Master of My Sea
reply to: HeavensWeatherHellsCompany -
Nooo, ahaha. Kára is not Ragnar's possible love interest. She's 12 right now,
and Ragnar is like, nearly if not already 50.
Big thanks to all who had favourited and alerted! Also thanks to HeavensWeatherHellsCompany , Guest, and ReadLikeHermione for reviewing :)
Want to apologize for the late update. Been a bit crazy this past few weeks and the chapter i was working on was proving to be difficult for me to write, just because I felt a lil uninspired. Also apologies for any grammatical/spelling errors, run-on sentences, and repetitive words in this chapter. I had a friend beta the previous chapters, but I didn't ask her to do this one, since she was pretty busy with school starting.
Hope you enjoy!
chapter three:
THE MAN IN THE WOOD
Kára's feet had taken her farther than she anticipated. It wasn't until she found herself in a clearing with a seemingly abandoned house, that she realized she was still barefooted. The soles of her feet were on fire, and she was fairly certain that she had a few cuts here and there from stepping on thorns and sharp rocks. This wasn't new, though; her feet were often the victims of such treatment. Kára didn't like boots, they made her toes squish together and left little grip for her when she climbed trees. However, she admitted that boots and shoes had their perks… for one thing, her feet wouldn't be as sore as they were now had she been wearing a pair.
The girl sat on an old chopping block so she could pull up her foot over her knee to have a better look at the blisters on her pads. It took her a few seconds to realize that there was freshly chopped wood sitting next to her, which meant that the house she stopped at was not abandoned. Before she could react, the door opened, and in a quick motion she stood and turned, brandishing her worn down tagger from her belt.
Standing in the doorway, looking both curious and perplexed by the green-footed girl wielding a 5 inch dagger was none other than her King, Ragnar Lothbrok. His eyes were wide and bloodshot, and his lips were chapped and bleeding. If she had not known who he was, Kára would have assumed he was a berserker, at how feral and unhinged he seemed. Alas, it was no secret that Ragnar had been slowly slipping into madness ever since his return from Paris with defeat on his shoulders.
"Have you come to kill me, little girl?" He looked amused as he examined her from foot to head. The sight of her hair under the early spring sun had nearly blinded him; it lit a fiery hue that made him immediately know who's child stood before him. There were very, very few who were born with red hair in Kattegat, and even less children. "You are Kára Ulfsdóttir, am I correct?"
Ulfsdóttir…
Kára had not heard that in a long time. It was as if calling her, her father's daughter was a great shame that she may grow offense to. Or perhaps her mother was a greater name than her father's. Either way, Kára was seldom called Ulfsdóttir.
She had not sheathed her dagger, but her grip had loosened a fraction as she regarded Ragnar with a curious yet cautious stare. "You knew my father?"
"I knew him, yes," Ragnar continued to openly stare at the girl, examining her face and features, trying to place his pictures to a long distant memory that he had lost in the whirlwinds of his mind. The fate of Ulf was not an easily forgotten story by those who knew him, especially for those present during the time before Ragnar had been king. He might have not known Ulf on a personal level, but Ragnar respected him as a viking and a man. This respect grew since Ulf had joined him, Floki, Rollo and the others on their journey to the new world.
"He sailed west with us, a long time ago."
Kára knew the story as well as any danish child did; it was what made Ragnar Lothbrok a living legend, and had changed the fates of their people forever. What she did not know, however, was her father being there as well. "My mother never told me," she found herself saying out loud, opening up to how little she knew of her father. She did not even see his face, being that he died before he knew she was inside her mother's womb. "She never told me anything about him."
Ragnar saw how her arm that wielded the dagger became slacken once her guard began to fray. He took this moment to move from the archway and inch closer to her, though kept a safe enough distance not to alert her any further. She was aware of his movement, he could see that by the twitch of her knuckles around the hilt of the dagger. At least she was not stupid enough to let her guard completely down around strangers.
"What has she told you about him?" He asked, leaning against a yard away from her.
"That he was talented," she answered, a strain visible on her face as she struggled to admit the last thing. "And he killed himself."
"Is that all?"
She sent him a glare, "That is all."
