The smell of tilled earth and wildflowers clung to the fields outside Kattegat, a familiar scent you had grown up with. You had always known Ragnar Lothbrok, not as the man whispered about in feasts and sagas, but as the boy who used to climb trees too high and dare you to follow.

Now, he was no boy.

You found him working the soil, hands rough and dirt-stained, sweat glistening on his brow. Yet even as he pressed seeds into the ground, there was a restlessness about him, a gaze that wandered toward the horizon instead of the furrows he dug.

“You should be grateful,” you teased, leaning against the fence. “The earth feeds you, Ragnar. Not the sea.”

He glanced up at you, that crooked grin tugging at his lips. “Ah, but the sea… the sea could feed us more than the earth ever will. Have you never wondered what lies beyond it?”

“I wonder,” you admitted, your chest tightening. “But wondering is not the same as leaving.”

His eyes lingered on you then, softer than you expected. “You’ve always been the one who keeps me tethered. If not for you, I’d have run off long ago and never come back.”

The words made your heart stutter, though you tried to hide it. You’d always loved him, quietly, from the shadows of your friendship. He belonged to Lagertha now, fierce, beautiful Lagertha, who fought at his side as an equal. You had no place in that kind of life, not with calloused hands from pottery and weaving instead of sword and shield.

Still, when he stepped closer, brushing the dirt from his hands before reaching for yours, you let him. His touch was warm, grounding, and for a heartbeat it felt like you were children again, when the world had not yet asked so much of either of you.

“You believe in me, don’t you?” he asked softly, eyes searching yours.