Horizon Ridge all men must die someday

PPing @Tyrr in here because there's no sense in me raising his post count for it. Also, Danni has permission to post in here with @Thistle Cloud for a reaction/discovery thread. Bah, this is the lamest death post ever, lol. ;/

Though his newest batch of children were still young, undeniably so, they had been nearing their two week mark. As much as Ragnar wanted to stay close at all times, to watch over Ragna, Jorunn, Floki, and Kaylan he knew there were things that needed to be done. Duties that needed to be fulfilled while Thistle was partially out of commission. The Patriarch took care of the things that were outside of the Bay for her, having deigned to go on an Outrider trip, though it was less of an outrider trip and more of a tracking of herds that moved through the Coast — prime targets for the weekly hunts of the Bay wolves. There had been a jovial feeling within him when he'd departed the Bay, offering his Queen Wife a kiss and “I love you” before murmuring it to his children nestled at her side. He'd been gone a few days at this point, though he was enjoying stretching his legs. He did not deign to be gone long, but he had always enjoyed travel. It was in his blood, he knew. It had been quite some time since he'd returned to Horizon Ridge, remembering the life they'd lost there as he moved along the shore, the sea's waves crashing against his legs, soaking his under belly. 


Movement caught the Viking's good eye, and he inclined his head towards it, so he could better make it out. The figure was large, with a coat of gray with age. There was no scent, though initially Ragnar considered that the other's scent was masked by the salty brine of the sea, yet as the ghostly figure moved closer, two ravens took form, perched upon his shoulders, the lack of scent became an understanding to Ragnar as he stared at Odinn made flesh in little more than reverence. An eternal fire licked at Odinn's empty eye socket, Ragnar noted gleeful that the stories were true. 

“Odinn,” Ragnar called to the God in Norse, the old language rolling off of his tongue with a fevered ease. How long it had been since he had last used it. Odinn did not speak, instead turned his head to the vast stretch of beach before them, and gestured with his muzzle in the horizon's direction. Reluctant as he was, Ragnar took his singular off of the Allfather to follow the God's gaze, a shiver ripping down his spine as he saw another approaching. The figure was familiar, though also foreign to the Lodbrok, who watched as the chocolate coated, silver marked boy — a cutting, masculine mirror image of his Amazon Queen mother came into view. Except the stolen Amazon Prince was no longer a boy. He'd filled out into himself, grown up. It was a man that approached him, those piercing crystalline blue eyes furious and bright with anger, betrayal, and justice.

“Týrr,” Son of Odin Ragnar greeted the young Amazon Rekkr. He had not sought the boy out when Thistle had confessed to him that she had told him the truth. Ragnar had seen little point in it. The boy had been his prisoner at first, but it was he and Floki (the original) that had nursed him back to health, it had been Ragnar that had taken the amnesiac under his wing and taught him the way of the Vikings, adopting him as if he'd never been anything different. Still, Ragnar could see now that the affection he'd grown to feel for the boy over time was not enough. Perhaps even, soaking in the wisdom of the Allfather as the God stood near him, it had been misguided from the very start. It was true that initially, Ragnar had only wanted Quetzalcoatl's son to manipulate her into doing and giving him what he wanted. Things had gone much differently than that, however, but he could see the mistake in his actions now.

He had slipped up and there was a price to pay for it. In hindsight, Ragnar would much rather he paid the price for his own mistake then allow someone else to take it for him.

“You have grown,” Still, Ragnar felt no fear. Not of Tyrr, not of death. It was not the long life that Odinn had promised him, but he'd had sons, and had lived to see an age older than Eitri. Even the Amazon Rekkr before him was is son — even if the boy did not feel the same way anymore. “You have been hurt?” It wasn't true concern that prompted Ragnar to inquire this, but rather the curiosity that burned when he noticed the three slash marks of scars down the side of Tyrr's neck. The Amazon Rekkr scoffed but offered no explanation, causing Ragnar to smirk.  “One of us dies this day,” Tyrr finally spoke, voice deeper than Ragnar remembered it. Ragnar simply smirked at the boy, ears slicking down to his skull as his muscles coiled in preparation to lunge.

The fight had been brutal, drawn out because they evenly matched. Where Ragnar had the advantage of experience and wisdom, Tyrr had youth and was not afraid to use Ragnar's own tactic of cunning to go at him in his blind side. The death match wasn't a show of muscles, it was a game of wits and tactics. Ragnar went for Tyrr, teeth snapping at the ends of his fur as the Amazon Rekkr lurched out of the way, though as opposed to feigning to his blind side as he'd done before the younger male feigned into Ragnar's sight and attacked, teeth, in the moment of exposure, gripping onto his throat. 

Ragnar understood in that moment, as he felt the younger male's teeth slicing through skin and flesh, his grip crushing, that he could make a last attempt to free himself, to get to the advantage even as he sunk into submission against the sand, platinum fur stained with blood — his blood — as it spilled into the sand and stained the sea and foam crimson. Each breath was harder to take than the last, a short gasp as he crumbled beneath the power of the Amazon Prince. “I – am – proud – of – you – Tezcacoatl.” Ragnar gasped as his life slipped closer and closer to the surface. He was defeated and this was a true Viking fight. One of them had to die. Though he regret that he would never truly know his children, he regretted nothing else. He was ready to join his father in Valhalla, ready to allow the Valkyries – which had came to flank Odinn who watched the match; the mediator of it – to lead him to his place there.

It was an honorable death. 

When Ragnar's breath ceased, when his pulse slowed to a stop, Tyrr released his grip upon the Viking's mangled and torn throat. The taste of blood was strong in his mouth, soaked his chest a crimson brown. “May you find every thing you want in Valhalla,” Tyrr spoke to the corpse of the man who had attacked him, stole his memories and everything he'd loved. It was done, and the relief that washed over the Rekkr was overpowering, but he could not linger here he knew. Departing in the cover of the sea, allowing it to wash away Ragnar's blood from his coat, he turned back the way he'd came, eager now that justice had been served to return his attention to Frostfire Ridge, and recruiting.