one night, a 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘬 king appeared and offered me his hand, his heart, and his kingdom—and i loved him, dear and well.
born to rule.
born to fight.
born to survive.
Ragnhild the Mighty is a queen without a crown-a queen without a kingdom-but she is certain her name will live on through the ages and she will give blood and tears to see it happen.
A preview of my planned Harald Finehair x OC fic that will be a rewrite of seasons 5B–6
A HEARTBEAT. That's all she needs to claim victory. A single, fleeting moment—a heartbeat—in which the tides of destiny can turn, and she can ensure her name will live on amongst the skalds, echoing across generations.
Swords and axes thump and clack against the wood and iron bosses of red-painted shields, emblazoned with her black star, like the sweet song of the Valkyries. They call her name, her reavers, her people—they all watch the daughter of King Eirík press her blood-slick hands to the icy Gottland earth and do the impossible.
She rises on bended knee and rises again with renewed strength breathed into her by the gods. Ice blue eyes alight with their wrath. Ragnhild, they call. The spring wind bites at her skin—the chill of winter yet to release its grasp on the northern isle. She straightens, bones and muscles screaming in protest, but the gods have not abandoned her. Not yet. Her breaths are heavy, each one hanging in the still air. Ragnhild reaches down, finding the hilt of her axe in the snow and mud. Her fingers brush the smooth wood of its neck, worn by the grip of those who came before. Her father tells her the axe has tasted the blood of kings and a thousand enemies before, and she will slake its thirst once again.
This will not be her last battle.
Ragnhild stares him down from across the circle and enjoys the disappointment and shred of fear in his bloody expression. His foes call him Ingibjǫrn the Cleaver. She calls him a pest to the North whose hungry gaze has lingered upon her father's lands for too long. Today, such ambition will meet its reckoning. She will not waste words on a bacraut such as him. Words are the currency of cowards and schemers, and this is no place for such things. Instead, she raises her axe high, its steel rippling in the pale sunlight, and gives a war cry that silences her enemies and her people.
Ingibjǫrn hefts his long axe up and charges. Steam rises from his breath. Blood drips from his blade. There's madness in his eyes as he swings the great axe with all the strength of a man afeared to be bested by a woman. Ragnhild ducks under the arc of the axe, feeling the rush of air as it passes overhead. She pivots before he can recover to strike again, driving the haft of her axe into his ribs. There's a crack, and he roars, coming at her again.
She beats him back with sword and axe. Ingibjǫrn staggers, his breath coming in ragged bursts, yet his pride refuses to let him yield. He bellows—a wounded beast refusing to fall—and lunges once more, his long axe carving through the air. Ragnhild is faster, though. She sidesteps, boots sliding through snow, and lashes out with her sword. The edge carves a line of crimson across his thigh. He falters, just for a heartbeat. That heartbeat.
With a roar, she surges forward, planting her shoulder into his chest, shoving him back with all her strength. Ingibjǫrn stumbles, his balance lost. Ragnhild does not give him time to recover. The moment is hers, the gods whisper in the wind, urging her on.
She swings her axe.
The blade bites deep into his side, between the ribs, cleaving through fur and flesh, scraping bone. A choked sound gurgles from his throat, fingers twitching, reaching for his axe, as if trying to hold onto the last shreds of life. His knees buckle, and he collapses onto the frozen earth. Ragnhild rips her axe free, stepping back. Ingibjǫrn will not rise again, the light in his eyes already fading as he looks up at her, mouth agape to suck in ragged and forced breaths.
Heaving up her bearded axe, she brings it down in a fierce swing and a rough cry, splitting Ingibjǫrn's skull open—the sound is sickening, a wet, meaty crack echoing around the small battlefield. But it is over. The holmgang ended. Ragnhild pries her axe from bone and muscle, the corpse twitching involuntarily before falling back, legs and arms contorted unnaturally.
For a long moment, there is silence—disbelief. Then, like a crack of thunder, the air erupts with the triumphant roar of her warriors. "Hail the Mighty Ragnhild!" The reavers pound their weapons against their shields, a rhythmic thunder rolling through the forest. They chant her name—Ragnhild! Ragnhild! Ragnhild!—and the sound swells like the sea during a storm. Some beat their fists against their chests, others throw their heads back and howl to the sky, a wild, exultant cry carried by the wind.
The gods have spoken. Victory is hers.
She turns to the Gutes. "Go," Ragnhild gasps. "Tell your false leader, Sigtrygg, his son is dead" —she points to Ingibjǫrn's corpse, his lifeblood watering the Earth— "and he soon shall join him in Hel." Two Gutes step into the circle, looping their hands under the felled brute's arms, dragging him away. A retreat to deliver her message or prepare for war.
Ragnhild stumbles when she steps toward her people. The blood and battle fever's grip on her ebbing. Æinarr, her second in command and best fighter, moves toward her before she falters, drawing her arm across his shoulders, pressing his hand into a weeping wound on her side—one she has not even felt yet. She smiles at him, teeth shining through the mud and blood caked on her face. The skalds will sing of this day. Of the battle. Of her victory.
Of Ragnhild the Mighty.
wattpad link
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Battle of the Gingers Wave 1 Preliminary Round #59
Whoever gets the most votes moves onto the next wave
Who is the best ginger character?
Slive (Thorgal)
Vlana (Thorgal)
Arghun (Thorgal)
Ilenya (Thorgal)
Ragnhild (Thorgal)
Gus (Gus)
Oriane (Complainte des landes perdues)
Betty Barnowski (XIII Mystery)
Skye/Kirra Foster (Valorant)
Blanche (Sortilèges)
Voting ended onOct 30, 2024
Pictures below the cut
Gus (Gus)
Oriane (Complainte des landes perdues). I think this is her. Submitter did not leave an image link, but this seemed like an obscure enough character to warrant one.
