#icons ragnar lothbrok

[tianmicons]

[heavenlymorals]

A Grave in Autumn

Summary: After getting a call from his wife that his youngest son is at the hospital and may not make it, Ragnar Lothbrok takes a moment to visit the grave of his dead daughter. If his son were to die, it wouldn't be his first rodeo.

Modern AUs are always so fun to read and so hard to write. I did have fun with this though 🍂 (Gyda deserved better-). Also, small headcanon, but I picture modern Ivar to be a least somewhat into goth fashion/culture. Where does this headcanon come from? From the fact that he had no fucking color in his wardrobe in the series.

All around him, the leaves were an ombre of red, orange, and yellow. The wind blew viciously across the branches and leaves fluttered all around him like sparks of tepid fire. The leaves would wisp all around him, clinging to his coat, to his hair, to his beard. Ragnar got annoyed and would pinch the wonderfully dead foliage and drop it mindlessly on the ground. The leaf, whether red or orange or yellow, would cover up the drab brown leaves that crunched loudly under each heavy footprint. 

Autumn was beautiful, there was no doubt about it. All around him, he could see its beauty. Mother nature was a wonderful artist, no doubt. As far as Ragnar Lothbrok was concerned, no one could try to replicate her designs even if they wished to. Or maybe it was God’s design, who knew? He wore a golden cross with him almost all the time, a gift from his dearest friend Athelstan who either A. died a long time ago, or B. disappeared so he would never have to deal with the downward spiral that was Ragnar Lothbrok. If it was the latter, Ragnar couldn’t blame him. He was a toxic friend, a terrible person. Abandonment was far too kind of a fate for him. 

He kept walking along the trail. It was dusty and old. It seemed that the church to whom the cemetery belonged fell on hard times. The trail wasn’t crisp in its lines. All around it, one could see the breaching of sickly dead weeds strangling the grass. They were now a yellowish color, which reminded Ragnar heavily of vomit. He would know. He used to drink a lot. Did crack a lot. He threw up many times, the aroma becoming dimmer and dimmer on his nose each time it happened. After a while, it simply became an inconvenience, like how muscles would get sore after a good day at the gym. 

That was…terrifying, looking back at it, now, on the straight and narrow and sober. How he was so willing to overlook such significant things to escape his misery through artificial ecstasy. Getting high and getting drunk was his happiness. What made it worse was that he was still Ragnar Lothbrok, smart, lucky Ragnar Lothbrok, who could achieve whatever he wished. He was still running his business to a T. He was still making money. He was still skyrocketing into fame and fortune. Because of this, he couldn’t bring himself to care that this was wrong. 

Sober. He’s sober now. He’d still drink now and then, but he was still sober. He’d never touch any recreational drug ever again. 

As he kept walking across the trail, he came face to face with an iron fence. The fence itself was this fine between being of minimalist style and dabbling in the intricate gothic fashion that many cemeteries were fond of. As he opened the gate, it creaked loudly. Somewhat ought to oil the thing. 

He kept walking across that dingy trail until all around him were a plethora of tombstones. He absent-mindedly made note of the shapes. Square-top headstones. Ogee headstones. Arc tops and check tops. The iconic cross headstones, becoming dull at the edges from the constant wind and rain. Some of the headstones had angels carved onto them. One of them caught Ragnar’s eye. The angel was in the image of a young girl. Her hair was adorned with thick, Grecian curls as she looked down at the grave ledger with her hands clasped together and her eyes closed in a solemn expression. Her dress cascaded down her in intricate folds and from the back, two small wings spread out delicately. The whole headstone was made of marble and the ledger was a polished black ingrained with gold. 

It must have been expensive. 

