Dual narrative: Lagertha and Ragnar Who: Lagertha and Ragnar What: Settling in to a new sort of life Where: Hedeby (Vikings Door) When: Now-ish Warnings/Rating: Mentions of canon-typical violence
If she didn't think too hard, the panic didn't climb up the back of her throat.
If the days passed and she went about her duties, listening to people and taking action on what she heard, being there with a steady and fair hand, if she simply did instead of thought, then it was alright. She knew how to do this part of things. She had cared for people before, had stood as their leader when their Earl was away. Not these people, but people very much like them, whose cares were at once simple and complicated. Disputes mixed with the need for guidance, and the doing took over her days.
And if perhaps the thinking seeped into her nights, filled her dreams with the sights and sounds and smells of those same people dying and suffering because she was not fit to rule them, leading them into ruin and destruction… if she woke with tension in her shoulders and shadows beneath her eyes, it was nothing that she confessed to anyone. Not even to the one person who might understand, who had remained in Hedeby as she found her footing, like the time needed to adjust to the sway of a boat when setting out on a raid. He was there like the North Star at night, like one of Floki's steady, solid decks beneath her feet. Ragnar had not left, and she had not ordered him to do so.
She knew there were those among her people, those who had been loyal to Sigvard, that questioned Ragnar's continued presence. She had enough support (so quickly that it had startled her) from many in the town, and they were certain to come to her, quiet and subtle, to tell her of the things that were being said by those few dissenting voices. The things that could so easily chip away at any new Earl, much less a woman that had wrested power from her now-dead husband. It was said that she was a puppet, that she let herself be ruled by a weak heart instead of a warrior's arm. That the man who was once married to her (the one still alive) was the true power in Hedeby, working through Lagertha until he took them all for his own, to expand his power and rule. Those few received summons, received visits. Meetings with her alone, meetings that found them packing their things and leaving, the promises of a more permanent exit accompanying their hasty retreat. She would not fill this town, her land, with blood. But neither would she allow her new rule to be undermined by such whispers. Whatever was said in those one-on-one meetings was enough to make them prefer exile to death.
She took over her household, stepping in easily since everyone serving it already knew her. Loved her. Had supported her since her marriage to Sigvard. And they all were glad for the change of things. Lagertha did not get drunk with every meal, didn't punish needlessly. Her rule was supportive instead of oppressive. She was steady and kind and firm, and it began to reflect in the people and their lands. And though Ragnar remained, a new (temporary, she told herself) addition to the town, it began to be obvious who was Earl.
And it was not him.
***
Ragnar watched.
Before he became an Earl, he was a farmer. There were crops to tend to, soil to watch, dirt held in the cup of his hand, between thumb and forefinger. Some springs he snarled at what he found and it was then that he turned to the woods, to the game that could be found there while his wife (when they had been married) and daughter looked to the lake. Some springs he smiled, pushed his fingers deep into the earth.
In the summers, while the crops grew, the men and a few of the women left their homes and farms to raid. Haraldson had turned to the east, Ragnar to the untouched lands of the west, but always there were bloody battles, and his watchful eyes assessing when would be the best time to attack and when to wait.
And he watched now, as Lagertha settled into her place with her people. He had chosen to stand back while she defended herself and claimed the title of Earl. Hedeby was not his and he had no desire to rule it, not like he had with Kattegat. This belonged to the woman he once called wife, and she had earned it through blood, through the spilling of hers with every bout of anger that Sigvard had up to the culmination of his own melding with the floor of his own hall. It would have demeaned her to attempt to take Hedeby from her when she taken the killing stroke.
Of all the things that Ragnar wanted from her, that was not one of them. He did not hide the way his eyes lingered on her form, whether she was sitting at the front of the hall, or if she was sparring with her warriors. Some things could be not be hidden and though he might talk with some of the serving girls, always his gaze returned to the fierce woman who was his equal. And where he once pressed to have her hand, he did not now. Her rule was still young, the rumors too many, and he would not weaken her position by asking for more.
Not yet.
Instead he watched and did not leave, as she had not asked him to. He watched as her enemies left the town, as she governed her people fairly, with wisdom and patience and the will that was all her own. And he saw when she woke in the mornings, tension already in her frame, shoulders tight, dark circles beneath her eyes. She said nothing and neither did he, but on the worst mornings he suggested sparring first. On the first morning after Sigvard's death, there had been only one woman beside her. Now there were many, and laughter between bouts, older voices coaching younger bodies on how to move and where to strike.
As the days passed and her rule strengthened, his thoughts turned to Kattegat. He would need to return. What was once their home was still his, and there was just enough time left in the season to make one more trip west. Time for one more raid before they had to return home to prepare for winter. But once more his gaze fell on her and perhaps - perhaps another Earl would like to join him.