The cave was cold enough to bite into bone. Wind howled at its mouth like wounded spirits, carrying snow that drifted inside in slow spirals. The world outside had vanished into a raging white haze, but inside, Ragnar lay still as a corpse, chest rising only in broken, shallow gasps. Blood had dried in dark patches over his skin, staining stone beneath him. His face was pale, lips slightly parted, breath fragile as frost.
Eivor knelt beside him, still wrapped in his cloak. Her hands trembled as she pressed a cloth against his wounds, though the bleeding had slowed to intermittent pulses. She barely blinked, eyes red from crying, lips moving in broken murmurs against his cold skin. She stayed pressed to him as if leaving his side would mean losing him forever.
Brynja stood with her back to the cave wall, arms crossed tightly. Her knuckles were white, jaw clenched so hard it trembled. The flickering light from a single torch caught the fury in her eyes like fire trying to burn through tears she refused to shed.
Hakon was by the entrance, watching the blizzard consume the world beyond. He stayed silent for a long time, spear in hand, breath slow and steady. But even he glanced back every so often, watching for Ragnar's chest to rise.
Eivor's voice finally broke the silence. It was cracked, hoarse, but deliberate.
"We… we cannot just sit and wait for him to go cold…"
She swallowed, pressing her forehead to Ragnar's chest. "We must… call them. If he stands at their gates… they must hear us before they take him."
Brynja exhaled slowly. "The High One listens," she muttered. "Whether He's kind is another matter."
"We don't ask kindness," Hakon said softly from the entrance. "Only judgment."
He turned fully, walking toward Ragnar's body. Brynja stepped away from the wall. Eivor lifted her head, tears drying but her gaze fierce now.
They gathered around Ragnar's still form. Snow swirled at the cave mouth as if waiting.
Hakon spoke first.
He lifted his spear, planting the butt in the earth beside Ragnar.
"Havi. Alföðr. Þriðji. One-Eyed High One who hung on the wind-scourged tree. You who know the cost of blood and fate. Look upon this warrior who stands between the realms. We call on you, not as supplicants alone, but as those who understand sacrifice. Judge him by steel and strength."
Eivor's breath shook, but she placed her hand over Ragnar's heart and forced her voice to steady.
"Valfreyja, Lady of the Slain, Mardöll of the shining sea, hear me. I beg you—do not claim him yet. He stood on foreign shores and gave fear to our enemies. He guards with a wolf's fury and stands for those who fight beside him. Let him rise again to earn a place in your hall in glory—not bleeding in the dark like prey."
She choked once, but continued.
"If blood must be taken for his return," she whispered, "take mine first."
Brynja closed her eyes, bowing her head only barely.
"Tiwaz, One-Handed God of Oaths, hear this vow. Donar Einriði, Storm-Rider, breaker of giants, witness this strength before it fades. Do not let cowards win this night. 'Tis not a champion's fate to die kneeling by treachery. If this warrior breathes again, I swear by shield and steel that those who struck from shadows will not flee justice."
The torchlight flickered suddenly, brighter for a moment, then steadied.
Hakon knelt and placed a hand on Ragnar's shoulder, voice low but firm.
"Norns of fate—Urðr who was, Verðandi who is, Skuld who may yet be—we do not beg for a rewrite. Only that this thread is worthy of being spun further. If he is meant to fall, let him fall in battle with blade in hand and sky above him. If he is meant to rise, then let the path be carved now."
Eivor's tears dripped silently onto Ragnar's skin. Brynja exhaled a long, shaking breath. Hakon lowered his head in final silence.
The cave grew quieter.
Only Ragnar's faint breathing remained, like a flame flickering in a storm.
Then—very softly—the wind outside shifted, as though something vast had turned to listen.
Eivor didn't dare breathe. Brynja slowly opened her eyes. Hakon's grip on his spear tightened.
In the darkness beyond life's edge, something had heard them.
And chosen not to answer aloud just yet.
But the silence now felt… expectant.
Like footsteps approaching through snow.
There was no pain.
Only silence.
A timeless, breathless silence.
