IdeasGuy
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Legends Never Die: Responsibility (ch. 148)
🕑 Added 2026-01-21 16:13:29 +0000 UTCA reminder that I will be taking next week off to celebrate Best of Intentions finishing. But once I come back on the 2nd, the first chapter of Going Native: Rewritten will go live and four advanced chapters will be posted on patreon.
...
Ragnar found himself riding up a dirt road alongside his brother Magnus and his cousin Harald. They were part of the delegation to the kingdom of Alba, alongside the five hundred Ironclad bodyguards to ensure their safety as they rode ahead of his father's army. Father was withdrawing from Mercia, and now turning his attention to Northumbria, which made traveling through the country somewhat dangerous. In the days that it took for them to ride from one end of Northumbria to the other there had been a few frenzied skirmishes, but the petty lords of the petty kingdom struggled to do more than annoy them.
All the while, Ragnar spoke with Ove, the diplomat that Father had sent with them on the delegation. Father would be the first to admit that diplomacy was not his strongest skill, but it was Aunt Jill's, and she had selected a number of diplomats to accompany the raid to aid Father's larger ambitions. And Ove spent those days preparing them as much as he possibly could.
“King Causantín mac Fergusa lays claim to all of the lands belonging to the Picts,” Ova repeated himself more frequently the closer they got to the border between Alba and Northumbria. “But he is not a king as your father is, Lord Harald. Nor your father, Prince Ragnar and Prince Magnus. His grip on his kingdom, by design, is weak.”
“What king would want a weak grip on his kingdom?” Harald asked, his brow furrowing at the mere thought. The repetition of the information he taught them was made tolerable by Ova always delivering a touch of new information to learn each time, broadening their knowledge of the highland kingdom.
“None,” Ova answered quickly. “For it is not by the king's design, but that of the Pict Clans that confederated in response to the invasion of the Saxons.” It was such a strange thought that this land had been conquered by the Saxons, a kingdom and people that now answered to his father. Ragnar had tried to see any connection between the two, and there was next to nothing. They barely even spoke the same language, with only a handful of words remotely recognizable between them.
“That confederation remained a very loose series of alliances between the clans, with the position of king being granted to one who had enough backing to claim the title but not enough to challenge the independent clans. Over the centuries, the kingdom has fractured and reformed, and in this latest generation, King Causantín has enough political sway to act independently.”
“And that is what he seeks from an alliance,” Ragnar echoed an earlier lesson. The Pictish King lacked an independent power base large enough to challenge the other influential clans, so he sought outside help to strengthen his grip as king. “But that doesn't mean it is in our interest to help him.”
“Diplomacy is a battle of desires and ambitions,” Ova nodded. “Your father desires an ally within Alba, but that doesn't make King Causantín the most suited for this role. He who must seek allies outside of his kingdom to rule his kingdom is not a king. He is a puppet. It is only a question of who pulls his strings, and your father will not always be in Britannia.”
“Our job is to attract and feel out other possibilities amongst the Clans,” Magnus ventured, knowing their duty. “And in doing so, it will provide leverage against King Causantín, because it sends the message that we can just as easily support another.”
“Exactly, my prince,” Ova praised Magnus. It was clear early on that he had a favorite between the three of them, but it didn't surprise Ragnar much given who he answered to and whose son Magnus was. “Naturally, this action will inflame those that find a foreign power so openly meddling in their kingdom irksome. From there, it is my duty to determine if they are a credible threat to whoever we choose to support, should we support anyone at all, and recommend actions to deal with them. Whether that be military action, slander,, assassination, marriage, and more.”
Ragnar swallowed the lump that suddenly formed in his throat as one of those things wasn't quite like the others, but he swallowed whatever complaint he could make.
This was what it meant to play the game of kings.
“And how long will this delegation take?” Harald questioned, and Ragnar knew that he was eager to return to the raiding. All of them had been blooded at Chester, but it was Harald that found that he had a taste for it.
