King Ragnar Imagines

Lothbrok III

This woman was proving to be difficult.

Ragnar shoves away the winding tails of the Lindworm and tugs the doors apart. Not only had he slain the Lindworm but now he had hacked down the door to go find you inside. But no, of course, you weren't at the bottom of the tower. You swept yourself away to the tippy top of this aged tower. Ragnar let loose a rippling growl that reverberates up the stairs. Another small laugh ripples down, a giggle really.

"You're really going to make me chase you?" Ragnar huffs, lifting his eyebrows up in blatant irritation. For a princess stuck in a tower, you did not act like you were so grateful for his work.

"It would not be so fun otherwise!" You call back.

He sighs, winding around the crumbling steps up towards the highest of towers. He hears you shuffle across the bedroom and pushes in to where you were standing upon the balcony. No other tricks? He looks around your cold bedroom. Grey contrasts against white and darker browns. Plain, simple– unlike you. You stand in a pinkish gown. It's train is a bit long and so was your hair along with it, but for a princess doing nothing but sitting in a tower, what would it hurt?

"Are all princesses like this?" He turns to have his back facing the balcony. Your eyes turn to him and Ragnar would have jumped, if not for the shock in what he's been through already. Your eyes were slit like snakes.

"Maybe a few." Your tongue slides in almost a hiss and finally, you face him. He admits the words of Athelstan are true. But there is one that he can't prove yet. You step forth, hand on the scratchy surface of his treated clothes and Ragnar quickly catches your wrist.

"Are you going to come willingly?" He asks. "Or would you rather stay here?"

Breaking his hold on your wrist, you go toward a stone wall. There you would find a large drum with skin pulled tight across its surface. Then– also a small instrument to hit the drum with. You lay it down upon a rug, taking a seat and tapping the empty space between you.

Shit.

"I have heard that your poetry is so bad, King Ragnar." You say.

"And where did you hear that?" He asks, pushing off from the balcony inside the cool tower. He glances down at the embroidered rug. Jormungandr snakes around its entire surface, chasing his long tail.

"Odin recounted what Huginn and Munnin recounted to him."

Now he's sure you're crazy. Then again– he was crazy to still love his not-so-sweet Lagertha. Ragnar had been infatuated at the time which he last wrote poetry. Not for himself, but for Lagertha. She hated the way he wrote almost as much as she hated him at one point. Enough to set beasts after him when he went to speak to her brother for her hand.

"I am no skald." He sits down, his forearm draped over his knee. "But I know something, still."

"Sing to me then."

You push forward the drum and its stick, folding your hand under a mess of skirts. He closes his eyes and lightly shakes his head, reaching out to bring the drum into his lap. It took skalds years of practice to be able to pull a story of the top of their head. Nary were they as practiced as the Anglo Saxon bards he had heard in his travels. Yet still, your eerie eyes were looking to him in something he could almost call affection. He starts an even pace, bending his head low to the drum's even beat.

"Far more anxious is a king than a queen starting anew with a... shit." He clumsily speaks. Never once in his life did he feel quite as unpracticed. Even with his letters of love to Lagertha. Based on the stringent smile on your lips, it could have been better.

"Well that was..." You clea her throat, motioning for him to hand back her drum. You beat the drum far more effortlessly, beating it with a harsh flick of her wrist. A foreign tongue sings off your lips. "By you I am spellbound deep in my soul, in my soul. In my heart burns a sizzling fire, a sizzling fire and so spellbound I am."

"Now that's hardly fair if you speak in pretty tongues." Ragnar reclines back on his forearms. "How is a man to keep up with that?"

"You aren't." You laugh. "It was only a test."

That's the second time that a woman has fooled him with poetry. Ragnar looks aside, unable to be shaken by the fact that he's been tricked yet again. You drag yourself to him, drawing your head back upon his itchy, bloody pants.

"Are you going to give me more tests?" He asks.

You smile. "Just the one. I suppose you'll want to take me away back to your camp now. Like the King with his beautiful prize. "

Ragnar feels as if finally– finally he can exhale in relief. No more tests. No more running after a woman with bizarrely etched eyes and praying that his poetry, not his skills as a warrior, will win out. Luckily, for once it doesn't have to. Ragnar lets his eyes to shut, dropping back on the finely sewn rug. Time for a nap, he thinks. Before he sails back home and deals with Aslaug's nagging about his new bride. His hand comes to stroke your soft strands, descending into his sleepy state.

"Maybe in a little."