Ragnar sighed and continued walking, passing more tombs, some simple, some not. Some were clean and others were forgotten, as evidenced by the green moss and the stained brown that defiled them. He kept walking up the trail till he made it up to a secluded corner in the cemetery. There weren't any other tombs in this area, thus it looked almost abandoned. Shading the entire thing was a proud Norway Maple. It looked like it was on fire, with how bright it was. If he touched a leaf, he was sure that he might’ve burned his finger. The ravens seem fine though, cawing proudly and dancing on the branches. Fitting that the ravens were here. Ever a companion of death. Ever since ‘God’ and ‘Jesus’ weren’t the ones who held dominion over the heavens, but Odin and his brood. 

The leaves fell again and covered what Ragnar was looking for. 

A flat tombstone.

Perhaps it would make sense to know why he was looking for this unassuming little slab of rock. Why he was trekking through this cemetery. Why he gazed so intently on the guardian angel that prayed over that anonymous deceased. 

A few days ago, he got a call from his wife, Aslaug. He used the term loosely. His marriage to Aslaug came from a place of practicality more than a place of love. He met the woman at a club and well, one thing led to another, and they slept together. Other than to relieve his hard-on with a beautiful woman, he also did it as an act of revenge. Before that fateful night, he learned that his  wife, now ex-wife, Lagertha, had been sleeping with his brother while they were together and that his oldest son, Bjorn, might’ve never been his child. Thankfully, one discreet DNA check later revealed that Bjorn WAS his son, but Ragnar was still pissed. He slept with Aslaug, made it rather easy for Lagertha to figure out, and then left. 

And being rather petty back then, he wasted no time courting Aslaug after he found out she was pregnant with his child and making her fall in love with him just as a final ‘fuck you’ to Lagertha. It rubbed salt in Lagertha’s wounds that Aslaug was pregnant as they tried many times after Bjorn’s birth to have another child but failed over and over again. 

Looking back at it now, since he is older and at least somewhat wiser, he could only cringe at how childish he was, how needlessly petty. 

In any case, he didn’t love Aslaug in the same way that he used to love Lagertha. He loved her as the mother of his children, but besides that? No. He didn’t love her. This then lead to many issues in their relationship, which could have contributed to his affairs with drugs and alcohol and her similar bouts with alcohol.

They managed to sort that whole business out, somehow. For now, they were simply married for convenience and neither of them was particularly keen on destroying that convenience. 

Anywho, yes, he got a call from Aslaug and a deep pit of blackness threatened to consume him whole. He still remembered how the phone buzzed in his pocket, how he narrowed his eyes as he saw the caller ID, how he swiped to answer, all of that.

And how his heart sank as he received this terrible news.

“Ragnar?”

“Who else then? What’s going on, Aslaug?” 

Silence on the other end of the line. He swore he could’ve heard a choked sound, one that came from a person trying to swallow their pain and misery. 

“Aslaug?”

“It’s Ivar. Oh, God, it’s Ivar,” the mother of his children seemed frantic, hysteric. Her breathing came out ragged.

“What about him,” Ragnar asked, trying to keep himself calm. He didn’t even know what was going on. 

“He was with Hvitserk. He was supposed to pick Ivar up from school. I don’t know what the hell they were doing, but they got into a crash. Hvitserk got out lucky with only a broken arm but Ivar- You know how fragile he is. The doctors are not sure if he’ll make it.”

Ragnar couldn’t bring himself to say much. Aslaug gave him the name of the hospital and that was that. He ended the call and quickly rushed into the closest car he could get to (Ubbe always muttered that he had too many cars), broke a couple of speed limits, and made it into the hospital.