The king had very few moments with Ulf himself, though he understood him more than most. He knew he was talented; a carpenter, a smith, an inventor. Many thought he was mad at the ideas he would come up with and attempt to make, but he was more gifted than most men. His fingers were magical, even when carving a piece of wood he would produce a intricate masterpiece that many would pay gold for. It was probably what drew a woman like Hulda to him. Ragnar couldn't help but wonder if his daughter was anything like the both of them, but so far what he had seen, she was vastly different. She had her mother's face, but her father's eyes, and yet she was wild like an orphan child who had been raised by wolves. Even her hair was not like Hulda's, which was rich like dark berries, yet her daughter's was more like a raging fire. Kára knew how to handle herself, which could not have been learned from her mother. Hulda was never a shieldmaiden, and ever since her daughter was born she had become a recluse. So it was fascinating how her daughter had somehow had an inborn ability to know how to properly hold a weapon, let alone have the bravery to fend for herself in the wild. Ragnar couldn't help but wonder what his ex wife would have thought of a girl like her… surely she would be intrigued and would be willing to adopt her so she could train her to be a shieldmaiden with the a prowess alike herself.
"What are you doing out here, little one? You are a league away from home," The king asked, putting their previous conversation in the past, but not forgetting it.
The question, though, seemed to light a spark under her ass once more, because she turned her body around on the block and glared at him more fiercely, as if he was the source of her problems. In a way, he was.
"I am here, because your son is a prick!"
The corner of his lips twitched, aware of the answer but asked anyway, "Which one?"
"The cripple!"
Of course it was Ivar; he could deal with Ubbe, Hvitserk, or even Sigurd getting into trouble. They were typical youthful men, and still did boyish things for attention. Easy to discipline, easy to understand. But his youngest was different than the others; he could not touch him. He was more his mother's son than his own, and Ragnar was partially to blame for it. His mind wandered to the many ways that Ivar the Boneless could have tormented this girl; was she a friend to the boy he killed a few years ago? Did he steal her shoes? Did he make fun of her father? Ragnar did not wait long for an answer, as his silence invited her to speak more.
"He took my bow,"
Yes, this surprised him quite a bit, because it was probably the littlest problem Ivar could have made. It made Ragnar give a crack of a smile; there was something comforting about the fact that Ivar was normal enough to get in trouble for something a normal boy his age would get into trouble for.
"He stole your bow?"
Her face twisted as she became conflicted with herself, "No, not really. It was a price… I insulted him, and he demanded compensation."
Ragnar's brow raised a bit at her openly admitting to her own fault, which was an admirable trait. Honesty was highly valued among their people, but of recent years he had seen the steady decline of that honoured quality. Every generation, children have grown more secretive and more dishonest, valuing fame and fortune thanks to their ambitious fathers. Ragnar happened to be one of those fathers, but he would not admit to that, not now, not yet.
Wanting to test how far she would be willing to admit the truth, he probed her further, "What did you say to him?"
Kára did not know what Ragnar's relationship was with Ivar. She knew that the repercussions of her words would have been greater had the Queen been the one asking her this question, but the King? He was a man of a different mind. Kára did not know much of him, but she knew that he was a reasonable man, if not a bit off his rocker in his later years. Not to mention, it was a crime punishable if she lied right to the face of her king, a fate worse than insulting his least favourite son.
"He said that it was no wonder I looked so unruly, since I lived in a tree and had no father to discipline me," Ragnar noticed how her eyes casted down to the ground, her fingers fiddling with the leather handle of the dagger she still held. If it wasn't evident before from their previous chat, it was now blatantly obvious that the topic of a father, or a father figure, was a sensitive one to the small redhead. Her shoulders squared as he watched in fascination of her summoning up the bravery to stare back into his eyes, "So I said that it was better than being a teat-sucking babe of twelve winters."
The king could not hold back the shine of his teeth as his lips stretched into a smile. He knew that it was nothing to laugh at- he had told Aslaug many times that Ivar should have not been nursed for as long as he was. It was unnatural and would only ensure his reliance on her. Thankfully, it had ceased once Ivar turned ten years, but that was not long ago. He had hoped that no one would know of this, but it seemed to somehow reach some ears. Hopefully by rumour and not fact. Ragnar turned his head, ashamed at his own amusement and hid his grin behind a closed hand.
His eyes returned to Kára, who looked away as she also tried to hide her tiny smile. It seemed her only regret was being caught and being punished for it. The girl reminded him of Ivar in a strange way; not of what was wrong with him - his many ill behaviours that resulted in poor parenting - but what made him affable. Defiant, cheeky, headstrong, and clever. Naturally, because of this, Kára and Ivar would continue to but heads like two territorial rams.
Ragnar slid down onto the floor, and sat with his back against the trunk of the tree. He lifted his leg to rest an arm over his knee and then leaned his head back against the bark behind him. "This bow was important to you. Or else you would not have run away in despair," he stated matter of factly.
