Lexar's proposal passed smoothly.
Other nobles followed with their demands—lower taxes, exemption from regular court attendance, and a noble council with the right to resist the duke's (Halfdan's) orders.
Ragnar nodded.
"Fine. Everything is negotiable."
Once their conditions were met, the nobles reluctantly stepped forward one after another to swear fealty to their new overlord.
Both sides wore stiff expressions, their eyes filled with resentment and veiled threats.
"Just wait until Ragnar leaves—we'll beat you senseless."
—so thought the nobles.
"A pack of rural savages. I'll be stockpiling arms over the next few years, and then we'll see who suffers."
—so schemed Halfdan.
When the ceremony concluded, Halfdan received a duchy—unstable and fragile.
Ragnar dismissed the others and spent half a day with his son alone, as if trying to pour a lifetime's worth of experience into him at once.
"…and I'll say it again—treat your commoners well.
The more gifted a man is, the prouder he becomes.
Remember to respect such people—don't drive them into the enemy's camp."
"I know, I know—you've said it twice, no… three times already."
Halfdan yawned, convinced he was quite adept at winning over warriors—after all, he had founded Norseblade.
Seeing his inattentive look, Ragnar still had more to say, but voices outside announced the arrival of Eric and his son, interrupting the conversation.
When Ragnar stepped out to greet them, he almost failed to recognize his old friend.
This didn't look like a king at all—more like a common wandering shaman.
"Long time no see, old friend. I heard you pacified Denmark and Sweden in one sweep—I came to congratulate you."
Eric approached slowly with an oak cane, wrapped in a coarse brown cloak.
Though still heavyset—with broad face, thick ears, and a double chin—his aura had changed completely. No longer dull or senile, he radiated a kind of world-worn calm, a tranquility born of letting go.
The two embraced.
Ragnar felt uneasy; he had intended to "deal with" Norway next, using the excuse of punishing young Eric's supposed coup.
But now father and son had arrived together—clearly united.
His justification evaporated.
"Old friend, I heard that earlier you—"
"Rumors. You shouldn't believe drunkards."
Eric pulled his son beside him and declared he abdicated of his own will—no coup, no plots, no treachery.
To silence malicious gossip once and for all, he even made his son kneel and kiss Ragnar's left hand in submission.
With that, Ragnar had no grounds to attack Norway.
The two kingdoms were bound by alliance and marriage; a forcible conquest would destroy decades of hard-earned prestige and plunge Norway into chaos.
The nobles of Denmark and Sweden would resent him as well.
After a long pause, Ragnar regained composure and murmured,
"Slanderous tongues… may the gods punish them."
Eric and his son repeated,
"May the gods punish them."
A Father's Final Lesson
Relieved, young Eric rested beneath a tree.
Soon, he heard a familiar voice.
Eric:
"Do you know why I helped you?"
"Because I'm more suitable to inherit the throne than Horst or Hǫss."
He spoke confidently.
"Horst is mediocre—ten years of effort and he still controlled only the area around Schleswig. He thinks the other lords are fools, but in truth they just indulged him, afraid of angering you.
As for Hǫss, he is far too young. With turmoil coming, he couldn't possibly hold the kingdom together."
Eric nodded with satisfaction.
He sat on the grass, staring across the unchanging fjord.
A raven landed on his broad shoulder, treating him like an oddly shaped rock.
"Good. Your insight far surpasses Halfdan's.
Dealing with him will be easy.
As for Niels—his ambition burns too hot.
It is both his strength and his flaw.
Ambition drives a man to greatness—but it can blind him, causing disasters he never intended.
Think on this: Ragnar is fortunate.
He gathered Ivar, Vig, Gunnar, Niels—each a ruthless prodigy.
Trouble is, ordinary men can't control such people.
When Ragnar dies—and he will—there will be a great upheaval.
Likely it will engulf the entire Viking world.
Remember this:
Keep your head down.
Do not stumble blindly into that storm."
With that, Eric slowly pushed himself upright, cane in hand.
"Where are you going?" his son asked.
"Anywhere. Everywhere.
Now that I've laid down the burden, the world finally feels open again.
Don't come looking for me."
Ignoring his son's calls, Eric walked alone into the empty wilderness. His plan was to visit the sacred temples one by one—searching for a new path for the Viking people.
End of the Northern Turmoil
And so, the great chaos that engulfed Scandinavia gradually subsided.
Before leaving, Ragnar made a detour to Kalmar—a place he had not visited in ten years.
Along the way, Vig observed the villages.
Northern populations had dwindled dramatically—sometimes one could travel miles without seeing a single soul.
Wild dogs roamed in packs, no longer fearing humans.
Their low growls and the stink of their drool followed the marching army, red eyes gleaming.
"Where brigands pass, it is like combing through hair;
where armies pass, like scraping the scalp clean.
Norseblade's berserkers are something between the two.
After their devastation, Sweden won't recover for twenty years.
Gods know how many migrants will flee this year."
Five days later, they reached Kalmar.
Amid hundreds of nobles and knights, Ragnar returned to his old farmhouse.
Ten years without repair had reduced it to ruins.
Weeds choked the yard.
The turf roof had collapsed; oak beams jutted skyward like broken whale bones.
The stone foundation was washed loose, potsherds lay scattered under the walls, thick with spiderwebs.
Ragnar stepped forward with boyish excitement.
"Look— Ivar, Björn, Halfdan—these were your drawings when you were small!"
He pointed at stones in the corner—five crude stick figures, two large and three small.
Then, stooping with difficulty, he rummaged through the debris and uncovered a rusted sickle and a ragged piece of cloth still hanging from a broken beam.
Standing on tiptoe, he pulled down the frayed wool.
"It's what Lagertha wove," he whispered, clutching it for a long time before walking behind the house to sit beneath the old ash tree—still standing strong.
"Father once said this ash tree predated the house.
He planned to cut it for lumber, but at the last moment he changed his mind—
he felt a big tree behind the house was… nice."
After a long silence, Ragnar recalled a line from a wandering poet:
"When a man spends more time living in his memories than in his days…
he is old."
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