The sea mist still clung to Kattegat the same way it always had.

You stood at the edge of the dock, boots touching wood you remembered from another lifetime, heart pounding as voices in Old Norse drifted around you. The world hadn’t waited for you—but you hadn’t changed at all.

A laugh cut through the air.

Low. Familiar.

You turned—and Ragnar Lothbrok froze mid-step.

For a heartbeat, the great king of Kattegat looked like the curious farmer you’d first met all those years ago. His eyes widened, searching your face as if afraid you might vanish again.

“By the gods…” he breathed, stepping closer. “You have not changed.”

You smiled softly. “Neither have you. Not really.”

He laughed then, rough and incredulous, pulling you into an embrace that lingered longer than expected. His beard was grayer, his arms stronger, heavier with time and power.

“You left us,” he said quietly. “And did not age. I thought you a dream. Or a trick of Loki.”

“Time moves differently for me,” you replied. “I couldn’t stay.”

Ragnar nodded, eyes distant. Too many ghosts lived behind them now.

He led you through Kattegat, past longhouses rebuilt, past faces that looked at you with curiosity. He spoke as you walked—of Lagertha leaving, of Athelstan’s death (he didn’t linger there, only swallowed), of Aslaug, of kingship, of sons.

“My children,” he said, stopping before the great hall. “You must meet them.”

Inside, four young men stood.

Ubbe rose first—tall, broad-shouldered, steady-eyed. His gaze lingered on you longer than the others, something curious sparking behind it.

Hvitserk watched you like you might vanish. Sigurd smirked, sharp and amused. Ivar sat apart, eyes cold and calculating, studying you as if you were a puzzle.

“This,” Ragnar announced, “is the woman I told you of. The traveler. The one who knew me before I was king.”

Ubbe stepped forward.

“You’re real,” he said, voice low. “Father spoke of you often.”

“Only good things, I hope,” you replied.

Ubbe smiled—warm, genuine. “Enough to make us wonder.”

As the days passed, Kattegat whispered about you. A woman who did not age. A friend of Ragnar’s past returned. You helped where you could, shared stories of the old days—of Lagertha with Bjorn on her hip, of Athelstan’s quiet faith.

Ubbe stayed close.

He walked with you along the shore, asked careful questions about your world without pushing too hard. He listened when you spoke, truly listened, something rare among warriors.

“You don’t look at us like we are legends,” he said one evening as the sun dipped low. “You look like you already know how our stories end.”

“Some endings can still change,” you answered.

He studied you then, something thoughtful settling in his expression. “I think the gods brought you back for a reason.”

From the high seat, Ragnar watched the two of you—his smile slow, knowing, tinged with something like hope.

Perhaps time had stolen much from him.

But it had given him you back.

And maybe, this time, you wouldn’t leave so easily.