“My part will take the better part of a year,” Ova stated, and Harald went bloodless at the mere thought. “Yours, however, will last but a few weeks. A month, at the most.” There was a ghost of a smile on his face, knowing exactly how he’d sent Harald into a state of fright.
A month wasn't a small amount of time, but still… “I thought it would take longer,” Ragnar admitted, turning his gaze to the lands beyond. The lands of Alba. They reminded him of Norway, just a bit. The large sweeping hills, the straight cliffs, with mountains that loomed in the distance.
“It largely depends on what each group seeks to accomplish,” Ova answered. “In large part, I can only prepare the grounds for a true alliance. I must wait for your father to perform his role -- defeating the Britons and completing the Great Raid. That, more than anything else, will send the message that they are allies of convenience and not necessity. Which will enable me to further your father's goals for the kingdom.”
“Which would be?” Harald questioned, but from the sound of it, he already suspected the answer.
“It's absolute submission.”
…
It didn't take long for their arrival to be noticed once they crossed the border into Pictish lands. Scouts watched them from afar as they trotted a well walked path. And it was roughly half a day into their journey that they were met by a party of Picts. There were perhaps a dozen before them on the road itself, but there was half a hundred watching from above in the rough uneven cliffs. It seemed like they had been waiting for them to arrive.
“Halt,” a richly dressed man commanded, clearly a nobleman as he was seated on top of his horse. Ragnar found that he couldn't look away from him -- he was around the same age as Father, so in his late twenties to early thirties, but what stole his attention was the fact that he had red hair and bright blue eyes. It was the first time he saw someone with the same coloring that wasn't related to him. Or probably wasn't related to him. “I am known as Lùcas Mac Rath the Bloodhair, sent here on behalf of King Causantín.”
Mac Rath. One of the notable Clans according to Ova.
“I present to you, Prince Ragnar and Prince Magnus, sons of the Allvaldr Siegfried the Wolfkissed! Accompanied by his nephew, Lord Harald, son of King Haldur. And I, Ova, a dignitary charged with opening negotiations with your king.”
“Aye,” Lùcas began, nodding his head. His Germanic carried a twinge of an accent that Ragnar couldn't quite place, but it wasn't that different from the Norsemen who learned Germanic. “I also see you're accompanied by a fair few more than that. As per the agreement, you were meant to come with a small force.”
“My lord, I'm afraid this is a small force,” Ova returned, seemingly well prepared for the argument. “A mere five hundred men of the tens of thousands that roam Britannia. Would you expect the Allvaldr to entrust the safety of his sons and nephew with anything less?”
There was a beat of silence as Lùcas narrowed his eyes, his horse shifting underfoot. “I believe that we have a difference of opinion on what constitutes as a small force. I hope you understand my reluctance to allow an army into my home.”
“Only if you accept our opinion of what constitutes an army,” Ova returned easily. “And trust that if we possessed unworthy thoughts, then know that we would not arrive with so few men.”
There was another loud silence between their parties, and Ragnar spared a glance at the men above, seeing how their arrows were notched. Yet, he did not feel that phantom sensation in the back of his neck that they were about to pull back the strings and shoot at them. A sensation that he had grown exceptionally familiar with in the days following the Blessing that he’d received.
As such, he held himself with an easy confidence, knowing that they would not shoot. He knew it with as much certainty as he knew his own name.
“... Very well then,” Lùcas uttered, sounding unhappy about it, but knowing that there was little he could do. To turn them away would be an insult to his father as much as it would be acting out of turn with King Causantín. Something that they couldn't afford when there was such a great army on the island and they were seemingly unprepared to face it. Lùcas released a sharp whistle and the archers above began to stand or fall back. “If you would follow me, Princes, Lords, and bodyguards. I shall lead you to King Causantín's keep.”
