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for Citra >:3
It was a fairly nondescript, balmy, late fall day in Kattegat. Although the weather was calm, the sky was grey, threatening snow. The long, narrow fjord that led from the sea to the docks of Kattegat meant that the pirate ship was spotted long before it was close. In Norway, however, they were simply considered traders. Scandinavia was one of the few places they could readily offload their stolen goods, so their presence was nothing unusual.
As Earl, Ragnar hovered close by the docks, axe at his side. Although the pirates were welcome, they were still pirates.
As Earl, Ragnar hovered close by the docks, axe at his side. Although the pirates were welcome, they were still pirates.
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His introduction was met with a quiet scoff and a faint roll of her eyes, more annoyance than proper mockery.
"Ragnar si Pencuri." her accent seemed to shorten the "A's" in his name, slightly.
She watched him indicate the clothing on the bed before he took a seat.
His eyes...she could practically feel his gaze on her as she peered over at the clothing left for her. With a sigh, she began to loosen her top pausing to to eye him down once more.
"Citra." She finally responded, gesturing to herself.
She waited a moment to continue disrobing, before quirking an eyebrow and frowning again. Unbinding her was reasonable, but modesty was not allowed?
"Tutup matamu, Pencuri. " she ordered, taking one hand and covering her eyes so he would hopefully take her meaning.
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"Yes," He nodded, even if her pronunciation was slightly off, it was close enough.
A soft smile tugged at his lips when she gave, what he assumed was, her name in return.
"Citra," The 'r' was said lightly, with a flick of the tongue and the 'a' probably held too long, but now he had a name at least.
The look of indignation he got made him crack a wider smile, obviously amused at the request. Even so, he stood up, giving her a smirking pointed look and started to stroll towards the door of the cabin. He paused by a bucket, dipping his hand into it to cup some water to his mouth to test it. He honestly had no idea how long it'd been there... maybe a few days, maybe only one, but it still tasted fine.
"Water," He motioned to it and glanced around, spotting a cloth that looked mostly clean. He picked it up to show her and dropped it in the bucket before heading outside to wait until she was done.
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Freezing again as he stalked past her, she arched an eyebrow at his cocky expression.
He explained, gesturing to the bucket of water that was not yet stagnant and she repeated him quietly. She didn't like his tongue - it was too hard in spots. It felt lifeless and she would have to learn it. Her cleansing was almost mercenary, only the things that were necessary and even that too long. She stifled her tears and swallowed her anger - there would be time for it, but no time soon. Patience rewards the wise.
"Pencuri."
She'd put on everything he'd laid out, the leather top under the slightly large tunic, pants drawn tight to sit correctly at her waist. Her necklaces clicked slightly as she drew the fur about her shoulders.
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"You. Citra," He pointed at her, "Lítur út," He wasn't sure how to sign that one, motioning in a circle around his face, "Viking."
He tried to figure out how to make it clearer and pointed at himself, "Pencuri. Ragnar. Viking. Ég er Viking," He pointed vaguely outside, "Þau eru Viking. You, Citra, look like a Viking."
"Það hentar þér," He said with a fond smile, not bothering to attempt to translate that. Even her hair was similar to something a shield maiden might decide to go with.
"Um... Hungry?" He asked, pointing at his mouth and then rubbing his stomach.
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"Suka itu?" She asked, the coy tone of her voice unmistakable despite the language barrier. Opening her arms enough to look at herself and failing to stifle the amusement in her voice, she peered at the clothing. Strange but warm.
Citra even laughed, a flash of teeth as she turned her attention properly to Ragnar. Even under all the cloth, her movement was easy as she moved closer and the sway of her hips was noticeable. More foolishly, she eyed him back - unflinching and unmoved by the weight of his gaze. She was perhaps a step too close as she met him with her own lopsided smile and an almost cat-like lowering of lashes. This close what might have been thought to be a smear of paint or dirt was revealed to be a tattoo, lightly faded from time.
She nodded at his explanation, eyes flicking towards where he'd gestured. Ragnar and his people called themselves 'viking'. Repeating the word, her accent stretching the vowels to vai-keeng, she perked up at the sound of her name. He said it better every time it left his lips, she found it as cold as the air around her.
His fond and far too friendly tone - stop, doing that Thief - was met with a shake of her head and smirk. Damn everything, his mood seemed to creep into the space between them. Surely, it was the knowledge of a lonely life otherwise that sweetened her to him. His smiling, his eyes, his assumption...
"Vaiking," she said - a little clearer, as she let the cloak settle enough to gesture to where he had. She ignored his question for the moment, too uncomfortable with how easily he ascribed his people's name to her to consider it.
