steady himself. The nightmare had left its mark, but reality wasn't much kinder. "Where are they?" he whispered again, his voice barely audible.
The sound of Bjorn's voice cut through the tension like a blade, grounding Ragnar as he stepped quietly into the dim light of the morning.
"Where are we going now? I'm so tired." Bjorn's voice was thick with exhaustion, his steps slow and uncertain.
Ragnar, his face weathered and determined, glanced down at his son, a gentle firmness in his tone. "To talk to the gods."
Bjorn, though worn from the trials they'd faced, gave a faint, confused glance. "The gods?"
Ragnar nodded, his expression softening slightly. "It's what we do."
Jeanyx, always quick with a remark, interjected. "Or, more accurately, the speaker of the gods."
The wind grew stronger, carrying with it the scent of the sea and the salt of ancient rites. They walked for miles through the rugged landscape, the path growing steeper as they approached a small hut nestled on the edge of the cliffs. Its walls were weathered, its thatched roof sagging with age, but it radiated a quiet, mysterious aura. They had reached their destination.
As they entered, the dim light revealed the figure of an ancient seer, hunched and gnarled with age, yet still exuding an otherworldly presence. The air within was thick with incense and the murmur of forgotten gods.
The seer, her eyes clouded with years of seeing beyond the veil, raised her head slowly as Ragnar stepped forward. Her voice rasped like dry leaves in the wind. "Why don't you come in?" she murmured. "I'm waiting. Sit."
Ragnar didn't hesitate, settling down across from her, his heart racing with the weight of what was to come. "What do you want?" the seer asked, her voice low and measured.
Ragnar's gaze didn't waver. "I want to know what the gods have in store."
The seer tilted her head slightly, her eyes narrowing as if she were peering into the depths of Ragnar's soul. "For you… or for the boy?" she asked cryptically.
Ragnar's eyes flickered momentarily to Bjorn, his son standing silently behind him. But he was resolute. "I'm more interested in myself."
A long silence stretched between them. The air seemed to pulse with a strange, charged energy as the seer leaned forward, her voice now filled with something more ominous. "The gods desire you to have a great future," she said slowly, her gaze piercing. "I see that."
Ragnar's heart skipped a beat at her words, a flicker of hope igniting inside him. But the seer's next words quickly doused it.
"But they can withdraw their goodwill at any time." She spoke as if the gods were capricious and cruel, their favor as fickle as the wind.
Ragnar's fists clenched, his resolve hardening. "To have this great future, must I challenge the law?"
The seer's laugh was a quiet, unsettling thing. "You must convince the gods to alter the runes so they work in your favor." She paused, as though weighing her next words carefully. "But the laws of men are far below the workings and shapings of the gods."
Ragnar's voice, filled with defiance, rose as he asked the question that burned in his chest. "So I should take the laws of men into my own hands?"
The seer's smile was faint, but her eyes gleamed with something dark. "Answer me."
Ragnar's breath came faster now, his pulse pounding in his ears. "You already have your answer." The words hung in the air, heavy and irrevocable.
Ragnar shook his head, his frustration bubbling over. "No, I don't."
The seer's voice, calm and unwavering, sliced through the tension. "Well, then go and ask the gods yourself."
Her words stung, leaving a bitter taste on Ragnar's tongue. "What are you afraid of?" she asked, her voice now filled with a touch of mockery.
Ragnar stared at her, his fists trembling, but his voice was steady as he spoke through gritted teeth. "Wait outside."
Bjorn hesitated but nodded, stepping back toward the doorway as Ragnar turned his attention back to the seer.
"All right." Ragnar's voice was quieter now, tinged with resignation. "You haven't helped me at all, ancient one."
Jeanyx's voice cut through the air as he stepped forward, a knowing look in his eyes. "Actually, Ragnar, the gods have said that it's time for us to take over our destiny. And that may not include our dear Jarl in the destiny."
The words hit Ragnar like a hammer, each syllable driving home the weight of the decision he had to make. The gods had spoken. They were calling him to forge a new path.
