Æthelwulf gazed out sullenly over the bow of Emperor Siegfried's ship, realizing that they were nearing their destination. Fog covered the sea like a blanket, obscuring the land, but he still saw the trees poking through. He wasn't sure what he expected from Denmark and the Empire of Scandinavia. No, that was a lie.
He expected savagery and debasement. They were a people who not only were without the light of God, but scorned him. If they had homes at all, then they would be made of bone and mud. Corpses would be put on display like a mockery of Hell itself. Men and women would walk naked in the streets, fighting over scraps like they were dogs.
It was why he was sullen when Denmark failed to live up to that expectation. Because what he saw emerging from that fog was no city made of mud and blood, filled with ignorant savages. What he saw, in a word, was… civilization.
And it was galling to admit.
Almost like a curtain, the fog pulled itself back as if to unveil the city of Miklagard in all of its wondrous glory. The harbor was vast. So vast that Æthelwulf had little doubt that the entirety of the Scandinavian fleet could disembark at once. That harbor was framed by tall buildings made of stone, some standing taller than his father's palace. They were capped with domed, almost ship-like roofs with chimneys emerging where the rudder would go.
There was a crowd to greet them. Or their Emperor, specifically. They gathered en masse along the vast network of larger and smaller docks, their cheers carrying over the calm waters. They were not dressed as nobles or kings, yet they didn't wear the base furs or ragged cloth that he expected. More than that, however -- there were so many. Thousands. Tens of thousands, even?
“Father says that two hundred thousand citizens dwell within the city.” Æthelwulf stilled when Prince Ragnar seemed to hear the thoughts in his head, and for all Æthelwulf knew, he had. After their unexplained and impossible victory on the Red Field, Æthelwulf didn't doubt their devilish magics- “It's a common question. Miklagard earned its name for good reason. We have other cities across the empire, many built by my father's hand, but Miklagard stands as the greatest of them all.”
Æthelwulf inclined his head to Prince Ragnar, not at all certain what to make of the younger man. Or his older wife, who looked at him like she was trying to decide which angle to slit his throat at every time they made eye contact.
“There will be a parade to display our spoils.” Ragnar continued, and it went unsaid that he and his people would be considered amongst them. “We'll get a decent look at the city and some of its landmarks. However, should you wish, I could give you and your companions a more private tour?”
Prince Ragnar was unfailingly polite. It was… irritating in a way that Æthelwulf wasn't skilled enough to articulate. He had been taken from his home, forced to live amongst heathens, and everyone was just so… nice. It made his flesh crawl.
Still, it could be an opportunity. He doubted that he would be able to swim all the way back home, but if the opportunity arose to escape, then learning the layout of Miklagard was the obvious first step.
The regents of Miklagard seemed well prepared for Siegfried's success. Upon disembarking, horses and parade wagons were provided for what amounted to a Triumph. It was a cold comfort that he was not bound in chains or gagged, but Æthelwulf understood that he and his fellows were no less on display as the literal mountains of gold and jewels that were openly piled up in a display of grandeur. Artifacts stolen from churches and noble homes were almost unceremoniously piled up for all to see.
One wagon would have been a sight. Yet, there were dozens, all pulled by mules that were laden with more treasures. It had almost been a running jest about the sheer scope of Siegfried's theft, but when it was gathered up so, Æthelwulf really did wonder if the Emperor had looted every last spec of gold and silver from his homeland. Those wagons were flanked by the marching Ironclads, each taking a step in unison with their brothers if they weren't seated upon iron clad horses.
Æthelwulf watched the crowd that only seemed to grow during the triumph. Men, women, and children cheered with unabashed joy at the return of their Emperor. They gathered in the streets, they hung out of the windows to throw out handfuls of flower petals that rained upon them, or they danced with banners.
There was a clenching in his gut when he realized the scope of Miklagard. It was… an impressive city, but he hadn't been able to conceive how vast it really was until they began their long winding loop through it. The lines of tall houses seemed to run on without ending, and at the very edges of the city, he saw hints that construction was ongoing and had only paused to celebrate their return.
That paled in comparison to what he felt when he saw the Colosseum. It was a vast building that he struggled to believe was real when he first caught sight of it. He was no stranger to fighting pits and stages, there were plenty to be found in Wessex, but none could hold a candle to the vast arena. One so large it felt like it could seat everyone in Winchester with room to spare.
There was a surplus of art and color. Buildings painted vibrant hues while statues seemed to be erected in every other street corner with many covered in the devilish runes the Northmen preferred. That growing sense of unease only continued to swell the longer the triumph was, but it reached its zenith when they arrived at the palace and the plaza before it. It was…
He hated it. Æthelwulf wasn't even sure why at first, not until he took his place amongst his fellow hostages, presented before the plaza alongside their hoard of treasure. A crowd naturally gathered in the plaza and Æthelwulf saw a sea of faces. When he did, he understood the cause of his hate.
