A Viking's Rage

Chapter 4

The men gathered at the front of the ship, their voices rising above the crash of the waves. Horns of mead were raised high as they rehashed the glories of their raid, their boisterous laughter filling the cold night air.

"To beautiful women and bountiful riches, þakka ðinn!" Thrain shouted, his horn sloshing with mead as he held it aloft.

"þakka ðinn!" the crew echoed, their voices booming across the darkened sea.

Ragda sat apart from the others, his back to the ship’s railing, silently watching the revelry. His eyes followed Dagr, who stood among the men, though his expression was far from joyful.

"You’re oddly quiet tonight, bróðir. What troubles you?" Ragda asked, his voice calm but edged with curiosity.

"You trouble me, brother," Dagr snapped, his tone sharp. "Erfiðr," he muttered under his breath, cursing in their native tongue.

The two half-brothers were as different as night and day. Though they shared the same mother, their relationship was strained by suspicion and favoritism. Ragda, the elder, was the legitimate son of Jarl Lowzow, destined to inherit the seat of power in the Great Hall. His features reflected their father’s proud lineage, and he carried the weight of his position with a calm indifference.

Dagr, the younger of the two, was another matter. Though born to the Jarl’s wife, his darker features and sharper, more angular appearance fueled whispers of infidelity. The Jarl suspected his wife of betraying him, but with no proof, he chose not to disgrace her or himself by pursuing a divorce. Instead, he begrudgingly tolerated Dagr, allowing him to remain in the household but withholding the love and acknowledgment he freely gave Ragda.

This quiet rejection shaped Dagr’s early years. He grew up in the shadow of his older brother, watching Ragda receive their father’s favor while he was treated as an afterthought. With no claim to title or wealth, Dagr threw himself into proving his worth through sheer force of will. By the time he could hold a sword, his ruthlessness and hunger for recognition had made him a feared warrior.

For Ragda, Dagr was both a source of irritation and guilt. Though he cared for his younger brother, Ragda knew the resentment that simmered in Dagr’s heart. Meanwhile, Dagr harbored a deep bitterness—not just toward their father, but toward Ragda himself, who carried the power Dagr craved yet seemed indifferent to it.

Where Ragda sought adventure and freedom, content to raid and fight without ambition for rulership, Dagr dreamed of power and legitimacy. He refused to accept a life of mere tolerance, determined to claim what had always been denied to him.

Despite his skill and reputation, Dagr’s resentment of Ragda burned deep. To him, Ragda’s disinterest in their father’s legacy was an insult. Where Dagr craved power and recognition, Ragda was content to raid and fight, unburdened by the responsibilities of rulership.

"You want her," Dagr said suddenly, his dark eyes narrowing as he glared at his older brother.

Ragda raised an eyebrow. "Who?" he asked, though he already knew where Dagr’s mind was headed. His older brother’s paranoia and suspicion had a way of twisting even the simplest of situations.

"Don’t play stupid, bróðir. You know who," Dagr said, his tone dripping with irritation.

"The Christian?" Ragda chuckled, shaking his head. "She is lovely."

"I saw her first," Dagr said, his voice low and seething.

"What are we, eight?" Ragda shot back, turning fully to face his brother.

The tension between them was palpable, and the crew’s chatter gradually died down. All eyes shifted to the brothers. It wouldn’t have been the first time they’d come to blows, and everyone knew it. They were equally matched in strength, but their approaches couldn’t have been more different. Ragda fought with honor, while Dagr fought to destroy.

"I want her," Dagr said, leaning closer, his voice barely more than a growl.

Ragda smirked, leaning back against the railing as if unbothered. "You become vexed too easily, bróðir. Your anger will be your downfall one day. But since you seem so determined over a slave girl, she’s yours."

Clapping Dagr on the shoulder, Ragda turned to the crew and called out with a laugh, "Hear that, men? The skinny Christian belongs to Dagr!"

The tension broke as the crew erupted in laughter, raising their horns in mock celebration. Dagr’s clenched fists slowly relaxed, and a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. The fight he had been ready for dissipated, and he allowed himself to sink back into the jovial atmosphere.

Satisfied, he left the gathering and made his way to the rear of the ship, his boots heavy against the creaking deck. The night was dark, the sea restless beneath them. A storm brewed on the horizon, the clouds thick and heavy. His sharp eyes scanned the shadowy forms of the captives, huddled and shivering against the cold wood.

Finally, his gaze landed on her. Aiya lay curled on her side, her golden hair loose and tangled, her arms tucked tightly around herself for warmth. Even in sleep, her expression was troubled, her features softened by exhaustion.

Dagr stared at her for a long moment, his mind drifting back to the raid. He wondered about the boy she had wept over. Who was he to her? A lover? A brother? No one had answered the question, and it gnawed at him, though he couldn’t say why.

"Ragda doesn’t get this one," he muttered under his breath, his voice low and possessive.

A fiendish smile spread across his face, twisting his features in the dim light. It was a smile meant for the shadows—a darkness that lingered within him, waiting to surface.

For now, he remained still, the storm above mirroring the one brewing in his own mind.