With that, their delegation began to move forward, this time escorted by a hundred men. Ragnar watched them form up, but one in particular stood out, mostly because they were the only one attempting to hide their face underneath a dark green hood. They approached Lùcas, speaking in a language that he recognized as Gaelic. Casting a quick glance at Magnus, knowing that he knew more of the language than he did, but Magnus shook his head. Maybe if the twins were here…
The figure speaking to Lùcas glanced their way, their face half hidden by the hood, but Ragnar saw enough to recognize a woman. Her hair was a different shade of red than his own -- lighter, almost the shade of fire. There was a bright blue marking on one side of her face, woad that framed her eye and over her cheekbone.
Pretty.
And very unfriendly based on how her eyes were narrowed into a glare before she turned away.
“Don't even think about it,” Magnus remarked to him on Arabic.
“I wasn't,” Ragnar defended, shooting his brother a scowl.
“You absolutely were,” Magnus laughed. “She bares a resemblance to their leader,” he continued, avoiding use of any names as they spoke in secret. Harald seemed faintly annoyed that they were talking in Arabic, but they would repeat what they said in a private setting. “They're kin, I think. And their clan is influential enough to make things complicated as it is without you following after her like a lost dog.”
Ragnar swatted at Magnus with his ridding stick, but his brother laughed, urging his horse out of the way with a sideways trot.
Despite himself, there was a grin on his face as their party began moving once again. Then, in Norse, he spoke, “Do you think that is why Father sent us here?”
That made Magnus grow serious, “To get married?” He questioned, mostly for Harald's sake. “Maybe. It might not be his plan specifically, but he's likely prepared for the possibility.”
“If we marry some lowborn highlander, I think that would be a failure of diplomacy,” Harald snorted, dismissing the idea out of hand. “We are royalty. Our blood is worth more.”
Ragnar bit his tongue to swallow a sharp retort. Harald had an arrogance that he found grating at the best of times, but it wouldn't do to argue before the Picts. Still, it was irritating how Harald claimed the same status, even if he lacked the title to go with it.
The only princes or princesses were sired by his father. The others might call themselves ‘kings’, but Father had hollowed out that title until they only had an empty crown. Among the changes was that the children of the kings were not acknowledged as princes, with the one exception being Norway because of how it was diplomatically brought into the Empire.
Setting the flash of irritation aside, he considered the point. “Has your father spoken to you about marriage?” He asked, mostly because Harald made it sound like the idea hadn't even occurred to him. Which either meant Harald was a dullard who was so arrogant that the idea never occurred to him, or that he knew any marriage wasn't possible and the most likely possibility as to why was because his uncle was arranging his marriage already.
Harald twitched, telling Ragnar that his question had touched a nerve. A secret? One that Harald hid by shrugging, “My father hasn't said.”
A lie, Ragnar assumed, but not one he challenged. He recalled his father's words and warnings too well. When Father established the empire, he had looked long into the future and delivered a warning -- that one day, likely within Ragnar's lifetime, the various kingdoms would start to bind themselves into factions with marriage. A way to increase their bargaining power against the crown. He also warned that his uncles Haldur and Halfdan were natural places to start.
“I'm more surprised that he hasn't brought it up with you,” Harald continued, turning the conversation around on him as they rode behind Lùcas at a sluggish pace. Deliberately slow to give messengers that they had undoubtedly sent ahead as much as a lead as possible. “You are the heir, after all.”
Ragnar almost shifted in his saddle, trying to hide how the assumption bothered him. By the traditions of their people, he was the heir. He was Father's first born to his first wife. Yet, he did not have the official title and the reason why was no secret amongst the family.
The heir would be who was most deserving. Who wanted to be heir and eventually Allvaldr after his father passed.
“I would speak with greater care,” Magnus interjected in Germanic, the one language that the three of them shared. “Some amongst them know Norse,” he added, and with a subtle gesture to the hooded girl riding next to what could be her kin. How her hood was tilted ever so slightly that indicated that she was listening with half an ear.
And given how her head tilted back to look forward, Ragnar wondered if she knew Germanic as well.
…
Their destination was Perth, a decently sized city located upriver and in the lowlands of Alba. A deliberate decision, Ragnar suspected, to allow them quick response to either Northumbria aggression or weakness. The city wasn't without fortifications, but they weren't of Roman make.