Ragnar's gaze hardened, a flicker of defiance igniting deep within him. "We will shape our own fate," he muttered to himself, the weight of the moment settling heavily on his shoulders. The time for playing by the old rules had passed.
Timeskip
The forest was quiet, save for the soft patter of rain against the leaves and the occasional gust of wind that swept through the trees, stirring the air. The path down the hill was uneven, the earth slippery from the rain, but Ragnar, Jeanyx, and Bjorn moved with the surety of those who had walked it many times before.
The trees swayed above them, their trunks thick and solid, the scent of damp wood and moss filling the air. As they descended deeper into the woods, the sound of the wind grew louder, almost as if it were calling to them.
Ragnar, his face serious but filled with a quiet excitement, glanced back at his son. "We have someone special to visit," he said, his voice low but filled with purpose. "His name is Floki."
Bjorn, who had been watching the path ahead, turned to his father with a curious look. "Floki?" he repeated, clearly intrigued. "Like Loki, the god?"
Ragnar chuckled softly. "Yes, but only in name."
Bjorn's brow furrowed, his curiosity piqued. "How is he different?"
Ragnar smiled knowingly, his gaze distant as if recalling memories of times long past. "He's not a god."
Bjorn paused, processing his father's words. "Why didn't he come to the Thing?" he asked, glancing up at Ragnar.
The answer came from Jeanyx, who was walking slightly ahead, a small, mischievous grin tugging at his lips. "He's shy," he said with a wink.
The air was thick with the sound of a man's shriek, followed by laughter echoing from deep within the woods. It was a strange, almost eerie sound that made the hairs on the back of Bjorn's neck stand on end. He looked up at Ragnar, who merely nodded in the direction of the noise, his expression knowing.
They reached a clearing soon after, and there, standing amidst a scattering of tools and wooden planks, was Floki. His wild hair and beard framed a face that was both eccentric and thoughtful, his eyes sharp, yet distant, as though constantly lost in thought. He stood over a workbench, his hands steady as he crafted something with intricate care.
Ragnar walked forward, his voice deep but warm. "Floki, this is my son, Bjorn."
Floki looked up, his eyes softening at the sight of the boy. "Hello." His voice was rough, but kind, as he studied Bjorn closely. "How are you?"
Bjorn, still uncertain of what to make of this odd figure, offered a polite reply. "Well. Thank you, sir."
Floki's gaze shifted, his sharp eyes taking in Bjorn in a way that felt almost unsettling, as if he were seeing something far deeper than the surface. "Let me see." He stepped closer, peering at Bjorn's face with an intensity that made the boy uncomfortable.
A small gasp escaped Floki as he stepped back. "Ah!" he exclaimed. "You have your father's eyes..."
Bjorn, confused by the remark, furrowed his brow. "Unfortunately?"
Ragnar, amused, let out a soft chuckle. "Why unfortunately?"
Floki's lips twitched into a strange smile. "It means he will be like you, Ragnar. And he will want to do better than you. And you will hate him for it." His voice was serious, but there was a mischievous edge to it that made Ragnar laugh.
Bjorn blinked, taken aback by the oddness of Floki's words. "How can you tell that by just looking at my face?"
Floki's expression softened slightly as he leaned closer, as if to impart some great secret. "Oh, it's the same with trees," he said, his voice taking on a philosophical tone. "I can tell which trees will make the best planks just by looking at them."
Ragnar raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. "You can?"
Floki nodded sagely, his hands moving through the air as though sketching invisible patterns. "I can look inside the tree, Ragnar. See its heart. I can tell what it will become, even before I split it."
He turned to a tree nearby, its thick trunk solid and strong. The sound of a woodpecker echoed in the distance as Floki placed a hand on the tree's surface, his fingers pressing into the bark as if feeling for something unseen. "This is one," he murmured, his voice calm and steady. "Inside this tree are two almost perfect planks. They will bend, then curve, like a woman's body from the thighs to the back."
He ran his fingers along the bark, tracing the lines of the wood. "When I split this tree, I will find them."
Bjorn, clearly skeptical, shook his head. "You can see that?"