‘I'm jealous.’ He was jealous of pagans. Of those who had scorned the light of God. Who had ravaged his home.
He hated it because he’d expected savagery and instead found civilization. One that cast a long shadow over his own homeland. And that, more than anything else, was the knot of envy that formed around his heart.
“My people,” Siegfried began in a booming voice that carried across the crowd. “Let there be no doubt that the gods smile upon us, as our raid and our kin in the distant Mediterranean, both found great success! Riches! Glory! Fame! We have proven beyond all doubt that together, we are strong. That we are mighty!”
The crowd, predictably, cheered. It pricked at him how fervent the cheering was. Enough so that it took a minute for them to quite down enough for Siegfried to continue.
“Years ago, I had a dream of what our future could be. A dream that was born in Saxony against the Frankish Empire. A dream that was nurtured in the Roman Empire,” Siegfried continued, a weight to his voice. “Upon my return to my homeland, I began a labor that I knew would outlive me. I sought to forge an empire, binding our people from distant quarreling tribes, giving rise to cities. Kingdoms. Unity.” The crowd hung on every word, waiting on bating breath for him to continue.
“I stand before you proud. Through tireless nights and with the sweat on our brow, together, we have laid a foundation that will be built upon by our children and their children,” Siegfried uttered, and Æthelwulf could hear the smile in his voice. “I also stand before you to say that the labor is not yet done. We have won a great victory, that is true. We have earned a vast amount of wealth, that I cannot deny. Nor can I that those beyond our borders look at what we have built with fear and envy!”
The words almost felt directed at him specifically.
“What say you? Will you let them?” The crowd had been loud before, but now they unleashed a war cry that almost staggered him with the force behind it. This time, it took even longer for them to quiet down. “I thought not! Yet, they will try! The Romans at our borders will seek to destroy all that we have built! Because they fear what we can accomplish when we stand together! We fight together! Build together!”
“I make you this vow, my people,” Siegfried swiftly continued before the cheering could drown him out. “When the Romans come… we will be ready!”
The very worst part about it?
Æthelwulf believed him.
…
Ragnar hadn't realized how much he missed his home until he found himself walking its halls once again. There were subtle changes from his memories, mostly the decorations that were on display -- different statues, vases, or tapestries. Still, it was undeniably his home.
Maeve, for her part, was digging her nails into his arm out of nervousness. She had a wide eyed look that Ragnar was struggling not to laugh at, like she was trying to see everything all at once and couldn't decide what demanded her attention more. He thought she had been more prepared to see his home. For his part, he had described it to her so she would have something of a warning.
He grew up around finery. Even as far back as Norland, Ragnar had long since been desensitized to lavish amounts of wealth on display. He imagined that his father looked similar when he arrived at Constantinople as a younger man.
They walked quickly down the halls for a private reunion. And an introduction. More public reunions would come in the feasts and speeches that would follow, all the kings under his father basking in the success and congratulating each other on a job well done.
A thrill raced through him when the doors opened, revealing the rest of his family-
“Father!” Radahn shouted out, not caring a wit about decorum and running forward. Bjorn was right behind him, throwing their arms around their father with large grins on their faces.
“You both have grown,” Father acknowledged, a softness in his voice that Ragnar rarely heard.
“We're men now,” Radahn decided, making Ragnar swallow a laugh. “So the next time you go raiding, we can come too, right?”
“... I will make you both a deal. If you study hard and train harder, the next time I go raiding, you can come with me,” Father conceded, much to his younger brothers’ joy. Both of them were completely unaware that Father didn't intend to go raiding for years. He likely wouldn't leave the empire again until it was time to conquer Britannia.
The soft moment was interrupted when his mother approached. Ragnar found himself meeting her gaze with some apprehension. It hadn't exactly been the plan to get married during the raid. Even these months later, he didn't regret the decision, but he also knew that it was certainly going to be a… surprise for his mother.
“And you must be my son's bride, Maeve,” Mother greeted her warmly. Enough so that Maeve was a bit startled by it, but she recovered swiftly.
“I am, Allvaldís,” Maeve agreed, making Mother smile.
“Please, just call me Astrid. I've never been one for ceremony,” she admitted, though she tossed Father a very pointed look. “Though I would have appreciated being able to attend my son's wedding.”
Oh. Father was right. She might actually kill him.
“But,” Mother continued, looking back at Maeve. “Welcome to the family. We're always happy to see it grow and welcome a new member into the fold,” she said, reaching out and squeezing Maeve's hands gently. That earned a more relaxed and honest smile from his wife. “And speaking of the family growing.”
A knot that Ragnar hadn't realized was there melted away when a set of doors opened, revealing Aunt Morrigan. When she hadn't been there with Aunt Jill and Aunt Jasmine… it was a thought he was all too happy to dismiss, rushing over alongside Magnus and his Father. In her arms was a young child, perhaps six or seven months old.