These were the people that the Romans gave up fighting and built a wall to protect themselves from.
Around the town was an old earthwork while the ditch around the city was filled with water. The only way to easily enter the city was a bridge that creaked eerily under the hooves of their horses. Ragnar drank the sight in, knowing that the battle of diplomacy had already begun as they rode into the city.
Their buildings were unimpressive, as were their roads. It was an insult to compare the city to his home of Miklagard, but he compared them all the same. The Picts built wide, their city not thoughtlessly planned, but it lacked the neat organization of his home. The buildings were made of wood and thatch, the roads dirt with planks thrown over muddy areas.
As he inspected the city and its people, he knew they were inspecting him as well and so he gathered himself. Aunt Morrigan and Jill called it a mask -- a version of himself that he wished others to see. He was tall for his age, so he did not slouch in the saddle. His cloak was pushed open, letting all see his fine clothing of brilliant dyes and intricate damask patterns, his fine riding boots, his well fitted trousers, and the few pieces of jewelry he wore. He looked straight ahead, his expression giving nothing away.
But that cracked when he saw a little girl no older than three or four climb up on a crate or something and offered him an enthusiastic wave.
He allowed himself a small smile, relaxing his expression, and he offered a wave back. The people that gathered around the street, stopping what they were doing to watch them pass, remarked upon it but he could only guess what they were saying. It sounded vaguely approving, though.
Lùcas led them to a central keep that wasn't unlike the longhouses of his people. Large, made of wood with a sloped roof to avoid the snow piling up so high. Ragnar dismounted along with the others, their guards standing close as Lùcas led the way with a large set of double doors opening for them.
The first thing that Ragnar noticed was the dirt floor. The second was the long stone hearth filled with smoldering coals to ward off the lingering chill in the air. And the third thing he noticed was the throne on one side of the room and the man who sat upon it. The throne itself sat elevated over the hall, a stone platform built that was large enough to fit a large table, but there was only a pair of thrones there now.
King Causantín mac Fergusa didn't look like a weak king. He was on the taller side, dark brown hair with dark blue tattoos over his cheekbones and a long groomed beard. Calluses on his hand spoke of a warrior, and the jeweled rings on his fingers spoke of unusual wealth compared to his fellows. A wolf pelt rested on his shoulders and a simple dark blue tunic covered his body, laces open to show a hint of his chest and the tattoos that were etched into his skin. The queen seated next to him was blonde with brown eyes, a warm expression affixed to her face that was too unchanging to be real.
Ova took the lead, standing before the Pict King and greeting him in his native tongue. A customary exchange of pleasantries and their introduction -- Ragnar heard his name, followed by Magnuss, and then Harald’s.
In the meantime, Ragnar looked at the others from the corners of his eyes. To look without looking. There were a handful of people arranged near the throne, but not directly adjacent. Among them was Lùcas, but the girl who traveled with him was nowhere to be seen. More importantly, Ragnar deduced that those near the throne were representatives of the clans. They were all well dressed, and he noticed that they each had a dominating color to their outfits.
King Causantín replied when Ova was done giving the introductions, his tone flat. Not unwelcoming, but there was no warmth. When he was done speaking, Ova turned to him, “King Causantín says that we are welcome to his hall and granted his protection as king. He is eager to discuss terms of an alliance and hopes for a fruitful relationship with us.”
Well, that sounded entirely too good to be true.
“Your thoughts?” Ragnar asked in Arabic, knowing it was a bit rude but better that than eavesdropping.
Ova thought about it for only a second, his warm expression never so much as twitching. “Something has happened to taint the negotiations before they have begun. I'm afraid your father has put quite the challenge before you, my prince.”
Yeah.
That sounded about right.
Comments
Cameron Burchett
I love that Ragnar hasn’t let being the firstborn of the first wife go to his head. And the hint that he might not even be interested in being the one to succeed his father.
landfill
I love this story man
![개성인쥬스[pingkypen] from fanbox](https://unionfaps.com/kistorage/106895.jpg)
