For more than half a month afterward, Ragnar lived in a simple lean-to beside the old farmhouse.
He set aside his gold-embroidered robes, fished and cooked by himself, and cleared the weeds with a sickle like an old countryman returning to his youth.
During his stay, almost every noble in Scandinavia came to visit, eager to see the most famous Viking ruler in history.
Exhausted by their endless fawning, Ragnar finally decided to bid farewell to the place where he had lived so many years.
Before leaving, he erected a runestone on a cliff nearby, facing the gray-blue waters to the east, and held a quiet private rite.
Amid the sting of curling smoke, Ragnar suddenly turned.
Behind him stretched endless ranks of soldiers and fluttering banners, nobles standing at the front—but all he felt was a deep, desolate sorrow.
Tears slid from the corners of his eyes.
Ignoring the startled whispers around him, he recited softly an unknown verse:
Cities crumble, the throne lies buried in frost.
The lords who raised their cups have returned to dust.
Only the sea-birds' cry remains,
Answering the feasts of my memory.
The scene moved Gunnar as well.
He wiped away a few hot tears.
He had joined this expedition partly out of homesickness—but mostly to observe the condition of his old commander, his old brother-in-arms.
Seeing Ragnar's decline, he felt an uneasy mix of relief and grief.
Tears kept falling—along with an almost imperceptible whisper of regret.
Soon he wiped them away—and with them, all softness.
His ambition allowed no room for sentiment.
At the port of Kalmar, the army prepared to sail.
On the final day before departure, a large, red-haired man arrived with several dozen retainers.
Vig took a long look and ventured, "Rurik?"
"An honor indeed—to have the famed Serpent of the North remember my name."
Rurik embraced him warmly, then followed him to meet Ragnar.
That evening, Rurik invited Ivar, Bjorn, Vig, Gunnar, Niels, and Orm to drink together.
Twelve years had passed since the disbanding of the old hunting party.
One by one he recalled their deeds and titles.
Compared to them, Rurik's fame remained mostly in the East.
He had become lord of Novgorod, maintaining good ties with the Rus tribes along the lower Dnieper and securing trade to Constantinople.
After several cups of mead, his speech grew muddled.
"Who would've thought… we'd all make our own way…
From lowborn lads to the men we are now… It wasn't easy…"
The next day, Rurik watched their sails vanish across the horizon.
He sighed.
"To lead a great army and make all the lords of the North bow…
There's no greater glory in this world.
I wonder if I'll ever know such power in my lifetime."
After brooding half a day on the cliff, he turned to business.
Hearing that Ragnar had banished a large number of housecarls, he had rushed from Novgorod hoping to recruit a few experienced officers to train his troops.
"I hear the lower Dnieper is growing restless.
Best prepare early.
After so many wars, Ragnar and his men must have learned new methods—those exiled guards may carry them."
The expedition over, Rurik returned home.
Of the thousand men he brought, none died in battle; only one fell overboard, and twenty-three succumbed to illness.
It had hardly been a war—more like a grand, armed tour of Scandinavia.
When Vig finished recounting his own journey, Herligev yawned.
"And how's your old home?"
"Ruined. Collapsed roofs, overgrown fields.
Every neighbor gone."
She frowned.
"After hauling you away for months, the king didn't give you any loot?"
"No battles were fought.
The local lords surrendered before we even met them.
Where would loot come from?
On the way back, the chancellor scraped together enough coin to pay everyone for their extended service and then dismissed us."
"Is that so…"
Herligev muttered a long string of complaints, unhappy the king hadn't given him anything.
Eventually she curled into his arms and fell asleep.
Perhaps the gods heard her whispered prayers—
for a small wish of a noblewoman, they decided to grant it.
Some time later, a royal messenger braved wind and snow from Londinium, delivering a piece of "good news" that struck Vig like thunder.
Early January, 855 AD
From the close of the annual council until spring thaw, Vig enjoyed the easiest months of his year.
Last year had been prosperous.
More than seven thousand new settlers arrived; Tyneshire now held fifty-three thousand residents.
Excess migrants were resettled across the five northern counties.
Across all his lands lived two hundred seventy thousand souls—over fifty thousand of them Viking.
Population and revenue rose steadily.
Life was comfortable.
Some days he spent with his family, others with his books.
One afternoon, while reading the biography of Emperor Aurelian, he heard the arrival of a royal courier.
He hurried to the hall and accepted the sealed writ.
Breaking the red wax, Vig scanned the first few lines—and collapsed into his seat.
"Pascal… is dead?"
Since Ragnar's conquest of Northumbria, Pascal had remained at his side, handling documents.
Over time his talent in governance became unmistakable, and he served as chancellor for eleven years.
As a surrendered Anglo-Saxon noble, Pascal devoted himself to easing tensions between conquerors and locals, persuading the king to protect monasteries and maintain a fragile balance.
With piracy nearly gone and agriculture booming (thanks to the three-field system and heavy plough), the people enjoyed rare peace.
Pascal's frugal nature and diligence made his reputation soar—far above that of other surrendered nobles like Theowulf.
"Ten years of thankless work… poor man.
I wonder which unlucky soul will inherit that mess?"
Vig sighed.
His spirits sank.
But when he read to the end, he froze.
Pascal's final recommendation for successor was—
none other than Vig Tynenhall, the Serpent of the North.
Shit.
Seeing him clutch the letter, the courier thought he was overjoyed and eagerly claimed credit:
"My lord, in order to bring you this wonderful news as quickly as possible, I rode day and night without rest—"
Unable to endure the chatter, Vig tossed him a generous reward and had servants find him a bed.
Then he reread the writ several times, sighed deeply, and muttered:
"This really is… an ending I did not expect."
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