"You. Anda adalah Viking," she continued, smirking as she poked at him lightly as she emphasized the name of his people.
"Saya selalu..." she began, taking the finger she'd poked at him with and tapping the tattoo on her chin.
She met his eye and held it, trailing her finger down her chin and down her throat, in the 'v' of the tunic and over the leather and necklaces that she'd refused to abandon, until she reached the edge of the shark's tooth and her heart underneath it.
"Saya selalu Rakyat.". Her voice steeled at the name of her own people, as she tapped at her heart.
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The next few weeks passed like that. He'd try to teach her things and gave her simple tasks, often times grumbling almost teasingly about how terrible of a worker she was. She lived both at the cabin and in a smaller stable type building separate but directly beside the main hall where all the servants seemed to sleep. Ragnar left it up to her to decide which she preferred.
All the while, there was a lot to learn from what she was allowed to see. It was obvious to anyone with two eyes and half a brain that Ragnar and his wife, Aslaug, practically despised one another. The queen was almost never seen without either a cup of wine or her youngest son, who was five, in her arms. It was obvious that Ragnar adored his children, four boys from the oldest at twelve to the youngest at five. He was constantly playing with them when not busy with other things, though Aslaug seemed to almost covet their youngest, who Citra would quickly realize had some kind of health problem, though it wasn't clear what. He was almost always in his mother's arms or a small wagon instead of running around like the older boys.
After a particularly loud argument, at least on Aslaug's end, Ragnar had shown up at the cabin. That Citra might be there obviously wasn't at the forefront of his mind as he went directly to one of the chests and rummaged through it, pulling out a bow, a quiver and arrows.
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One does not slay giants with impatience.
And Ragnar was proving himself more gargantuan by the day.
The organization of these people was actually impressive. The community here, blatant as she served them made her homesick and she used the grief to keep the heat of her rage. Most people here were like people back home: some worth knowing and most were not. Here, however, she was expected to submit to the will of her supposed betters. Her reputation was not great - she visibly and frequently chafed at being ordered, hissing obscenities in her native tongue when the limits of her patience had been reached.
Adapting to a life without reverence was only difficult in Citra's bearing. Her insolence was only really tolerated because she was purchased by Ragnar and because it seemed to amuse him to aggrieve her. In equal parts she integrated well with others held under the vikings control and sequestered herself away to the cabin she'd first been taken. She was extraordinarily contrary that way - barely working when ordered but doing so to exhaustion to keep others from punishment or lagging behind. In a similar vein, her responsibility to the Rakyat gave her a keen eye for logistics and morale, only bothering to speaking to Ragnar privately when they would pass paths at the cabin and she noticed something that would ease the burden on the resources in the area or similarly useful.
If just about anyone could see that Aslaug and Ragnar had little love, then a blind man could register Citra's opinion of the queen. She often wordlessly cut her eyes at the cups in the woman's hands, less so at her son. Citra also did not help things, her attentiveness to Ragnar's needs somehow always coinciding with whether or not Aslaug was around to see. And with a surprising lack of insolence, imagine that.
In addition to passive-aggressively antagonizing the queen, Citra also guarded herself and her time jealously, often sneaking back to the cabin after appearing to work for most of the early morning. Today was such a morning, as Aslaug and Ragnar seemed to need time to address certain issues, so she'd taken the opportunity to slip away and attend to her own situations.
In the solitude of the cabin, she'd begun to pray after taking a few drops of a tincture from one of the others captive. It was a remedy for pain, but she found that it opened the mind more than he'd managed to warn her and found it would do well enough to draw knowledge from the First Rakyat and blood of the giant he slayed.
She'd prayed for most of the late morning considering this man, King Ragnar the Thief. He was either blessed by their gods or the child of one, pulled to glory by his divinity - able to kill men and mete out the righteous fury of the heavens. It didn't matter if he had killed an opposing king with a headbutt or that he killed a bear so monstrous it could only have been born of fear and nightmares. It did not matter that he made an example of an invading man - what mattered was that this was the way that people spoke of him.
He was a man with a reputation. Ragnar the Giant.
Citra froze when she heard the door to the cabin, hiding her knife and it's sheath in her clothing before standing to see what Ragnar was doing. It was not exactly uncommon to see him, but this early meant nothing good. Not with the queen, anyway, which meant the Ragnar was looking to blow off steam.
"You need a second for your hunt?" she inclined her head at the weapons, eyeing him to get further read of his mood - if his anger honed his focus or shattered it.