Floki's eyes gleamed with a quiet certainty. "Do you think I'm joking?" His gaze turned sharp, no longer playful. "I joke about many things, son of Ragnar, but never about ship-building."
The air felt thick with the weight of Floki's words, and Bjorn found himself captivated, unsure whether to laugh or believe. The forest around them seemed to hold its breath, the rustling of leaves and the distant sounds of birds now hushed in the presence of the old boat-builder.
Back at Floki's house, the air was thick with the smell of wood shavings and the sound of tools against timber. The space was cluttered with half-finished projects and scattered tools, the walls lined with strange carvings and designs that spoke of Floki's peculiar nature. Amidst this clutter, Floki stood before a large wooden outline of a longship, his hands sweeping over the curves and lines with an air of satisfaction, as though the ship itself were an extension of his mind.
Ragnar, standing beside him, studied the model with a mixture of interest and skepticism. His voice cut through the silence, rough and curious. "So... what about our boat?"
The roar of a nearby waterfall echoed faintly in the distance, its sound constant and steady, almost like the beating of the earth's heart.
Floki, his eyes gleaming with excitement, nodded as he motioned to the model. "It will be lighter and carry a bigger sail." His fingers traced along the wood, each motion deliberate, each word filled with purpose. "The construction is different. It's built with a strong central plank. The two strakes above it are nailed directly onto the knees of the frame."
He paused for a moment, then pointed to the lower part of the model, his finger tracing the intricate patterns of the boat's structure. "But the ones below—look! They're cleated and lashed onto the frames, not nailed. This allows them to move in relation to each other."
Ragnar leaned in closer, his brows furrowing as he took in the details. The sound of the waterfall seemed to fade as Floki's words drew him in. "This means the boat won't butt against the waves like a goat, but will move over them like a ripple," Floki explained, a proud smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Ragnar grunted, impressed yet cautious. "Hmm."
Floki's gaze shifted, and he circled around to the hull of the ship, his eyes focused on its depth. "The hull is deeper," he said, tapping it thoughtfully. "How will my men set their oars?"
Floki smiled at the question, his hands moving to a part of the model where the oars would sit. "I will cut them into the sheerstrakes. The ports can be closed when the boat is at sea."
Ragnar, still skeptical, asked the next question that had been lingering in his mind. "And you think it could handle long sea voyages?"
Before Floki could answer, Jeanyx, who had been standing silently nearby, spoke up, his voice calm yet carrying a weight of foresight. "Normally, it would, but..." His gaze shifted as though he were seeing the future unfold before him. "... if a passage I found doesn't work, we'll have to go around Westeros, including the Stepstones. So, I am adding runes to the boat and a lot of protection charms, since the Black Pearl is not yet ready to make the journey faster."
Ragnar listened intently, his mind already racing with the possibilities and challenges of the sea. "But will it be strong enough?" he asked, his voice tinged with doubt.
Floki's expression remained steady, his hands tightening around the ship's framework as if trying to imbue it with strength. "We won't know that until we try," he said simply, the certainty in his voice unwavering.
Ragnar's gaze shifted to a small bundle of metal in the corner of the room. "For the anchor," he said, his voice quieter now. "It's all I have left from last summer's raids."
Floki gave a small chuckle, the sound like a deep rumble. "Don't worry," he said with a grin. "We'll soon be as rich as dwarves!"
Ragnar smiled, the tension lifting from his shoulders for a moment. His thoughts drifted, not to the dangers of the sea, but to the promise of what lay ahead. A new adventure. A new future.
Floki, satisfied with the model and his plans, turned his attention back to the wooden framework, already envisioning the ship's completion. It was a strange, wild dream, but for Ragnar and his crew, it was the only dream that mattered now.
Back at Ragnar's farm, the night was quiet, save for the gentle rustling of the wind and the occasional distant call of the animals. Inside their modest home, Ragnar and Lagertha lay side by side, their bodies still warm from the day's exertions. The room was dim, lit only by the faint glow of the fire that crackled softly in the hearth. Ragnar's eyes, though tired, held a softness as he turned to face Lagertha.
