Ragnar the Red
(A/N: Second up today. Not a fan of this bard song, but it certainly sparked my imagination. Also mixed it in with the Headless Horseman who rides in Skyrim to Hamvir's Rest. Loved that Legend of Sleepy Hollow Easter Egg.)
Oh there once was a hero named Ragnar the Red
Who came riding to Whiterun from old Rorikstead.
And the braggert did swagger and brandish his blade,
As he told of bold battles and gold he had made.
But then he went quiet did Ragnar the Red,
When he met the shield-maiden Matilda who said:
"Oh you talk and you lie and you drink all our mead,
Now I think it's high time that you lie down and bleed!"
And so then came clashing and slashing of steel,
As the brave lass Matilda charged in full of zeal.
And the braggart named Ragnar was boastful no more,
When his ugly red head rolled around on the floor!
-Ragnar the Red
At least, that was how the story went; and at its base every word of it was true. However, when a legend was put to lyrics, it had a tendency to be shortened. So let it be broken down…
ES
Oh there once was a hero named Ragnar the Red,
Who came riding to Whiterun from old Rorikstead.
And the braggert did swagger and brandish his blade,
As he told of bold battles and gold he had made.
He was a legend amongst warriors, highly skilled though arrogant and haughty. True to his boasts, he had fought in many a bold battle and made a pretty sum of gold as well. His way of speaking was animated and unabashed, and every word he spoke was accompanied by a dramatic action so that there was no better storyteller to listen to than he… But his narrations were disturbing, and the delight he took from describing in graphic and gory detail his each and every kill terrified all those who listened to him. His gold he held high over the heads of others, unafraid to flaunt his riches before them all. Why not? They were a conquered people. They were his conquered subjects, the products of a battle some years prior that had led to all of Whiterun hold being smothered and choked in the bloody swath he cut through it.
He didn't hesitate to boast that he was their conqueror, that they belonged to him, and that he was unafraid to take anything and everything that was his. There was no taming his wild and violent nature, there was no challenger. None dared to try… And then she came…
ES
But then he went quiet did Ragnar the Red
When he met the shield-maiden Matilda who said…
She had heard tale of the great hero who had slaughtered so many and conquered all of Whiterun Hold. She had heard of the riches he possessed and of the violent nature burning within him. She had heard of his murders, unchecked, and his plundering of every village or settlement he came across. He made himself out to be a great hero, but he was a barbarian and a tyrant, and she would not stand for the subjugation of her people, for she had been born to Whiterun, and her heart was with her native hold.
She was a shield-maiden, a warrior in her own right, and she was the best of the best in Whiterun Hold. Naturally, when she heard he was riding to Whiterun city from Rorikstead village she became… vengeful… She desired to challenge this legend amongst warrior heroes and to see if he was truly as good as his boasts suggested he was, but first she would feel him out. She was beautiful and confident, strong and highly desirable, but she was untouchable. It was the air she gave off, it was the position she determined to hold, the virgin warrior, untainted by any man, unencumbered by anything so petty and useless as desire and love. What did she care for the company of a lover? They would only ever slow her down.
None could have her, none ever would, but she was a prize no man could ever pass up the chance to win. So when she entered the tavern where he was sitting at the counter boldly narrating his latest battle, and he caught sight of her, for the first time his words died in his mouth and he became as if he were mute, gazing at her stonily. He would have this woman, he determined then and there. He would have her as his conquest; another name to add to the many battles he had fought and conquered, only this would be a fight against one solitary opponent.
A hush had come upon the tavern and all eyes fell upon her. He heard them uttering her name in undertones. Matilda, they called her. It was a name he was amused by. Matilda… and she would be the wench he made his favorite of all the slave girls and concubines he had either collected or been gifted. "Come, milady, why is it you've brought yourself before me?" he cooed in a falsely lulling tone, playing the part of innocent and good and masking his true desires.
She scoffed at him and he started. That was a reaction he hadn't expected. Now he became intrigued. This was not just another pretty face, he determined. She was armored well, a deadly looking blade on her back. It wasn't just for show, he sensed. This woman knew how to use it and very likely she knew how to use it well. "Matilda, be gone from this place," a patron quietly pled to her.
"Don't be so hasty to send her out. What is it you want?" he asked.
"Oh you talk and you lie and you drink all our mead. Now, I think it's high time that you lie down and bleed."
"You have overstayed your welcome here, and it is time these people are freed from your tyranny," she added. And here the story expands. Here is what the bards do not tell…
ES
He was silent a long moment. She was challenging him. The girl was challenging him. "Do you think for a moment you could hope to stand against me?" he questioned, all thoughts of making her his concubine fleeing. A challenger was far, far more desirable to him than a sexual interlude. Sex was recreation, battle was adrenaline. Adrenaline rushes were what truly aroused him.
"I will stand against you," she answered, drawing her blade.
"Not now, lady. Perhaps in two months' time. I suggest you practice every waking hour. Besides, I am becoming drunk. It would hardly be a fair match with me in this inebriated state," he replied. "Let's take that time to get to know our opponent. Let us make this battle a confrontation worthy of legends, to be passed down through the ages for eternity."
She was silent a long moment, eyes ponderous. She couldn't deny she liked the idea of fame, of songs being written about their fight, of songs ringing through the night of her victory over him; and she would be sure it was a victory, even if foul play had to be utilized. She wasn't above such low-down measures. She was not what you would call an honorable or good woman, but she never strove to be. He was not what you would call and honorable or good man; and he strove in fact to be the exact opposite. It would be a match worthy of tales, no doubt.