Ragnar tried to breathe, but could not feel his chest. He tried to speak, but his tongue did not move. He tried to open his eye, but when sight returned, it was not the cave he saw.
He stood in a vast expanse of endless snow.
The sky above him was black and bruised, swirling with storm clouds. Snow drifted upward as much as downward, as though time itself had fractured. His wounds were still there — he could see them, gashes torn open in his chest and back, blood dripping… yet the blood never touched the ground. It vanished into mist, devoured by the air before it fell.
His bare feet crunched against the frost. The world was silent except for the distant sound of wings.
He took a step.
And suddenly, far in the distance, something emerged from the swirling snow.
A massive tree rose like a titan against the sky, ancient and gnarled, roots twisting over the frozen land like the coils of a sleeping serpent. Its branches stretched into the storm like grasping arms, heavy with runes that glowed faintly in the gloom. This was not merely a tree — it was a pillar of existence, terrible and sacred.
Yggdrasil.
Life and death intertwined.
And at its base stood a figure.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, cloaked in black and grey that fluttered like feathers in the storm wind. A single eye gleamed beneath a hooded brow — sharp, cold, golden like lightning trapped in flesh. His face bore the strength of ages and the weariness of knowledge. His features were weathered but unmistakably powerful.
And disturbingly, he looked a little like Ragnar… older, harder, carved from storm and wrath.
He leaned on a spear planted in the snow — long, dark, humming with runes etched into its shaft.
Lightning cracked across the sky behind him — and two ravens descended, circling overhead, their eyes burning with crackling blue-white light. They landed on the roots of the tree, watching Ragnar with intelligence that felt like judgment.
Ragnar stared, breath shallow, heart thundering.
He knew who stood before him.
Havi.
The High One.
Alföðr.
Odin.
Silence pressed in around them, heavy as fate. Ragnar did not kneel. His legs wanted to buckle, but something deeper — pride, defiance, blood — held him still. The god's eye bore into him, dissecting, measuring. Not with kindness. Not even with malice. With purpose. As though weighing potential. As though seeing a blade yet to be forged.
Thunder rumbled, distant but watching.
Ragnar tried to speak, but his voice was sand. Only one word tore itself free, ragged and weak:
"Why…"
Not a question born of worship, but of instinct. Why was he here? Why had he not died? Why did this god stand before him?
The High One did not answer with words.
Instead, he simply lifted a hand… and pointed the spear toward Ragnar.
The meaning was clear.
Rise.
Or fall.
Be chosen.
Or be forgotten.
The ravens screeched, lightning crackled, and suddenly Ragnar felt the cold deepen, felt his wounds burn… but also felt a pulse — like a heartbeat not his own — echo through the void, through the spear, through the roots of the great tree… into him.
His fists clenched.
He felt Eivor's voice far away, sobbing his name. Felt Brynja's rage like fire in the dark. Felt Hakon's steady resolve anchoring him. Felt the prayers spoken over his blood.
And the High One still watched, unblinking.
Not saving him.
Not damning him.
Offering him to fate.
Or daring him to seize it.
Ragnar drew a breath that seared like fire through broken lungs.
He met the god's gaze.
He did not speak.
He did not bow.
He simply refused to fall.
The corner of Havi's mouth shifted — not a smile, but something like grim acknowledgment.
Then lightning split the sky, tearing the world open — and Ragnar fell backward into darkness.
A voice, distant and female — Skuld? — whispered like a threat or a promise:
"Rise… and see where this road leads…"
Agony ripped him from the void.
It wasn't a quiet return to life — it was a brutal tearing, a jolt like lightning seizing his spine. His lungs convulsed, shock lancing through every wound at once. A sound tore from him, raw and primal — a savage, animalistic howl that belonged not to man but to beast.
Brynja jerked upright instantly, her axe in hand, eyes wide but ready.
Hakon was already moving. As Ragnar tried to lurch upright, muscles screaming, bloodied stitches straining, Hakon slammed a steadying hand to his shoulder and forced him back with firm, controlled strength.
"Ragnar. Be still."