Kára found herself sliding off the chopping block and onto the ground as well, but she folded her legs with a foot lifted to rest on her thigh. Her fingers began to massage her toes and press against the bulging blisters she had on the balls of her feet. "I made it," she replied with a soft voice. "It was like my father's hands were guiding mine. It's the only thing I have that is remotely close to his."
"Your mother doesn't have any of his work?" She shook her head, and Ragnar frowned. "Why is that?"
Kára's brow furrowed as she paused in both thought and frustration, "She once told me that the last part of her died when he died, and it was when I was born that she was reborn as well. In order to become what she was destined to be, she had to forsake all from her last life."
Something in those words made Ragnar's skin ripple in goosebumps, and all hair stood on end. He pulled his head from the tree trunk and pulled up his other knee to rest his other arm. Blue orbs moved all around the clearing, from the sky, to the cottage he found himself at more often than his own home, with the company of a slave who he knew very little. It was as if he was trying to live another life that was not his; escaping to worlds vastly different than his own with the help of Yidu and her medicine.
At last his eyes rested on Kára, who had not looked up at him yet; her own gaze was still glued to the sole of her foot. "I have something that your father made," he found himself saying out of the blue. "He gave it to me when I became Earl of Kattegat."
This had brought her gaze to him, wide eyed and hopeful. She opened her mouth, then closed it for a moment, then finally asked if she could see it.
"It is back at the longhouse," he replied, and took notice to her visible disappointment.
She nodded and sunk back into her spot on the floor and went back to picking at her toes. Her mind began to wonder to questions about the man who sat in front of her. King Ragnar Lothbrok; the farmer who made himself king. He was her people's hero, his name stretching far across Norway, Denmark, and Sweden. Yet there he sat, at the base of the tree, looking twice as old as his real age, and his eyes looked more dead than his body. Kára bit her lip and looked back at the old cabin that he came from and then back at the king. "You are avoiding home," she pointed out boldly.
Ragnar had slipped into his own thoughts as well, but they had brought him to nostalgia, which proved to be both a poison and a remedy for his clouded and sick mind. When she spoke, he almost thought her voice was the whisper of his conscious,, but eventually he remembered he was not alone, so he moved his head slowly to her. "What makes you say that?"
"You are never seen in the city," She gave a slight shrug, as if it was an obvious statement. "And if this is where you are when you are not with your family, then it is because you're avoiding them."
"You sound like your mother," he leaned his head back against the tree again, his eyes darting off to the clouds.
"You've talked to her?"
"No,"
"Than how do you know I sound like her?"
Ragnar lulled his head to the side and stared at Kára with that same disconnected stare he seemed to always have. It was both penetrating in a way that he could peer into her own soul, but at the very same time they seemed disengaged from his mind, from reality. Ragnar never formally spoke to Hulda, especially not after she became Wand Wed. Between the Seer and his wife, he already had enough magical beings telling him about his fate. Though all women tended to sound the same, especially those with gifts bestowed to them by Freya.
"All women are the same," he repeated his thoughts.
Kára gave him a wooden stare, "You mean we all sound right?"
It was Ragnar's turn to give her a wooden stare as well, this time with a show of teeth as he mocked her, "Shouldn't you be on your way home?"
"I don't want to go home," she admitted, pulling up her knees to her chest.
"Then it sounds like the both of us are avoiding it."
Silence befell on them both as they stared at something unrelated to the other. Kára looked at the dirt of her toes, where the grass stains collected around her cuticles and under the nail, and Ragnar stared at the door of the little cabin, where Yidu was sleeping under some furs. She usually found him gone by the time she woke up, but where he was, wasn't far away, nor was it in Kattegat. He would always come back, if only for the medicine she provided, and a bed that wasn't his marriage.
Suddenly Ragnar heard a guttural sound coming from the girl, which made him turn at her with curiosity. A red flush graced her face as she hugged her legs closer to her stomach, then she responded pitifully, "I'm hungry."
Ivar and Floki had returned to Kattegat not long after the incident with Hulda's daughter. The trek home was silent as he rode on the back of his mentor, which made Ivar wonder if Floki was upset with him. What happened wasn't Ivar's fault, it was Kára's. She shouldn't have insulted her prince. Not to mention she had not even apologized for hitting his shoulder with her arrowhead initially. Or...Or the confusing, uninvited, chapped-lipped kiss.
By the time they reached the longhouse, Ivar had gotten himself in a sour mood, which only intensified when his stomach gave a growl indicating its emptiness. Floki silently walked into the great hall and allowed the boy to slide off his shoulders and onto a bench next to his brothers who all waited patiently for a meal to be provided. Without a word, the viking had left them and into the other room that hid behind a brown pelt.
