brave in the heart. vikings

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER FORTY
the dead takes paris

The skies were black and weeping, on the day that Ragnar Lothbrok died.

Merida thought the rains were tears, falling to the ground in great floods as if the Gods themselves were mourning the loss of a great King. But Lagertha said they rejoiced. That their tears were drops of happiness, replenishing the earth in Ragnar's name, for he would be joining them at their tables, within their decorated halls. No matter that Ragnar had been baptised unto the protection of a Christian God. Odin would ride to intercept his ascent into heaven anyway, and he would feast in Pagan halls and be remembered as a Pagan King.

But the tears the people cried were tears of sadness. Their King was laid to rest in a coffin, carved from wood and made into the shape of a longboat, studded and decorated with a rich red. He would rest as he would war, laying down amongst his legacy as the King who had raided and conquered.

Merida was last to talk to him. The tented room was still with the silence of the dead. Ragnar's body lay beneath the walls of his coffin, eternally sleeping. She knelt down, hand placed against the side, wondering if the touch was felt. Merida thought of what she might say, of how she could honour a man as great as he when she had known so little of him.

But Bjorn and Ragnar had told her everything.

She wondered if she stayed quiet enough if she would hear the faintness of his breathing from beneath the coffin lid. But the silence persisted. Every word that was said to him would fall upon sharp, listening ears. Merida used the opportunity wisely.

"I'll go home, I think, when we return to Kattegat and before the Winter steals the water with ice," she said, feeling as if she was talking to the air, the wind stealing her words away swiftly. "But you were right, Ragnar. You're always right. My destiny was always supposed to entwine with yours... with Bjorn's. I don't think I'll ever have the strength to stay away, no matter how much I once had thought I wanted to."

Imagining the smug smile that was spreading on his face, Merida couldn't help but smile herself.

"We're all indebted to you, Ragnar Lothbrok."

The coffin was carried in a procession, surrounded by the drum of music and the carrying sound of many voices. Women in wolfskins danced, twirling around their dead King and singing high-pitched chants. Merida stood beside Bjorn with their hands interlinked, a show of false grief.

The Franks waited by the doors with a large, golden cross, ready to escort the coffin inside their protected walls. The Christian priests with their pristine robes surrounded the men with the coffin and swallowed them as readily as the doors.

The northern army gathered at the gates, cloaked in paint and furs, the picture of their violent promise. News of Ragnar's resurrection rippled through the camp like a forest fire picking up speed, lit with the fuel that poured from Bjorn's purposeful words. The cold warriors spoke of his spirit, lingering on the threshold of life, waiting to be pulled to the afterlife by Odin himself. As they marched up to the gates, waiting for their way in, they spoke of the figure on the battlements, watching them like an omen. A good one, they said it must be. For Ragnar was now watching over them. The dead man would give them Paris.

Lagertha had not understood at first, or rather, had not allowed herself to. Ragnar was dead. She'd seen his coffin, felt the stillness of the room he lay in, had spoken to him as if he'd passed, and he'd let her believe it all. She, along with Rollo and Floki, were the last to stride toward the city walls, their arms laden with shields and weapons.

But, as Bjorn promised, the walls had opened, leaving a gaping hole staring straight into the heart of Paris, allowing their army to push through. There, at the end of that carved pathway, stood Ragnar Lothbrok, not resurrected, not a shell of his former self, a draugr, but himself in the living flesh and beating blood. Merida had known he was alive, but still, to see a dead man walking, was a sight to behold. Ragnar strode down the open corridor, the doors behind him pulled as wide open as the ones in front. Despite his sickness, he looked strong and worthy.