Fighting, Honour and Valhalla || Vikings x The Originals x TVD

Departure

The sky was dull and grey as the people of Kattegat moved through the village with slow, heavy steps. Their bodies bore the lingering aches of broken bones and bruises, but the pain on their faces came from something far deeper. After Dahlia had released them from her grip, many had found themselves standing in the wreckage of their lives, struggling to understand who they were. At first, they couldn't even piece together how they had come to be holding swords against their neighbors, or why they were covered in the blood of their own kin.

It hadn't taken long for the memories to come flooding back. One by one, they remembered. They saw themselves attacking their friends, throwing fists, swinging blades, and setting fires. They recalled the helpless faces of their loved ones, the screams of neighbors they had known for years, and the terror in the eyes of those they had struck down. Dahlia had ripped away their will, leaving them as empty shells, and in doing so, she had made them the tools of her violence.

When they realized what they had done, many collapsed to the ground in shock. Some screamed, others wailed, while most simply wept, unable to make sense of the damage. Even now, days later, the sound of crying could be heard in the streets, in the longhouses, and from the quiet corners where men and women sat alone, staring at their trembling hands. The weight of guilt pressed heavily on all of them.

The marketplace, once a lively center of trade, was eerily silent. Stalls stood abandoned, their goods untouched. Fishermen walked past the docks without sparing a glance at the waters. Blacksmiths sat in their forges, staring at unfinished weapons and tools. Everywhere, people avoided looking one another in the eye, ashamed of the faces they might see looking back. But most of all they all shared the guilt of what had happened to the Jarl. At first it started as a rumour but then it was confirmed as truth when Hilds dead body was placed in a boat and burned out at sea. They had helped a monstrous witch kidnap the Jarls daughter and kill one of his women, and the worst part was that Thorfinn had yet to waken from his slumber near a week onwards from that day. He was in the Mikaelson home where he continued to sleep as the Longhouse had been destroyed.

Ragnar sat on the broken steps of the longhouse, his elbows resting on his knees, his eyes scanning the village below. Kattegat was a shadow of what it once was, the air heavy with the weight of shared grief. People moved about slowly, their faces hollow as they tried to rebuild not just their homes but their lives. Many were still nursing bruises and broken bones from the fight they could not remember clearly but would never forget. Beside him, Rollo leaned back, his broad frame resting lazily against the cracked wooden post of the steps. His face was etched with weariness, his eyes staring blankly into the distance.

"They've managed to gather some timber to start on the longhouse," Ragnar said, breaking the silence. His voice was low, heavy. "But the ships... we won't have enough time to repair them, not with the state we're in."

Rollo exhaled through his nose, his lips twisting into a slight frown. "Then there'll be no raiding this summer."

"No," Ragnar agreed. "There won't."

The silence stretched between them for a moment, broken only by the distant sounds of hammers striking wood. A few children darted by in the square, their laughter muted, hesitant, as though even they felt the weight of what had happened.

Rollo leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs and clasping his hands together. "I'm not sure if I even want to, brother," he said quietly, surprising Ragnar.

Ragnar turned his head to look at him, his brow furrowing. "Not raid? You?"

Rollo shrugged, his gaze fixed on the horizon. "What's the point of it all? Glory? Silver? What good is any of that if we're left with this?" He gestured vaguely at the broken village around them.