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Worse than all that, because of the way their society worked, killing the men in power that had come after him had meant he'd had to assume their positions. He'd never had any ambitions to lead and it was obviously starting to wear on him. As Citra had likely seen, the only time he seemed truly happy was around his boys. His sons meant the world to him.
His second escape was this little hunting lodge. At least when he wasn't on raids.
He paused, obviously considering her offer carefully, before tossing the bow at her and grabbing a second one for himself.
"You know how to shoot? And how to hunt?" His anger, as always, was as icy and cold as his eyes. He had to dig a little deeper to find a second quiver, but handed it to her before strapping his own on.
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She caught the bow easily and did her best disguise her eyeroll at his question, watching as he dug for more supplies.
"All Rakyat learn war and hunting."
It was a very Citra answer, and rarely gave more information than absolutely necessary. Like the fact that she left off that she would have to be one of the best in her land, considering she was effectively the Rakyat's queen.
"Our prey?" she asked, fastening her quiver at her hips.
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"Deer probably. Perhaps boar," He said with a shrug. It really depended on what kind of tracks they came across first.
He slung his bow over his shoulder and headed unceremoniously out of the lodge, moving further away from Kattegat and, first, into some tall undergrowth and then into forested rocky outcroppings. As they moved deeper into the wooded area, he kept his eyes open for any signs of animal activity, moving silently.
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So cocky, King Ragnar. So confident.
In silence they moved and Citra kept an eye on his back, trying to figure out how best she could fire an arrow to take him down quickly.
He was too focused on prey, too focused on his anger ... it would be easy, if she could just keep to the ruse a little longer...
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As always, if the gods intended him to die today, then he would die. There was no way around that. The Seer who interpreted the will of the gods seemed to imply that they had other plans.
He pointed at a few spots on the surrounding trees where a deer, a buck, had very obviously rubbed his antlers and scraped and gouged off bark.
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Unfortunately, the gods had other plans.
Ragnar turned as he pointed to the evidence of the buck and the arrow Citra let loose struck his chest at an odd angle. Ragnar - King of these Vikings and Thief possessed of such luck it infuriated Citra. The wound would be easily overcome and she knew in her soul as their eyes met, that she would either have to kill him or that soft-hearted woman of his as she jumped back and went to fire another arrow.
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He looked up, seeing her reaching for a second arrow. Wasting no time, he immediately threw the first thing within reach at her, which happened to be his bow. It wouldn't do any damage, but it was aimed at her face and instinct should be to at least knock it aside. It would buy him half a second. And in that half a second, he was on her, tackling her hard to the ground, knocking her bow aside, and reaching for her neck with one hand, yanking the arrow buried in his chest out with the other.
He said nothing, all of his focus on pinning her down and choking her.
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She writhed and twisted under him, forcing her forearm across his throat to keep him from pressing down. For the first time since her arrival, she began to understand why Ragnar's people spoke of him the way they did. He was beautiful in his fury and Citra could help but grin and laugh breathlessly.
"You took me from my people..." She hissed, her own gaze hot and unflinching. "You make me serve a soft-bellied lamb. She has nothing hard in her and you are weak to let her move you."
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"They would have killed you. No slave is worth that kind of trouble," He growled at her. It was the truth. The slavers had been ready to take her back down to the docks to slit her throat and they would've been in the right to do so.
He shoved at her arm before grabbing her wrist to slam it down against the ground, pinning her hand. But a hand on her wrist, it meant that was one less hand to go to her throat.
"She is the mother of my sons," He snarled, grabbing her other wrist to pin it down as well, meaning he was bent over her, faces inches apart, "That is enough. That is all I need from her."
His eyes flickered down to her lips briefly, before moving back up to meet her eyes.
"Why should I not kill you? Right here?"
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They both knew that he was right - she'd killed captives on Rook Island for less and had fully expected to face death rather than dishonor. However, Ragnar's curiosity drew her own. Her mind goes back to the ominous wave of tension in the Raykat on the day she'd been taken. No one besides Ragnar had noticed and in the end he had spared those pirates and plenty of his own people bloodshed.
Even now, when logic and pride said to kill her, he waited. The offense on behalf of his soft queen drew another laugh. "And you would let a lamb teach them to be warriors?"
The flick of his eyes to her lips does not escape Citra's notice and she licks her lips even as he meets her gaze again. Even now the proud tilt to her chin is present, but now it's too easy to feel the speed of her pulse and the way her breath draws heavy. This thief, King Ragnar - he is strong and fast and clever, just like the way his people speak of him and Citra does not fight the way her blood runs hot for him - warrior to warrior.
"You would do worse if someone tore you from your Viking." she explains far too casually.