"I missed you," he murmured, his voice low and tender, the weight of the journey still lingering on his shoulders.
Lagertha shifted slightly, her fingers brushing against his as she spoke. "Did anything happen while we were away?" Her tone was quiet, the years between them marked by an unspoken understanding.
"No," Ragnar replied with a sigh, his voice heavy with the burdens of their life. He paused for a moment, his gaze softening as he let out a small laugh. "Did you miss me?"
Lagertha's lips curled into a teasing smile as she leaned closer, her breath warm against his ear. "I ached with love longing," she whispered. "My belly was empty of laughter."
Ragnar smiled, a rare, genuine smile that only she could coax from him. "Is that what you want?" he asked, his voice taking on a playful edge. "Hmm? You want me to make you laugh?"
Lagertha's eyes sparkled with mischief. "I don't want to laugh now," she said, her voice low and intimate. "I want to ride you, like a bull. Like a wild bull."
A soft moan escaped her lips as she moved closer, her body pressing against his. The warmth between them seemed to stretch the moment, enveloping them in a cocoon of longing. But outside, the world continued its own rhythms. The sound of water lapping at the shore came faintly, the soft splash of waves rolling over the rocks, as if the sea itself was watching over them.
But soon, the moment was interrupted. The door creaked open, and the sound of footsteps on the wet ground outside reached their ears. Ragnar sighed, pulling back from Lagertha's embrace, though the warmth of her presence lingered.
"Hello, young Bjorn," Ragnar called out with a grin, his voice warm and welcoming as their son entered the room, followed by Rollo.
"Hello, Rollo," Bjorn greeted, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
"Where are your parents?" Rollo asked, a chuckle in his voice.
"They are having sex," Bjorn said, with the blunt honesty only a child could muster, causing both men to laugh.
Rollo's chuckle rumbled in his chest. "Well, uh... I guess we'll have to wait."
Lagertha, ever the mother, gave a playful but firm look at her children. "So, Gyda, is your mother teaching you how to use a shield?" she asked, her voice soft yet authoritative.
"Yes, I know how to use a shield," Gyda replied proudly, standing tall.
Rollo, ever the one to tease, nodded sagely. "Your mother was a famous shield-maiden."
Lagertha raised an eyebrow. "Was?"
"Is a famous shield-maiden," Rollo corrected with a grin.
Lagertha chuckled lightly, a flicker of pride in her eyes. "Come on, children, to bed."
Gyda groaned, her small voice full of protest. "Do I have to?"
Bjorn, ever the clever one, crossed his arms and looked up at Ragnar with a smirk. "But I'm a man. I have a ring."
Ragnar chuckled, ruffling his son's hair. "Let him stay a while." He then turned to Lagertha with a mischievous grin. "To bed!"
The children, though reluctant, obeyed, offering their parents a final wave.
"Say goodnight," Lagertha prompted gently.
"Goodnight, my children," Ragnar said, his voice filled with warmth and affection as the children bid them goodnight.
"Goodnight," Rollo echoed, his voice softer than usual, a rare tenderness showing in his eyes.
As the children disappeared into their rooms, Ragnar's playful tone returned. "Hey!" he called out, his voice full of humor. "Shhhaaaaaa!"
Rollo laughed heartily, the sound echoing through the room. "Tell me your news," he said, settling down beside Ragnar.
Ragnar's smile faded slightly, though there was still a glimmer of excitement in his eyes. "What about the boat?" he asked.
"It's nearly ready," Ragnar replied, his mind already on the sea, the promise of their journey just around the corner.
But Rollo, ever the realist, was not yet convinced. "I won't go under your command," he said firmly, his gaze meeting Ragnar's. "I won't go unless we're all equal—me, you, and Jeanyx."
Ragnar's expression softened, and he nodded in understanding. "We are brothers," he said with conviction. "We will always be equal."
The silence that followed was filled with the unspoken bond between them. In that moment, the world outside seemed distant, and all that mattered was the promise of the future they would carve together.