It was a complete pain in the goddamn ass to get the workers to let him see his son, but eventually, he was escorted to a little hallway with shitty little plastic waiting chairs. Aslaug was not there at that moment. She went back to bring things for her boy when (if) he woke up. Ubbe was there, ever the responsible one, pacing back and forth, worry creased into his forehead, He always had that expression on, ever the worrier. He looked somewhat relieved when he saw Ragnar. Sigurd, to Ragnar’s surprise, was sitting on one of the chairs and crossed his arms. There was a look of worry on his pale face, and every now and then, he would look back at the sterile little room that housed his little brother. He didn’t bother to greet Ragnar. They didn’t have the best relationship (Ragnar’s fault, obviously) and Sigurd was a headstrong bastard, so there was little Ragnar could do to mend their relationship if Sigurd didn’t care to do so. Hvitserk was also sitting beside Sigurd and his face looked paralyzed in shock, fear, and worry. It had been a bit since Ragnar had seen Hvitserk in person, as his son seemed to inherit that addictive personality that Ragnar and his mother unfortunately had. He too fell into the vice of alcohol and drugs. A younger Ragnar probably would’ve blamed Hvitserk’s addictions on his lack of self-control and poor wisdom, but an older, somewhat wiser Ragnar, could sympathize with him. After all, he knew damn well that he had a part in Hvitserk’s benders. 

Hvitserk would party a lot and he was an elusive little bastard too, so he couldn’t be found unless he wanted to be found. Somehow, someway, Ivar managed to get his older brother out of hiding and force him into rehab. He was doing well for a bit, until now it seemed. 

Ragnar learned that Hvitserk was high as a kite when he was driving. Weed. He was supposed to pick up Ivar from school and bring him home.

And then this happened. 

Ragnar looked at Hvitserk, at his sunken eyes, at his too-pale skin, at his greasy long hair, and wanted to scream at him for being such a stupid, stupid fool- What the fuck made him relapse like this? 

He didn’t though. He didn’t scream at him. The horrified look on his face was enough for Ragnar to know that Hvitserk was already being punished enough by his own guilt. Ragnar could sympathize. He was a man who needed a good push to change, and for Ragnar, his push was the horrified expressions on Ubbe and Hvitserk’s faces when he tried to strangle his dealer for not giving him what he wanted. No, what he needed at that time. The girl, Yidu, quickly fled the scene and he was glad that she did. He would’ve killed her otherwise. 

Perhaps Hvitserk’s push would be this. 

Or maybe he would fall apart even further. 

Time can only tell. 

He sighed and sat next to Hvitserk, rubbing his face in his hands. Hvitserk didn’t even acknowledge him. His whole being seemed encased with ice, as he cradled his broken arm in his sling. Ragnar gently wrapped his arm around Hvitserk and Hvitserk all but sunk into his side. 

A few moments later the doctor quietly said that they could see him, but only one at a time. Ubbe went first, then Sigurd, and then Ragnar. Hvitserk didn’t move an inch. Too guilty for his part in this mess. 

Ivar’s life will never be one without complications. His youngest son was always going to have to live his life with some sort of complication. That was stamped on his head the second he was born with osteogenesis imperfecta, otherwise known as brittle bone disease. Now, Ivar was lucky in the sense that his OI wasn’t as severe as other cases, but it seemed to have taken a personal vendetta on his legs, as that was the part of him that was the most severely affected. Thanks to modern medicine and technology and whatnot, his legs are not as wasted as they could’ve been, but the breaks he suffered from them rendered him unable to walk without assistance. 

As he walked into the room, he felt as if he was dumped with a bucket of ice water. His little boy looked so small to him in that bed, in that familiar hospital gown, with all those wires and bandages attached to him. His face was covered with a breathing mask and Ragnar would think he was dead if it weren’t for the soft beeping of the machines singing in the background and the one stereotypical screen of a green line zig-zagging up and down. 

Ragnar felt overwhelmed with the same feeling that he had a million times over whenever Ivar had to go to the hospital. It never got better. He has been to hospitals so many times that he was honestly qualified enough to be a technician since he knew the machines so well. It never got any better and this time, it was worse, since this was the first time where the doctor was not entirely sure that his little boy will be ok. 

He stayed for a while and left the hospital later when the sun became occulted by night. 

He woke up the next day and went to go to the hospital but then did a detour to the old cemetery. 