The name grounded nothing. Ragnar's mind was a storm of pain, betrayal, gods, lightning, cold — his body fought out of instinct, a wounded animal trying to tear free from death's jaws.
He snarled through clenched teeth, chest heaving, fingers digging into the cold rock beneath him as though he might claw his way back into the world through force alone.
Brynja stepped closer, ready to slam him down if he turned savage — but she hesitated. There was terror in his eyes… and something else.
His left eye snapped open wide.
Brynja sucked in a breath. Hakon's jaw tightened.
Once an icy blue rimmed with storm-grey — it now flickered at the edges with a crackling blue-white light, like lightning trapped beneath the iris. And just beyond the lightning, faint but unmistakable, glowed a thin ring of blood-red — wrath etched in color.
Hakon didn't flinch. He held Ragnar's shoulder firm. "With us, Ragnar. You are safe."
Ragnar didn't hear the words. Not at first. His breathing was ragged, uneven, as though each inhale fought knives in his chest. The storm still swirled behind his eye, memory of the one-eyed god still looming like a shadow on his soul.
Brynja's voice came low, gentle in a way she rarely used. "You're not on the docks anymore, Wolf. No blades here. Only us."
Ragnar's gaze flicked between them — wild, disoriented, fever-bright.
His body trembled, every muscle caught between lashing out and collapsing. His lips parted as though to snarl again — but no sound came, only a broken exhale.
He blinked once.
Twice.
The lightning in his eye began to dim, the red halo fading back beneath storm-grey.
His breathing was still harsh. His body still shook. He was not calm — but no longer feral.
And only then…
Eivor stirred.
Still wrapped in Ragnar's cloak, she blinked awake at the echo of his howl, fear and hope crashing into her as her gaze snapped toward him —
And the moment her eyes met his unstable, wounded one…
She moved.
Eivor didn't walk to him — she all but fell toward him, sliding to her knees at his side with desperate urgency. Ragnar flinched at the sudden movement, a flicker of panic crossing his bloodshot eye — but before fear could reignite the storm within him, her hands were already on his face.
"Ragnar—Ragnar…" she breathed, voice soft but trembling, as if saying his name might hold his spirit in place.
Her palms were warm against his cold cheeks, thumbs brushing away dried blood. His breathing hitched, unsteady, like he didn't yet believe he was not still under attack.
She shifted closer, lifting his head gently, guiding him until it rested fully against her chest — cradled in her arms, pressed to the steady thrum of her heartbeat beneath her soft flesh. She wrapped one arm protectively around him, fingers threading into his hair, stroking gently.
"I'm here… shhh… it's alright. You're safe. Your pack is here…" she whispered, voice shaking but tender, every syllable pressed into his skin like a vow.
Ragnar's entire body trembled. His breathing came in harsh, ragged pulls, as though every inhale hurt, but the rhythm of her touch — gentle, slow, grounding — began to bleed into him like warmth after cold. He didn't understand the ache in his chest that was not from the wounds, nor why her voice dragged him out of the storm more effectively than Havi's silent demand.
His fingers twitched weakly, then slowly lifted to clutch her cloak, as though anchoring himself to her to keep from spiraling back into death.
Eivor shushed him softly again, thumb stroking his temple. "You came back… you came back to me…"
Brynja exhaled a breath she'd been holding, leaning back against the cave wall, shoulders slumping, axe resting beside her. Hakon released Ragnar gently, ensuring the stitches held, before stepping back to give them space, eyes calm but sharpened with awareness — assessing not just Ragnar's physical return, but the deeper change.
Slowly, Ragnar's breathing began to steady, though each inhale still cut with pain. His fingers remained clenched against Eivor's cloak. His head, resting against her bosom, turned slightly, not fully aware, but not fighting anymore.
He opened his left eye again. The storm-glow was gone, but the color seemed deeper now — colder, sharper, like ice over water that hid something alive beneath it.
He didn't speak. He didn't fully understand what had happened — only the memory of snow, a spear, a tree, lightning, and a one-eyed figure staring into him without mercy.
And Eivor's voice calling him back.
He let out a shaky breath that was almost a sigh, eyelid heavy. Eivor didn't stop stroking his hair. Brynja watched silently. Hakon stood sentinel.
