The Nephilim & The Maiden

R a g n a r

The market was buzzing with townspeople. Merchants called out prices for their goods to passersby in different languages. Foreign fabrics were hung so customers could see their beauty in the beaming sunlight. Smoke from the merchants smoking freshly butchers animals drifted through the air. Baskets full of spices, dried and fresh fruit, vegetables and meats were set up throughout. The smells of them all wafting in the air making walking through the impossibly crowded market more pleasant.

A merchant from a foreign land, dressed in strange looking clothes held out two birds, their feathers as white as fresh snow. He spoke first in what must have been his mother tongue to me as I walked by his table. When he saw I didn't understand his language he quickly started speaking broken Norse.

"White doves," he stumbled on the words as he spoke, shoving them closer to my face. "Bird, bird..." He continued.

Smiling kindly at him I held my hand up and shook my head 'no' in response. Without a second thought he turned from me and began showing the birds to another woman who was walking with her children.

I had come down to the market for pieces of scrap fabric to mend Ivar's trousers. I hated sewing, I was terrible at it but it meant that Ivar would have no interest in sticking around to watch me fumble with needle and thread, trying to make conversation.

The Ragnarssons had been back for two days since Bjorn had met them at their hunting cabin. I imagine he didn't even reach them before the traveler's news spread throughout Kattegat. The townspeople had already wrote-off Ragnar, he had been missing for almost ten years since his defeat in Paris. The news of the settlement being slaughtered and Ragnar's bastard stirred up dust that had long been settled, the people were angry.

Before I had the chance to get to the seller I was looking for I heard commotion further ahead near the road. People were walking quickly, all muttering to one another something I couldn't quite make out.

I knew I should have kept to my task but curiosity got the better of me. Jogging ahead of people I made it to the forming circle to see a stranger standing in the middle of the crowd. His head was bald with faded black tattoos littering his skin. His wrinkled face was covered with a long, unkempt grey beard that reached his chest. His clothes were dirty and torn but the sword he carried in his hand seemed well cared for.

The older woman standing next to me leaned over, whispering the answer to my question. "King Ragnar has returned."

From the other end of the crowd I heard Ubbe's voice barking. "Let us pass, Move!" Ubbe emerged, his sword drawn, followed by Sigurd and Hvitserk. I watched as Ragnar looked over the men who stopped in front of him.

He studied their faces, his own face impassive as his eyes darted over their features. Hvitserk quickly side-stepped, revealing Ivar's crawling form as he joined his brother's in front of their father. As Ragnar looked down at his crippled son a slow smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

Stepping forward, Ragnar's smile only grew. Making the few strides forward he stopped in front of Ivar. "Hello Ivar," he said just loud enough for the people closest to hear. Ivar's smile grew from ear to ear as his father spoke to him first before his eldest brothers. "There is no mistaking you."

Ivar's smile dropped. His hurt visible from his long lost father's comment.

"It appears my return is not welcome." Ragnar spoke to his other sons, looking between Ubbe, Hvitserk and Sigurd. "You've obviously all made your mind up about me." He sucked on his teeth as he looked towards the ground, pacing in front of them. "I cannot blame you for that."

Looking between the brothers I could see the emotions painted on their faces. Ubbe was trying to remain stoic, though his wide eyes gave away his true feelings of shock and surprise. Hvitserk tried to mock Ubbe's air of indifference but he came off as confused. Confused at why his father chose now to return. Sigurd on the other hand stood with a grimace, the same one that rested on his mother's face most days. He was trying to act the part of hardened viking but I knew him too well to know this was an act.