It wasn’t the first time he lost a child. He knows that Ivar isn’t dead, but he knew if he would be, it would be a similar feeling to how he felt all those years ago when he lost his sweet little girl, Gyda, and how he wasn’t able to say goodbye to her because he was out chasing his two-faced dreams and making his two-faced name. That broke him the most. That he wasn’t able to say goodbye to her. If Ivar was to go, at least he would be able to cope. It wouldn’t be his first rodeo, after all. 

Sometimes, he thought about Gyda, about who she would be if she was given the chance to grow up. He sometimes had little dreams of a grown-up Gyda, who looked suspiciously like Lagertha except for dark hair and silver eyes, making him proud. In some dreams, she would jump into his arms with a diploma clutched in slender hands. In other dreams, she would proudly show off her successes in the fashion industry, as that was something he remembered his little girl obsessing over before she died. He tried to spoil her as much as he can back then, a father’s duty to his daughter, with whatever it is she wanted and that he could afford. If only he could spoil her now, with this multi-million (almost billion) dollar empire that he was able to procure with his blood, sweat, tears, and luck. A whole lot of luck. 

What would Gyda think of her old man today, now that was the question. How would she feel knowing that the father that she knew, the doting father who was always a rock in a raging ocean, ever so stalwart, was not that same father for his other kids? Gyda and Bjorn were lucky in that regard. They knew their father before he became obsessed with material life. They knew the best version of their father. And he was still that father in the first few years of Ubbe and Hvitserk’s lives, but soon afterward, he became distant and aloof. He couldn’t lie to himself. He was a bad father to his four other children. He had his moments of course, but most of the time, he was just a filthy, junky mess, and whatever relationship he could’ve had with his sons were either nipped at the bud or so fragile that eggshells would seem like titanium. 

Gyda would hate him, probably. He hated himself. He would probably continue hating himself till the end of times. For what he robbed of these poor boys, for how he left them to the wolves. If forgiveness would ever come from his sons, and Ragnar doubted it ever could, he would be able to die in the peace he never deserved. 

He sighed. He kneeled and wiped away the leaves that occulted the name on the flat marker.

Gyda Lothbrok. 

Ragnar felt guilt pierce through his heart when he saw the state of the thing. God, how long has it been since he has last been here? Or Lagertha? The stone was stained a sickly green, and some of the letters were discolored. As Ragnar looked at the marker, he thought about the more grandiose headstones that littered the cemetery. He then looked at this flat one, so unassuming and insignificant that he had to card through leaves for an entire two minutes before he could find the thing. She should’ve had a larger stone. One with an angel on it. She was an angel. 

However, it felt sordid to think about digging her back up to give her a better stone at a better plot. 

To make himself feel better, he would simply describe the headstone as humble. Yes, that. Humble. Gyda was a humble girl. 

Ivar will get the angel, then, if he doesn’t make it. He’d probably like that, considering his recent adventures in the gothic macabre. 

“Hello, Gyda…” 

His voice felt strange to him. As if it didn’t belong to him. “I’m sorry I haven’t visited for a while.” 

I’m sorry that I am only visiting because of the guilt I feel for my other sons. I am sorry that I am only visiting because I am not sure if my youngest, if my baby will survive. If he doesn’t, be kind to him, yes? He’s a stubborn boy. 

He didn’t say that out loud. 

The ravens kept cackling. The leaves kept stirring. Ragnar stayed there for a long time, speaking to this grave in cold Autumn before going back to the sterile haven of the hospital. 

[touchoflaughter]

Vikings Headcanons pt. 3

Since there's a new Vikings-Fic about Ragnar and Rollo coming up, I felt the strong urge to get those two brothers some tk-headcanons as well! Hope you enjoy!

Ragnar Lothbrok

Ragnar is the younger of the two brothers. Nevertheless he's at least equal to Rollo and has great leader-qualities what makes them rival a lot. Silently they love each other what makes their little quarrels often result in tickle-fights, since no-one wants to actually hurt the other, verbally nor physically.

The ambitious Viking has a long breath, when it comes to tickle fights, tickling others as well as being tickled. He's definitely more sensitive than anyone would've thought but there are only a few spots, that really get to him.