In the quiet cave, with blood still fresh on stone and storm wind howling outside like a chorus of wolves, Ragnar's eyes finally closed again — not in death, but in exhausted, living sleep.
He had returned from the path between.
But not unchanged.
And those who saw his eye knew it.
The cave no longer felt like a tomb.
The fire crackled low but steady, filling the cold den with the scent of woodsmoke and roasting boar. Berries and herbs sat in a shallow wooden bowl near the flames, gathered earlier by Eivor and Brynja during a brief break in the storm. Ragnar sat propped against the stone wall near the fire, his torso still wrapped in rough bandages. He was half-dressed, one leg already in his trousers, the other trembling faintly as Eivor helped guide it through the fabric.
Brynja stood behind him, supporting his back with one arm, grumbling quietly, "Next time you cheat death, try waking up with pants on. You howl like a wolf but whine like a pup when cold stone touches bare skin."
Ragnar didn't answer. His breathing was slow but controlled, his gaze distant — not confused, not lost, but calculating. Present. Alive. Changed.
Eivor's fingers were careful as she eased the waistband of his trousers up, ensuring she didn't pull against his sutured wounds. She kept her touch steady, her face calm, though her heart hammered with both relief and a quiet awe. Every time she glanced at Ragnar's face, she found herself searching his left eye — still ice-blue ringed in storm-grey, but now holding a depth that hadn't been there before. Something old. Something awakened.
Brynja let go once he was secure and moved toward the fire to check the boar. "Almost done," she muttered. "Hakon better return soon, or I'll eat his portion."
Ragnar shifted slightly, wincing but not making a sound. Eivor stayed close, sitting beside him with his cloak around both their shoulders. He didn't lean into her — but he didn't pull away.
The cave was quiet except for the fire and distant wind, until Brynja finally said what weighed on all of them.
"We need answers. To know what lies Eirik has spun in our absence. To know who believes him."
Eivor nodded, eyes on Ragnar. "We need to know whether he's been named kinslayer or outlaw. If he is declared dead…" Her voice tightened. "If his name has been dishonored… we must know."
Brynja snorted. "Dishonor won't matter once I take Eirik's remaining arm and beat him with it."
From across the fire, Ragnar's eye narrowed just slightly. Brynja noticed and grew quiet, taking that silent expression as approval. Or promise.
It was then that footsteps approached outside the cave — steady, measured. Eivor's head snapped up. Brynja reached for her axe but froze when a familiar silhouette came into view.
Hakon stepped inside, frost at his shoulders, breath steady. Snow still clung to his boots.
He was not alone.
A second figure stepped in behind him — cloaked, tall, moving with controlled strength, each step firm but silent. She pulled back her hood.
Sigrun.
She did not look like a fragile mother weathered by years. She looked like steel wrapped in flesh — her auburn-brown hair braided neatly over one shoulder, her face calm but sharpened by a quiet fire in her eyes. She appeared no older than her early thirties, skin unlined but gaze ancient with experience. A short spear rested in her hand like an extension of her arm.
Her eyes found Ragnar.
She stopped.
The cave fell silent.
Eivor glanced between them, holding her breath without realizing it. Brynja stood still, eyes narrowing with interest. Hakon remained at the threshold, letting the moment belong to them.
Ragnar didn't move.
But his breathing changed — just slightly. His spine straightened despite the pain. His jaw tightened. He did not speak. He did not break. He simply met her gaze with unflinching calm, that storm-changed eye reflecting the firelight.
Sigrun's fingers tightened faintly around her spear.
For a moment, nothing existed but mother and son — warrior and Alpha — meeting again in a space carved by survival and blood.
She did not rush to him.
He did not reach out.
But something ancient and unspoken passed between them in the silence: acknowledgment, relief… and a promise that nothing about their world would ever be the same again.
The fire crackled.
Ragnar held his mother's gaze.
And the storm behind his eye watched with him.
A/N Sorry for the Long chapter wanted to catch the grandiose nature of the Return in its entirety Like review and Vote one the Book if you like it