"Where have you been all day?" Sigurd asked, eyeing his least preferred brother with a suspicious gaze.
Ivar was handed a horn of weak ale by Ubbe as he casted Sigurd a smug smile, "Floki took me to see a Völva." Once he had processed the information given to him by his mentor and finally met the woman, Ivar was all too willing to bless in the privilege of being able to talk to her, and receive something from her. The bow was still strapped to his back with the utmost of pride, and he had no intention of removing it.
"The one by the river? Hulda Rauða?" Sigurd squinted at him in disbelief.
"So you know her?" Ivar picked up his horn as he grinned at his brother. "She gifted me this bow herself. Said that if I kept good care of it… it will bring me fortune and fame."
Sigurd snorted, but Ubbe seemed more or less intrigued by the story, his eyes looking over at the bow and examined it. "It must have been made by her husband," he mused, admiring the design along the limbs.
Ivar knew that wasn't true, but the mention of a husband caused him to pause before taking a sip of his ale. He looked at Ubbe, "I saw no husband. Floki says that the völvur are Wand Wed and do not have husbands."
Hvitserk was the one to speak, "I remember her. She was married to that smith. What was his name, Ubbe?"
"Ulf," The eldest brother answered. "I remember him as well. They had a son together, did they not?"
"And a daughter," Ivar added without realizing it. All three brothers turned to him with a collectively odd look.
"I don't remember a daughter," Hvitserk sat up in his seat as he tried to think of any fleeting memory of a girl.
"She can't be much older than Ivar," Ubbe commented. "Ulf died the winter of the year that you were born."
"How did he die?" Ivar found himself asking.
"The same way Siggy died," Sigurd replied a little forcefully. "He drowned in a frozen lake."
"What are you all talking about?" Four heads turned to see that their mother had appeared from the room adjacent. Aslaug seemed fairly unfazed, but her eyes always held that glint of all knowing, much like Hulda's, but more intimidating because she was their mother.
Ubbe opened his mouth, feeling some obligation in admitting their topic of choice, but his saving grace came in the form of servants coming into the longhouse with plates of steaming food. "Finally!" He called out, arms extended in happiness.
Aslaug sat down at the table across from Ivar and next to Sigurd. Floki had reappeared alongside Helga, who had been with the queen all day. The two sat on the other side, shoulder to shoulder as the food was put on the table in front of them. It was a meal fit enough for their small company, though greater than many meals served in many households. Rabbit stew was served in wooden bowls, accompanied by fresh bread, dried fruits, and at last a platter of salted pork and cheese.
"Is father joining us?" Hvitserk asked as he looked over at his mother.
Her eyes were casted downwards at her bowl of stew for a long moment, not answering out of the pain of the topic. Ragnar had not joined them in nattmal for so many nights, that Aslaug had lost hope in waiting for him to sit with the family and eat with them. She gave a tight-lip smile at her son before stating simply, "I do not know."
Floki shared a look with Helga, but said nothing as he shoveled his bread into the stew and shoved it into his mouth. It was true, Ragnar had become not the man that he knew, and after the events of Paris, he did not know if he wanted to learn of this new Ragnar. No, that was a lie, Floki loved his friend dearly, as much as anyone, but he could not erase the past and the rift that has been made in their friendship. Helga knew better than anyone what her husband's true feelings were; she knew he mourned for what he and Ragnar used to be. Many times had their love for each other has been tested by their enemies, but in the end it was their own prides and mistakes that tested their bonds greater than any other threat.
As if the wind had carried his name through the crack of the door and called out to him, Ragnar Lothbrok, himself, appeared at the entrance. The door opened with a kick and a bang, and the tall figure entered with something propped on his shoulders. All of their collective stares were ones of surprise, but for some it was mixed with other emotions. For Aslaug it was both confusion and resentment; for Floki it was intense curiosity; for Ivar it was shock, not because of his father, but because of who he was carrying on his back.
Well, i know not much didn't happen this chapter, but like I said, it's a slow burn, and since this is my first Vikings fic, I wanted to get a feel how to write some of the main characters outside of Floki and Ivar. I hope I did Ragnar some justice, since during this time he's not himself. Not to mention this meeting with Kára and him was pretty important, because Ragnar plays a pretty vital role in both her and Hulda's life, especially in the future.
So for those of you who don't know, most people back then only had two means a deal. In viking/northern culture, they called dinner nattmal and they called breakfast dagmal. I'm trying to use the correct words for specific things, just to add an element of realism, I suppose? Hope that makes sense, haha.
Anyway, hope it was a good chapter for you guys, and I'll see you in the next chapter. Reviews, as always, greatly appreciated!
~CB
