Chapter Three: Ragnarok
At the head of the table sat his mother and Aksel, their figures illuminated by the firelight. His mother, regal and commanding despite the simplicity of her attire, leaned slightly toward Aksel as they exchanged quiet words. Her golden hair, braided with strands of silver, shimmered like moonlight, while her expression bore the weight of leadership tempered with maternal warmth. Beside her, Aksel's rugged features softened as he listened intently, his broad shoulders and weathered hands marking him as a man who had seen many battles yet found peace in this moment. The children at the table were not mere villagers. They were the sons and daughters of Vikings—warriors sworn to protect their land and people. Each child bore the subtle marks of their lineage: a proud tilt of the chin, a fierce gleam in their eyes, and the scars of early training etched on their hands and arms. As leaders and commanders of the Vikings, it was Ragna's parents' duty to nurture these children, to ensure they grew into the stalwart protectors their homeland would one day need.
Ragna slipped into his place among them, the heavy bench creaking slightly under his weight. Though he bore the title of Prince and the bloodline of royalty, he was treated no differently than the others. This was by design, a testament to his mother's belief that unity and strength came from shared experiences, not from placing one above the rest. Ragna preferred it this way. Unlike his past life, where he had been elevated as a prodigy, here he was just another boy learning the ways of his people. As he settled in, the hum of conversation dimmed slightly, and Aksel rose from his seat. The firelight danced across his face, highlighting the deep lines carved by years of toil and the sharp contrast of his brown eyes, which swept over the hall with a commanding presence. Each child straightened instinctively under his gaze, their chatter silenced by an unspoken respect.
When Aksel's eyes met Ragna's, there was a moment of quiet understanding. He offered the boy a nod, a gesture of acknowledgment and subtle encouragement. Though Aksel was not Ragna's biological father—a fact evident in their differing appearances, with Ragna's golden hair and sharper dark features contrasting Aksel's fairer, rough-hewn visage—it was clear that bloodlines mattered little in their bond. Aksel treated Ragna as his own, with a steadfast love that had proven itself time and again. And Ragna, who had witnessed this love in every action and word, felt a deep gratitude and acceptance that he hadn't known he craved.
The relationship between his mother and Aksel was another source of quiet solace for Ragna. The way Aksel's gaze softened when it rested on her, and the subtle curve of her lips when she looked at him, spoke of a love that was steady and unspoken, built on trust and shared burdens. It was enough for Ragna to know that his mother had found happiness, even amidst the trials of leadership. The atmosphere in the hall was one of camaraderie and warmth, a brief respite from the harsh realities of their world. The walls seemed to hum with the energy of those gathered within, a living tapestry of the past and future woven together. As Ragna sat among the children, a sense of belonging settled over him, a feeling he had rarely known in his previous life. Here, he was not a prodigy or a prince—just Ragna, a boy among his people, ready to share in their journey.
"Boys and girls, congratulations on the beginning of your journey as Vikings, warriors dedicated to maintaining the safety and peace of our people and kingdom," Aksel said, his voice resonating through the hall like a steady drumbeat. "As you well know, our world is not the same as it once was. The world is more dangerous than ever, which is why our existence as warriors is more important than ever. The path you walk as Vikings is an honorable and just cause. May the ancestors look down on you all with pride. Skol.""Skol!" the children exclaimed in unison, their voices rising like a battle cry. The hall filled with the sounds of laughter and clinking utensils as they began indulging in the feast before them. As one still growing, Ragna made sure to fill himself up, eating the nourishing foods grown on the special farm that served as an agricultural source for Kattegat. The Norse culture, though rooted in warfare, was also deeply tied to agriculture. The crops and plants grown in their fields held a unique vitality, and Ragna, with his heightened awareness, could sense a faint presence within the food itself.
It was Odr, or Essence, as it was called in the common tongue—a force that still lingered in their world despite the loss of ambient energy. Ragna had grown accustomed to sensing it, whether in the warriors who protected their town, his parents, or even the food on his plate. Though the essence in the food was faint and insufficient for forming a core, it refined their bodies, making them sturdier and stronger. This, Ragna suspected, was why the children of Kattegat—even those not destined to become Vikings—were taller and more robust than the children of his former world. As he tore through a thick steak with his fork and knife, Ragna's thoughts drifted to the mysterious energy that permeated their lives. It was a subtle reminder that even in a world stripped of its old magic, traces of power still remained, shaping their existence in unseen ways. When the meal was finished and the servants had cleared the table, the children were directed to a smaller hall where Bestla held meetings. The room was quieter, its atmosphere more solemn. The servants arranged the children in a semicircle on the floor, leaving a space in the center for Bestla to take her place. Ragna knew what was coming. He had seen this ritual performed countless times for the older children, and though it no longer held the same novelty for him, he respected its importance.
Bestla entered the room with a calm grace, her presence commanding without effort. She took her seat and gazed at the young faces before her, their wide eyes reflecting the flickering light of the central hearth. The wonder and innocence in their expressions were contagious, and a soft smile tugged at the corners of her lips. When her gaze fell on Ragna, seated among the children, her smile faltered slightly. Unlike the others, his face was devoid of excitement, his usual serious expression etched into his youthful features. Bestla sighed inwardly. She knew why Ragna lacked interest. He had eavesdropped on her stories for years, listening in secret as she recounted the tales of their people to the older children. She had never called him out on it, understanding that her son's insatiable curiosity extended far beyond his years. Still, it pained her to see him so distant from the traditions that bound their people together.