Fearless, the corner of her mouth quirking up, she leans up into the hand on her throat and speaks, mouth far too close to his.
"I am better and you know it."
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He scoffs at her bold claim, mirroring her smirk.
"And what? Do you wish to kill me or do you wish to marry me?" He asked incredulously, rolling his eyes. It seemed like a ridiculous thing to say after she'd just shot him, "Not that my wives have not wanted both on many occasions."
Ragnar's previous wife had likely only been mentioned once or twice if at all, though it was no big secret that she was a fierce and proud warrior like Ragnar, a woman who had only borne him one son before she'd left him, divorced him because the current queen, Aslaug, had shown up nearly at full term to present Ragnar his soon to be born son. Lagertha, who was rumored to have had at least one miscarriage, unsurprisingly felt more than a little slighted by Ragnar's suggestion that they share their bed with another woman.
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“Both.” She answers his derisive question - absolutely deadpan. “But Rakyat rarely marry and I cannot.”
She arches an eyebrow at mention of his wives, knowing of his lamb. Her gaze rolls over him and she tries to break his hold before stilling again.
“I wish you were Rakyat, sometimes. I could give you everything.”
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"Ah. Well. That is good then. Because I was not offering," His smirk dissipated as he grit his teeth and had to focus as she struggled, fighting to keep her dominant hand pinned while very obviously letting her other hand slip loose of his hold. She'd notice. Of course, she would. But he was curious to see what she would do.
"What difference does it make? Rakyat? Viking? You are here now," He said bluntly. Once again, his eyes raked over her, darkening as they did. Shifting his weight, he pressed his hips down subtle, but suggestive, "Everything? Like what?"
His rational side was screaming at him. This was a terrible idea. The woman had justs shot him and was obviously trying to kill him. Was he really about to be tempted by sex when she could easily have a blade hidden on her? The not so rational side of him really didn't give a shit. In fact, the potential for danger was a little exciting.
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He did ask a question, after all.
“Do you stop being Viking when you leave this place?”
It’s her standard non-answer. But then Ragnar presses his hips to tease her, and her patience evaporates - she strikes.
Twisting enough to get leverage, she rolls them - moving to straddle Ragnar as he falls to his back. One does not become the living goddess of the Rakyat by simply being clever or good at war. No, Citra leads her people because she knows when a fight is worth dying for and when it is worth it to make a point. She is their goddess because where one would see madness, she sees opportunity.
The hold on his throat keeps her arm nearly straight with tension, too high for harmless rough play but not hard enough to be a proper threat. Citra smiles, with a sigh that nearly purrs - low and pleased as she rolls her hips over his.
“I could give you a better night than your lamb could, to start.”
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Far from angry at her, or himself, when she takes full advantage of the bit of freedom he'd given her, she'll probably hear his chuckle before catching his throat in her hand. Even if she hadn't, it was impossible to miss his impish smirk.
"I have no doubt in that," He managed to force out, still smirking, "Unless you also plan to make me sleep on the bench while you take the bed."
He could easily fight back at this point. Neither of his hands were pinned in the least bit. Instead, he slid them up her thighs to rest on her hips.
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Her lilting voice trails and for a moment Citra meets his eyes, green to blue - earth to sea. This place would never be a home, would never bring her kindness. For a child of the great Ragnar, even a bastard one...things could be different. It would be worth the slight to his lamb of a queen and Citra knew from watching that he would not be able to deny the product of their union for very long. At ‘papa’ he would lose his mind and any harm to that child would be met with fury and he would reflexively defend her, as the mother of his child.
She cocks her head, lashes so low her eyes look like slits. As his hands skim up her thighs, she digs her nails into the skin of his throat and rolls her hips again. Slower. Hard enough to feel him growing eager.
“I really should kill you...” she says, distracted by the shine of his eyes and the way he feels under her. “It would be easier...”
Her duty to the Rakyat was to bear a Warrior, someone to lead them when she was too old too do so. It was an unpalatable truth, but Ragnar was her best chance at that now that things had changed. The world unfolded in a moment in her mind; she protects her child and Ragnar protects them both from the worst of what these Vikings and their land have to offer. It would cost her soul, maybe but one day, she could go home and the Rakyat would have their warrior.
She leans down and kisses him, hot and wanting. A means to an end, she repeats in her mind - ignoring the ebb and flow of her affection and hatred for this man. She is lonely without her people but she fears she would have liked him anyway, if he’d been the stranger in her territory or if they had simply met. The hand at his throat relaxes a little but the rock of her hips takes rhythm before she manages to control herself.
“The cabin.” She begins, voice and hot from lust as she starts to pull away. “ I will not do this here.”