Ragnar may not be the stronger one (even though he claims to be), but he's definitely more cunning than Rollo. He's the only human alive, able to predict his brothers actions what can be quite a big advantage. He often uses that sixth sense to attack before Rollo does to decide the fight for himself.

You'd probably expect the fierce Viking leader to identify as a Ler. Wrong! Ragnar is well now for his open-mindedness what makes him a chaotic switch! Of course he prefers wrecking his brother, sons or wife but he isn't ashamed if he becomes the target once in a while! Although, Ragnar would never let someone tickle him without taking sweet (and probably pretty excessive) revenge.

Knees, sides, obliques and feet. Touch one of those spots, sit back and enjoy him trying to hold his shit together. You'll tickle the heart out of him if you focus on these but I'd suggest to hold him down good. Once he gets up, prey to your gods cause you ain't ready for this comeback.

Rollo Sigurdsson

Rollo takes his position as 'big brother' pretty serious and permanently looks for reasons to put Ragnar in his place. Tickling is his favoured technique by far. He just loves forcing his lion-hearted legend of a brother to laugh like a helpless child while being in charge completely, able to not only predict but control any of his reactions and movements.

As you can imagine, Rollo is 110% Ler. With his most iconic character trait being an invincible warrior, he hates nothing more than being taken down by something as childish as tickling. Even worse if it's his younger brother. As much as he hate's being the victim, he loves being the bully. Rollo finds literal peace of mind by tickling others to the edge of madness. He clearly has sadistic tendencies but he only lives them out on his brother. Sometimes he tickles his little nephews, Ragnars sons, but with far more mercy, only for shared laughter and bonding.

He'd rather die than admit it, but Rollo definitely has more weak spots than Ragnar. Actually, there isn't much skin on his body, that isn't extraordinary sensitive. Due to all the years of excessive battle training, the fierce Viking-warrior became super reactive and is on the move the whole time. His body considers any touch as a potential threat at first, what makes him extremely ticklish. According to Rollo, that's just nervousness but his warm and resounding laughter at the slightest touch, pretty much gives it away.

When it comes to a fight, Rollo always triumphs, except for tickle fights. He still got the upper hand most times but due to his extreme ticklishness, he’s defeated the moment someone makes it through his guard. Ragnar often laughs and calls it divine justice, the most sadistic Tickler is also the most sensitive target.

[filmyfact]

Vikings all season 6, worst to best.

The History Channel's original series, Vikings, garnered massive popularity over its 6-season run, however, like any show, not every season of this iconic historical drama is equal. Any TV show that receives an extended run on-air is bound to have its ups and downs. Some shows get better as they go, rounding out characters and finding a nice flow of events. Other shows lose some quality as they go, suffering from cyclical plotlines or an imbalance of spectacle and reason. Whatever the case may be, it's extremely difficult to make a TV series that remains on an even keel for its entire run. Vikings is no exception to this. While the show maintains a certain level of quality even at its low points, there are clear peaks and valleys across Vikings' six seasons. The quality of each individual season is often related to the writing, but the available budget, revolving cast, and historical approach play important roles as well. Moreover, the most heartbreaking deaths in Vikingscan stir emotional responses that may contribute to the audience's enjoyment of the season, whether for better or for worse. Based on all of these things, Vikings' six seasons can be reasonably ranked by the overall quality. Read more

Vikings season 5 is not a bad season of television, but it does not live up to the high standard set across the first four seasons of the show. This is the first season of Vikings without its original protagonist, Ragnar Lothbrok. The void left by Ragnar Lothbrok's death is massive, and while plenty of strong characters remain after Ragnar's death, they all seem a little duller without his involvement. Ragnar is one of the most layered, engaging characters on television, and Travis Fimmel's portrayal of the iconic Viking leader is nothing short of masterful.

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Ragnar Lothbrok🗡

Vikings

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Ragnar Lothbrok

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