Taking a deep breath, Bestla began the story. Her voice was rich and melodic, carrying the weight of history and the pride of their lineage. The children leaned forward, captivated by her words, while the flames in the hearth seemed to dance in time with her tale. For a moment, even Ragna's guarded expression softened, his sharp mind absorbing every word despite his outward detachment. And so, the story of their people began anew, passed from one generation to the next, a living thread that connected them to the ancestors who had come before.
"Long ago, the world as we know it was nothing more than an endless Void, an emptiness known as Ginnungagap," Bestla began, her tone calm yet commanding as it drew the attention of the gathered children. The crackling of the hearth in the hall provided a rhythmic backdrop to her words.
"From the north came the cold, icy darkness, and from the south came the hot, burning light. When these forces collided, they created the first beings—Ymir, the primal Jotunn, and Audhumbla, the great cosmic cow. Together, they gave life to the first ancient beings, the Jotnar."
Ragna's brow furrowed as he listened, his usual indifference giving way to curiosity. Mom's never spoken of this before, he thought, stealing a glance at the other children, who sat enraptured.
"Among the Jotnar," Bestla continued, her voice steady, "was Buri, the forefather of Odin, Vili, and Ve. Together, these brothers turned against Ymir and Audhumbla and slayed them."
A small boy with wide eyes raised his hand tentatively. "Why did Odin turn against Ymir?"
Bestla smiled gently, her gaze softening. "Who knows? Perhaps it was fated for the brothers to betray Ymir. Only the Norns—the weavers of destiny—know the truth. But from Ymir's colossal body, the world as we know it was formed. His flesh became the land, his blood the seas, his bones the mountains, and his skull the sky itself. From his remains, the Nine Realms were born."
The children exchanged hushed whispers, their young minds struggling to imagine such a titanic feat. A dark-haired girl sitting near Ragna muttered under her breath, "The Nine Realms…"
"And from the highest of these realms, Asgard, Odin ruled as the All-Father, alongside his family of gods," Bestla said, her voice gaining a somber note. "But as time passed, the gods received a grim prophecy—a revelation about the end of all things."
"The end of all things?" the black-haired girl repeated, her voice trembling slightly.
"Ragnarok," Bestla said, her eyes darkening.
"Ragnarok…" the children murmured in unison, the word heavy with an almost tangible weight. Even Ragna, who thought he knew the tale well, found himself leaning forward, captivated by his mother's telling.
"Yes," Bestla continued. "Ragnarok—the Twilight of the Gods—was set into motion with the death of Baldur, the incarnation of light and purity. His death brought about the harshest winter the realms had ever known, Fimbulwinter, a storm so fierce it nearly destroyed all life. With the realms weakened, the forces of darkness rose up."
The room grew quiet as her words sank in. The shadows on the walls seemed to stretch and writhe as she spoke.
"From Muspelheim, the Fire Giant Surtr and his infernal legions marched, wielding flames that could scorch the heavens. The Frost Jotnar rose from Jotunheim, venomous beasts slithered forth from Niflheim, and the cursed dead clawed their way out of Hel. Together, they waged war on the gods, seeking to overthrow them and plunge the Nine Realms into eternal chaos."
The children stared wide-eyed, hanging on her every word. Ragna's mind raced as he imagined the chaos and destruction, his earlier aloofness long forgotten.
"The gods fought valiantly," Bestla said, her voice heavy with emotion. "But even they could not escape their fates. Freyr fell to Surtr's blazing sword. Thor battled Jörmungandr, the World Serpent, to the death. And Odin…" She paused, her eyes narrowing. "Odin, desperate to save his people, hung himself from the World Tree for nine days and nights in search of forbidden wisdom. His act defied the laws of the universe itself."
"And then what?" one of the boys blurted out, unable to contain himself.
Bestla's expression darkened. "Using the ancient magic he discovered, Odin turned the very forces of creation against his enemies. He whispered forbidden runes to Yggdrasil, the World Tree, enchanting its roots with his will. These runes, the language of magic itself, were given sentience and unleashed upon the forces of chaos."
"How did he do that?" asked a boy with a curious glint in his eye, one of the Volur children already learning the ways of magic.
"It is said," Bestla replied, "that Odin bound the will of the World Tree to his own, commanding the runes to rise up and fight alongside the gods. The runes, armed with the raw power of creation, became his weapons in the battle to stop Ragnarok."
"And did it work?" the same boy pressed eagerly.
Bestla's gaze swept over the children, her expression unreadable. "We are still here, aren't we?" she said, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "Perhaps the gods won that day… but Ragnarok is a cycle. And cycles always repeat."
Ragna smirked, crossing his arms as he leaned back. Of course they stopped it… or we wouldn't exist, he thought, amused by the wide-eyed wonder of the other children. Yet, despite himself, he couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to the story.