The dock creaked softly beneath Ragnar's boots as he stood at its far edge, staring out over the black water. The sea breathed in slow waves, moonlight casting silver ripples across its surface. The salt air was cold, but he barely felt it.
For a moment, it was quiet—too quiet.
Then came footsteps.
Soft, deliberate.
Behind him.
Ragnar didn't turn right away.
He closed his eye briefly, listening.
Three sets. Light, but trained. Purposeful.
He spoke without looking back.
"…Only cowards stalk in packs to hunt one man from behind."
A familiar voice, ragged with barely held hatred, answered:
"Just one man? No… you returned a monster who thinks himself beyond all others."
Ragnar turned.
Eirik Sigvaldsson stood ten paces away, With Murderous look in his Eyes , a twisted grin stretched across his face. Two men flanked him, blades drawn. Their eyes were full of loyalty… and fear.
Ragnar's expression did not change.
"You should have stayed in the hall."
Eirik stepped forward with a twitching fury. "And watch you take everything? My glory. My respect. My place." His eyes flicked briefly to the fur cloak wrapped around Ragnar's shoulders, remembering who else had worn it. His face darkened further. "And her."
Ragnar's jaw set.
Eirik lifted his chin, voice almost trembling with feverish resolve. "Tonight, Wolf… this dock becomes your grave."
The two men lunged first.
Ragnar drew his axes.
---
Ragnar parried the first attacker, throwing him off balance. But the second man, already circling, drove a sword straight into Ragnar's back with brutal force.
Steel tore through muscle.
Ragnar lurched forward with a sharp grunt, momentarily stunned—but not broken.
He snarled and twisted, swinging one axe in a vicious arc that caught the swordsman across the cheek, tearing flesh and sending him stumbling back bleeding.
But the sword remained lodged deep in Ragnar's back.
---
The first attacker recovered faster than expected and drove a dagger straight into Ragnar's chest, aiming just below the ribs.
Ragnar growled low, the pain erupting like fire through his body. His vision blurred around the edges—but rage held him upright.
He buried an axe into the dagger-wielder's throat.
Blood sprayed across the dock, the man collapsing with a gargled cry.
Ragnar stood, panting, chest heaving, both wounds already draining him of strength.
Eirik watched him struggle to stay upright… and smiled.
---
Ragnar staggered toward Eirik, one axe still in hand, blood trailing behind him. Eirik thrust forward with his own sword, but Ragnar deflected it with raw instinct.
Then Ragnar stepped in close with a roar and swung downward like a falling star—
—and Eirik screamed as Ragnar's axe sheared through flesh and bone, severing his arm just below the shoulder.
Eirik collapsed backward, shrieking, spraying blood across the wooden planks. He clutched at the torn stump, agony turning his face into a hellish mask.
Ragnar swayed.
He dropped to one knee, the sword still lodged in his back, the dagger still buried in his chest.
His eye fixed on Eirik with relentless fury even as blood pooled beneath him.
Eirik saw death in that stare.
And in blind panic… he grabbed his spear.
---
"DIE!" Eirik screamed, voice cracking between agony and terror as he hurled himself forward with his remaining arm, driving the spear straight—
—through Ragnar's abdomen.
The blade burst out through his back, impaling him completely and pinning him upright like a fallen warrior mounted in mockery.
Ragnar's body jerked from the force.
A strangled sound left his throat—half-growl, half-exhale.
Blood dripped steadily from the spear's tip, pattering onto the dock like slow rain.
He remained on his knees… but did not fall.
Head bowed.
Held upright only by the weapon that now caged him.
Breathing ragged. Vision fading.
Still alive.
Still watching.
---
Eirik, pale and sweating, staggered backward, clutching his stump, breathing in broken sobs. But even through agony, hatred fueled him.
He spat at Ragnar's bleeding form.
"You die tonight. And tomorrow, they will know you as a monster."
He stumbled away into the night, leaving a trail of blood.
Behind him, Ragnar remained upright—like a broken wolf refusing to lie down even in death.
---
The waves lapped against the dock beneath him.
Ragnar's good eye half-closed.
But he did not allow darkness to fully take him.
Not yet.
Somewhere distant, he thought he heard footsteps.
He couldn't move his head.
But a single thought rumbled weakly through his mind:
…Eivor…
And then silence.
Waiting.
Bleeding.
But not broken.
The docks were nearly silent beneath the night sky, the moon a pale bruise above the black water. Eivor ran first, breath breaking, eyes wide, chest aching with a fear she couldn't name—only feel. Each footstep felt like a heartbeat too late, as if the world were screaming at her to move faster. Brynja's boots thundered behind her. Hakon ran in silence, spear gripped tight.
Then they saw him.
At the end of the dock.
On his knees.
A man impaled like a fallen god.
Ragnar knelt facing the sea, body leaning forward slightly, as though only the spear driven clean through his abdomen kept him upright. His blood soaked the wood beneath him in thick, crimson pools. The dagger was still lodged deep in his chest. The sword that had been driven through his back had snapped off partially from the force of his movements, leaving only a jagged fragment protruding like the broken fang of some cruel beast. His head hung low, hair heavy and matted with blood, breath shuddering in shallow, agonizing pulls.
