the choice

There was truth in the fact that Ragnar thought the reason that they fought was largely placed upon his own shoulders, and that half of the time he wondered if he made her unhappy. The worst part of thinking that was knowing that if she ever tried to leave him, he would do his damnedest to convince her to stay. She was the first and only wife that he could claim that he actually loved, and as it stood she was the longest standing wife he'd had to date. The only one that had the bragging rights to say that did not bore him. Which, in some semblance of a way, was something to be proud of. Ragnar was thoughtful, contemplating her words as she spoke them, knowing that she was right. He could not see as well as he once had, though his training as a Berserker soothed any panic that might have stolen within him. Eyes could cast illusions, that other senses would paint as such: an illusion. “Trying to see everything requires a lot of head turning,” Something that the Northman wasn't necessarily used too. As time went on, sure, he would become used to having one eye. For now, it still presented a struggle.

“Then I will handle it and keep it under control the best I can and send someone off to them,” It wasn't fail proof, but it was no different then if they didn't have any allies at all. “If they can spare the wolves to send out a hunting party,” Ragnar amended quietly. There was a huge part of the Viking that disliked the idea of assuming that the Caldera would do anything of the sort for the Bay — a side effect of having grown up disliking the idea of alliances. “I do not think that it could hurt anything.” Ragnar responded, figuring that if worse came to worse they could always bow, respectfully, out of it if they changed their minds. “It is Fate, I believe.” Ragnar murmured.