The air around Ragnar was thick with the weight of his thoughts, the night wrapped in a deep stillness, broken only by the rhythmic sound of the water lapping at the shore. The fire inside their home crackled softly, casting long shadows across the room as the men sat in quiet contemplation.
Ragnar's words were filled with a quiet resolve. "Then we must find a crew." His voice was steady, yet there was an edge to it, a certainty that was hard to ignore. "Not many men will go against the wishes of Haraldson."
Rollo shifted, his brow furrowing. "Many will be afraid, some may even go to him and betray us." His voice was tinged with an unsettling truth. It wasn't the first time the possibility of betrayal had crossed their minds. Trust, after all, was a rare commodity in their world.
Ragnar stood up abruptly, his hand brushing against his face as he let out a heavy sigh. "I must go piss," he muttered, his tone casual but still burdened by the heavy thoughts that plagued him.
Outside, the sound of the waves lapping gently at the shore mingled with the distant calls of ravens. The dark expanse of the sea stretched endlessly beyond, a reminder of the uncertain journey that lay ahead.
As Ragnar stepped away, Rollo, who had been sitting in quiet contemplation, broke the silence. "Yesterday, I was with a girl from the town," he said, his voice low and somewhat sheepish. "A good-looking girl too."
Ragnar paused for a moment, his back to Rollo, as if preparing for whatever would come next.
"But when she shouted out in pleasure," Rollo continued, "I didn't see her face. I saw yours."
Lagertha's name hung in the air like a specter, a reminder of the tangled web of emotions that had woven itself between the men over the years. Ragnar, hearing the words, clenched his jaw and his fist involuntarily.
"Lagertha..." he murmured, almost too softly, but his tone sharp with warning.
Rollo met his gaze, a flicker of defiance in his eyes. "Why not?" he asked, his voice thick with something deeper than just jest. "I think about you all the time."
Lagertha, who had been silently watching the exchange, let out a quiet sigh. "That's too bad." Her words were calm, but there was an unmistakable hardness beneath them.
Rollo leaned forward slightly, his gaze fixed on her. "Don't insult me, shield-maiden." There was a hint of irritation in his voice, but it was tinged with something else, something unspoken.
Lagertha met his stare without flinching. "No," she said firmly, "I would never insult you. You're too great a warrior..." Her voice softened for a moment, then hardened again. "But perhaps not so great a man."
The words lingered in the air, and for a moment, the only sounds that filled the room were the waves crashing gently outside and the distant caw of ravens. Their voices seemed to fall into the background, drowned by the force of the unspoken truth hanging between them.
Then, abruptly, the silence was broken by the sudden burst of the door swinging open. Ragnar, his face set in a grim line, entered the room, his eyes intense with something that could only be described as revelation.
"I saw something," he said, his voice low and steady, but his eyes burning with conviction.
Rollo, already on edge, looked up, his expression wary. "What did you see?"
Ragnar exhaled, the weight of his breath heavy in the quiet room. "A sign." His voice grew firmer, more resolute. "It made me certain we're doing the right thing."
The tension in the room seemed to shift, the air charged with a new energy. Ragnar's words carried an undeniable certainty—an almost prophetic quality that made both Rollo and Lagertha pause. For the first time in what felt like ages, there was a sense of purpose in the air, a sense that this journey, this fight, was destined to be theirs.
With a final glance at his brother, Ragnar's voice softened. "Good night, brother."
The words, though simple, held a deeper meaning—one that spoke of loyalty, of shared purpose, and of the trials that lay ahead. Rollo, ever the reluctant but faithful companion, nodded once in silent agreement.
As the door closed behind Ragnar, the room fell silent once more, the only sounds now those of the waves, the ravens, and the heartbeat of the storm that brewed within each of them.
(timeskip)
A few days later, the finished product stood proudly before them in Floki's yard, the longship gleaming under the weak sun. The wood had been carefully shaped and assembled, every plank fitting into place as if it had been sculpted by the gods themselves. Its sleek design, with its deeper hull and carefully carved figurehead, seemed to promise both grace and strength. The sight of it brought a quiet sense of awe to the men gathered around.
