After nearly losing Lagertha not so long ago, watching Lorel fall beneath a blow he may or may not have struck had broken something in the half-blind kappi. Through his grief, he’d been aware of the weighty judgment of the Valkyrie mare who’d crossed the vast oceans with the intent of marking him for death, or so she had insinuated in her infuriatingly detached way. The Norns had been watching them, and had deemed that it was not Lorel’s time. Nothing short of a miracle, that’s what it had been. The frail red and white stallion had stirred after some time, moaning in pain. Ragnarr should have been relieved, but there was no room left in him for anything light. He was choking on his guilt, and the darkness inside him had become so deep and thick that he couldn’t fight it anymore.
He was what he was, and he was a monster.
Ragnarr had remained with Lorel for some time, but eventually the Dreamer had told him to leave. Go back to your fjölskylda, Ragnarr. And once upon a time, the scarred grullo stallion would have said ‘you are my family’ but he just bowed his head meekly, and accepted the gentle exile he believed he deserved. It was clear his brother was better off without him, after all. So, with a heavy heart, Ragnarr took his leave, and not considering himself worthy of laying eyes on the brother he almost killed, he did not look back, and allowed the sea to swallow him.
Since his return to the Ridge, Ragnarr had been more withdrawn than usual, taking to lingering near Lagertha and her son (her son and not theirs, for he was not worthy, he was not…), and watching over Björn and his herd, mourning the loss of their young from a distance. Eventually, they gathered together, and Björn sought out his sister and Ragnarr himself. It was time to fight for what had been taken from them. There would be no rest until Björn’s son and the filly were returned to the Ridge.
Ragnarr lingered out of sight while the herd gathered, the turmoil within him further dulling any desire to mingle with strangers. But Lagertha was ahead, beside Björn and ready to fight. They were his family, and so was Sigurðr. He would fight for them now, he would not forsake them. And perhaps, if he were to help them succeed, then he would find some small measure of peace. It is the appearance and words of the third mare to approach that finally stirs Ragnarr to attention. He ambles forward, glowering darkly at no-one in particular. He cares little if any take offense, but it is hardly appropriate to be cheerful in such circumstances, so perhaps none will think much of his dark mood. “I take my lead from Björn Dögunson, Bera Konung,” is all he rumbles. After all, his brother in arms has fought many battles, and conquered many foes, and there are few others who would ever match Björn in strength, skill and courage.
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