Eivor froze for half a heartbeat.
Then screamed.
"RAGNAR!"
Her voice shattered into the night.
She fell to her knees beside him so hard it bruised bone, hands trembling violently as she cupped his blood-slick face. His eye was half-open, unfocused, unfixed. His skin was ice-cold. He was shaking faintly. His breathing rattled weakly from deep within his chest—wet, labored, dying.
"Ragnar—Ragnar—no no no please—please—PLEASE!" she sobbed, voice cracking into a hysterical cry. She grabbed at his shoulders, at his jaw, her hands slipping against his blood as tears streamed down her cheeks. "Look at me! Ragnar, LOOK AT ME!"
His head twitched slightly. Just slightly. As though part of him still fought to hear her.
"I'm here—don't go—don't leave me—PLEASE!" she begged, choking on her words as panic overwhelmed her. She pressed her forehead to his. "Stay… please stay, Ragnar…"
She couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Only hold onto him as if her grip could keep his spirit from leaving. Her lips, trembling uncontrollably, pressed to his—soft, broken, desperate—not a kiss of want, but one of terror, a plea made flesh. Blood touched her tongue. Tears soaked into his skin. She pulled back only long enough to gasp, "I love you—I love you—I LOVE YOU so please don't go—Ragnar, I love you—"
His eye moved.
Barely.
Slow.
It dragged toward her like it weighed the world.
"…Eivor…"
Barely a whisper. Barely air. But it reached her.
She sobbed harder, clutching his face, nodding wildly. "Yes—yes—I'm here—I'm right here! Please don't leave me—I'm here—stay—"
Then his eyelid fluttered.
Once.
Twice.
And closed.
His body sagged, blood still dripping, breath shallow but weakening further.
"NO!" she screamed, shaking him. "RAGNAR!"
Brynja reached them then, face twisted not in fear, but volcanic rage. "By the gods—"
Hakon slid in silently, already assessing, already planning. His voice was a blade—sharp, commanding. "Brynja—help me pull the spear. Eivor—hold him up."
Eivor shook, breath ragged, but clung to Ragnar's torso from the front, pressing her cheek to his chest. She could feel it—his heartbeat was still there—but faint, thready, slipping.
Brynja braced Ragnar's back, jaw clenched. "On three," Hakon said. "One."
He didn't say two.
He yanked.
Ragnar's body convulsed, a hoarse, animal sound escaping his throat. Eivor screamed with him. Brynja threw the bloodied spear aside. Hakon moved next to break off the dagger's handle and pull it free. Ragnar choked. Eivor nearly collapsed with him.
"We need to move," Hakon said. No panic. Only certainty. "He'll bleed out in minutes if we don't stop it. And if we bring him back to the hall, they'll kill him on sight."
Brynja snarled, "Eirik will paint him a monster."
Eivor sobbed, "He's not—he's not—"
"I know," Hakon said. "Which is why we run."
They ripped strips of Brynja's tunic to bind Ragnar's wounds hastily, blood soaking through nearly instantly. Ragnar's head lolled forward, barely responsive, every breath harsh and shallow.
Hakon slung Ragnar's arm over his shoulder. Brynja lifted from behind. Eivor refused to let go, keeping close, one arm around his blood-soaked waist, whispering, "I've got you, I've got you, please stay with me…"
The first snowflake fell as they left the docks.
Then another.
Then a wind began to rise.
A blizzard was coming.
Or perhaps it had been waiting.
They stumbled through knee-deep snow as the storm slammed into them like a furious god, erasing tracks, swallowing sound. Hakon led the way with uncanny direction, Brynja growling at every gust, Eivor clinging to Ragnar like he was her last breath of air.
Somewhere in the furious white, they found the mouth of a cave set deep into the mountain rock, hidden by time and frost.
They dragged Ragnar inside and laid him on cold stone.
He looked dead.
Too still.
Too pale.
Eivor dropped beside him, pressing herself to his side, wrapping his fur cloak around them both, as if her body heat alone could keep him here. She kissed his cheek again, softer now, trembling, whispering fiercely through grief, "You're not leaving me… I won't let you… please…"
Brynja leaned against the cave wall, eyes burning, fists clenched so tight her nails bled. "I'll kill Eirik," she whispered like a prayer to violence. "I'll kill him slow."
Hakon stood near the entrance, watching the storm obscure the world outside. His voice came quiet, like a vow carved in steel. "When Ragnar rises… Eirik will not live long enough to scream."
Ragnar did not stir.
But his brow twitched.
Somewhere in the fading darkness of his mind, her voice—and the word love—burned like a coal that refused to go out.
Eivor pressed her forehead to his chest and wept until she couldn't breathe.
Outside, the storm raged like the howl of an enraged wolf.
Inside the cave, one still lived.
Barely.
But he lived.
And something inside him, deep and buried and now awakened by blood and betrayal, did not intend to die quietly.