Floki, ever the perfectionist, stood with his arms crossed, his sharp eyes scanning the ship from bow to stern. As Ragnar swung down from the rope that tethered him to the side of the docked ship, his feet landing lightly on the wooden planks, Floki's voice interrupted the moment of admiration.
"No need to say it, I can see it in your eyes." His tone was half-gruff, half-proud. Floki's eyes gleamed with a subtle satisfaction, though it was quickly tempered with the knowledge of what was to come.
Ragnar's expression was filled with nothing short of admiration. "Beautiful," he said simply, his voice thick with respect as he stood back to take in the full scope of the ship.
Floki, however, muttered under his breath, his eyes still locked on the ship's frame. "It's only beautiful if it works." The weight of his words hung in the air, grounded in the reality that beauty alone could never guarantee success. The ship had to prove itself, and Floki knew that more than anyone.
Jeanyx, ever the steadying presence among them, placed a reassuring hand on Floki's shoulder. "It will work, Floki," he said, his voice calm yet firm. "It has to."
Floki glanced at him, his face softening for just a moment before returning to the ship. "I hope you're right." His voice was quieter now, filled with an uncertainty that was rare for the usually confident boat-builder.
Ragnar stepped back, his eyes tracing the lines of the ship once more. His heart swelled with anticipation for the journey ahead. It was not just a ship—it was a symbol. A symbol of freedom, of rebellion, of a future unshackled by Haraldson's oppressive rule. This ship, this longship, would carry them into the unknown. And with it, they would carve their names into the history of their people.
"Well," Ragnar said, straightening up and wiping his hands on his pants, "If it works, we'll have the most beautiful ship on the seas."
Floki gave a dry chuckle at that, his doubt still lingering beneath the surface but hidden behind his rugged demeanor. "If it works."
Jeanyx shot a glance at Ragnar, the weight of their shared understanding settling in between them. This was more than just a ship—it was their future, their rebellion, and possibly their salvation.
Ragnar, always one to embrace the unknown, gave a slight nod. "It will work."
The water churned beneath them as they rowed, the rhythm of the oars digging into the waves with each powerful stroke. The men grunted with effort, muscles straining as they pushed the longship forward. The ship creaked under the pressure, but it held its shape—at least for now.
"Set the sail!" Ragnar called out, his voice thick with urgency.
"Floki! The sail!"
The tension was palpable as the men continued to row, but there was still doubt in the air. "She'll sink!" Floki shouted in return, his tone laden with a mix of concern and regret.
"No, she bloody won't!" Ragnar barked back, determination in his eyes. The wind was beginning to pick up, but the ship still felt uncertain. The nerves were eating at Floki, the doubts gnawing at him. He had never dared to believe his creation would stand the test of the sea.
"I shouldn't have pretended to build such a boat," Floki muttered to himself, almost inaudible over the thundering sounds of the water. "It's beyond my humble capabilities." He paused, his eyes fixed on the sail. "I'll set the sail."
Ragnar shot him a quick look. "Shut up, man."
The sail finally unfurled with a loud snap as the wind gusted, filling it with the power of the gods. The ship surged forward, its cool keel cutting through the waves as though it had always been meant to do so.
"Ha!" Ragnar laughed, the sound wild and triumphant. "Now it runs on its cool keel!"
Floki stared at the sail, a momentary flash of disbelief crossing his face, then a quiet smile. "Oh, it's beautiful." The doubt that had plagued him was slowly dissolving, replaced by the unmistakable truth that the ship was alive. "Why didn't you believe me?" Ragnar said, a grin spreading across his face. "I told you I could do it!"
The two men shared a hearty laugh, the sound of their joy mixing with the creaking of the ship and the rushing wind. The ship had proven itself—it was ready.
As the ship sailed gracefully over the water, the last of Floki's reservations faded. "Ah?" he said, finally letting the full weight of their success settle in.
Ragnar, now fully in his element, looked ahead, the horizon stretching out before them like a canvas for their destiny. "Now it's all up to you, Ragnar Lothbrok you just need to get us there." He spoke the words with a mixture of excitement and responsibility, knowing that the course of their future was now irrevocably set.