“The gods favor you, Siegfried. Another son for your growing collection,” Aunt Morrigan remarked with a dry sarcasm, passing the bundle to Father. The babe squirmed at getting passed around, looking up at them with golden eyes that were settled in an annoyed scowl. His hair was different, Ragnar noticed. All of his siblings shared their Father's blood red hair, but his youngest brother's was darker. Still red, but so dark to the point of being black, and only looked red in the light. “I have named him Hakon. He's a clever boy.”
“Hello, Hakon. It's such a relief to finally meet you. I'm your father-”
“Father-” Ragnar’s father nearly dropped Hakon when the infant spoke. It wasn't clean. More of a fa-ur, but there could be no mistaking his intent when he pointed at their father and repeated himself. “Father.”
“T'is as I said,” Aunt Morrigan continued with evident pride. “He's exceedingly clever. He takes after his father too much, I think.”
“And his mother,” Father replied with a grin. Despite Hakon's increasingly annoyed expression at being poked and prodded, Ragnar found that he couldn't look away from his baby brother, who held the tip of his finger in such a grip it was as if he were attempting to rip it off.
His cleverness didn't just end there. Upon being introduced to the babe, Hakon identified Ragnar as Rags. Magnus was shortened to Mags. Every word uttered was with a thick accent of a chubby child-like drawl, but there was no denying it -- Hakon was able to identify and name them.
Ragnar played with Radahn and Bjorn endlessly during Father's conquest of Scandinavia, attempting to fill their father's shoes so they wouldn't miss him as much. Hakon wasn't merely clever. Ragnar liked to think he was clever. That all of his siblings were clever. They were praised endlessly by their tutors; they met and exceeded every expectation placed upon them… Hakon was a step beyond that. If not several steps.
It was a strange feeling. One that lingered when the reunion commenced in earnest -- Ragnar embraced his sisters, finding that the months he had been gone had them grow from girls to young women. He regaled his younger siblings with tales of their adventures that were only a little exaggerated. Once she found her footing, Maeve spoke with his mother, aunts, and siblings in turn.
The family reunion didn't so much as end when supper came for an informal meal together as it shifted. Private conversations began, such as the one Ragnar and Maeve were pulled into by his mother.
“Becoming a king is no small matter, Ragnar,” Mother whispered to him, taking his hand into hers. “Especially across the sea. It wouldn't be the same as taking a kingdom here. Over there… you'll be isolated. Days away.”
“I know it won't be easy,” he admitted. “Father has already spoken to me about my lessons in rulership.” In essence, he would be shadowing him in the years to come, learning to steward a kingdom and navigate the seas of diplomacy.
By the time he returned to Alba, he would be eighteen. Hopefully, with five years of experience learning from the greatest leaders of their time would mean he wouldn't make a horrid mess of things upon assuming the throne.
“That's not the part that I'm worried about,” Mother said, squeezing his hand. “I won't be able to see you so easily in Alba.” That, admittedly, wasn’t something he thought of when he agreed to the marriage. He just saw it as a way to bring Alba into the empire peacefully and without bad blood. Of course, such a thing would come with a cost, but he hadn’t thought his mother would suffer for it. “And more than that… being a king gives you prestige. It gives your name weight. But you won’t be able to use that weight and influence on the other kings of the realm. Not if you intend to become the heir.”
That was another issue Father had discussed with him at length in the weeks leading up to the wedding and the ride back home. How the phrase ‘out of sight and out of mind’ was a very real thing when it came to rulership. Being seen was as important a part of being king as ruling well was -- and in Alba, while he wouldn’t be as isolated as his mother feared, it would only be natural for his fellow monarchs to focus on their relationships within their power bloc around the Baltic Sea.
All of the conversations he had with his wife, his father, and now his mother… His mind lingered on all of them. A question that he hadn’t been able to earnestly answer back in that cabin when Maeve asked him. A response that sat heavily on his tongue when his father assumed his desire to become King of Alba was a result of a grander desire to become the next Allvaldr.
“... And if I don’t want to be the heir?” Ragnar asked, almost wary of her reaction. He was the eldest. That was the expectation. A constant pressure that he dealt with all of his life. A pressure that he didn’t exactly mind, but…
It wasn’t there.
That spark of ambition that drove his father to sail across the world to learn from the successes and failures of the Roman Empire, all so he may apply those lessons to a kingdom he had yet to conquer. Or use that kingdom to create an empire. What drove him was a desire for approval. To meet the expectations of his parents.
And that wasn’t enough.
The empire demanded more. Deserved more. Someone who would take all that Father had built and bring it to new heights. Someone who didn’t just want to meet his expectations but surpass them. To surpass him.
In that case, Alba was almost uniquely suited as the perfect solution for the heir apparent to step outside of the succession. He would not be shamed. He would simply be… out of sight and out of mind.
Despite his apprehension, there was only love in his mother’s eyes. She gave his hand a gentle squeeze and the smile that tugged at her lips told him she already knew everything he wanted to say.
That he didn’t want to be the heir.