"Very well," she agreed. There would be much one-on-one contact with him, she knew, as they got to know each other's strengths and weaknesses; and she would attack at every weak point he possessed. She would know the man better than he knew himself… and somehow neither of them saw the danger in this resolution of theirs…
ES
True to their words, within a month's time they knew everything there was to know about each other. They knew their darkest secrets, their most painful experiences. He told her of the friends he had lost in battle, and in particular the dearest of all his beloved friends whom he'd cradled in his arms trying desperately to save. The friend he had slaughtered the whole of a battalion single-handedly for as an act of vengeance when finally the man had slipped mercifully away into death.
She told him of the deaths of almost her entire family at the hands of a plague, and then the loss of the one sister she'd had who survived; a sister who was kidnapped, molested, and then sacrificed upon an alter to Hagravens; a sister who she was too late to save and whose mutilated body she'd discovered splayed across a rock. There was hardly anything left to bury.
She told him she had tried to kill herself shortly after. He told her that he had tried taking his own life multiple times and that perhaps every battle he'd fought since the loss of his best friend had been recklessly charged into with the hopes that one day he simply wouldn't make it through to see another. They sparred for hours and hours on end with each other, judging techniques and speaking of their pasts, both happy memories and bad, speaking of likes and dislikes and interests they had in what topics… and then sparring fell to the wayside...
In place of metal clashing on metal, it was lips clashing against lips and flesh. Instead of grappling in hand-to-hand combat there was rolling across the ground tearing into each other's bodies without remorse or regret and relishing each passionate moment that passed between them. In fact there came a point when they forgot that they were soon to fight to the death and instead began speaking of the future, of the lives they would lead together. He would agree to leave Whiterun, to never fight again, if she would agree to come with him and be his alone… And then they remembered, and then they realized the trap they had fallen into, the mistakes they had made, the errors they now needed to correct if either had a hope in Oblivion of battling.
ES
She told him over and over that she despised him, spat at him and struck him with all her might whenever they came face-to-face. She snarled at him and scoffed at his advances. He in turn became violent and belligerent. He would tear her apart with words both emotionally and psychologically. She disdained him and turned her back on him with laughter. He became physically abusive… no, no… he tried to be, but no matter how much he wanted to or how desperately he attempted to gravely injure the woman, he couldn't strike her. That is to say he could strike her and had, but never more than once and never with full power.
That was when he knew she had already won their battle. That was when he knew he would fall to her blade. That was when he realized that he loved her more than anything he ever had, that he loved her far more than she had ever loved him… He gave up, in that moment; gave up trying to hate her, to turn his heart to her. He disappeared, ensuring he would not see her until the day of their battle and in turn ensuring he would not be weakened and disillusioned more than he already had been… and ensuring she did not become any more powerful than she was. What he didn't realize was that with his leaving, her strength began weakening as her desire for his hot blood running through her fingers disappeared instead to desire to feel his red hair, warm and thick, flowing through her fingers as she took his lips. These images she forced away harshly, never wanting to envision them again. And here is where the story picks up.
ES
And so then came the clashing and slashing of steel,
As the brave lass Matilda charged in full of zeal...
The day of their battle arrived. There they were in the tavern, gazing into each other's souls and beings as they had that first day… only this time there was so much more between them. She wanted to stop this. She wanted to turn her back and walk out never to return. He wanted nothing; nothing but peace and a release from the mess of sin and cruelty that his life had become. He wanted redemption, and more than anything else he wanted to take her in his arms and sweep them both far away from this place and this battle to never look back. He didn't want her to hurt anymore. He didn't want himself to hurt anymore.
She drew her blade without a word. There was no going back now. He drew his own weapon and the two ran at each other full-tilt, metal clashing against metal, slashing and cutting and stabbing in such quick and desperate succession that the observers could hardly keep up to all that was happening. It was a dance of death. One of the two would not live to see another hour. It was surreal, in a way. He landed the first strike, slashing her deeply. She cried out in pain and for a moment, just a moment, he backed off. Quickly, though, she recovered from the strike and began attacking harder than ever. She saw nothing but red… not that sort of red born of anger and bloodlust, but the red of his hair. She faltered for the briefest of seconds in which he turned and managed to drive his blade deeply into her leg. She collapsed with a scream and he went for the finishing blow. She rolled out of the way and rose, though, spinning.
And the braggart named Ragnar was boastful no more,
When his ugly red head rolled around on the floor!
It happened in slow motion. He didn't recover quickly enough, not this time, and her flashing blade shone in the light as the cold steel met the warm flesh of his neck. Just like that it was over. His head rolled across the floor, severed from his body. She could only gaze on in silence as the body collapsed to the ground… and as the eyes turned upwards towards the roof. She met those eyes with hers… she saw his red hair splayed out on the ground… It was silent. It was silent, and then there was applause and cheers, but she never moved. It felt as if her world had stopped. She could hear nothing, feel nothing, smell and taste nothing, see nothing… nothing but those eyes gazing into hers… Before the night was done she had taken his remains and gone to Hamvir's rest. There she buried him. There she took the sword from the hand that still clutched it… and after she was done she wandered far out into the plains. There she fell upon his blade, dying swiftly…
ES
The sword and body were found and, while the blade was brought to the place where he had been laid to rest, she was cremated and buried in the place she had fallen. It's said that to this day he searches for her, longing to bring her back with him to his tomb where they will be together forever more.