Board Thread:Roleplaying/@comment-3293219-20161214232614/@comment-5543592-20170216025809

(I hate it as much as anyone when people ressurect dead threads and stuff, but Emma asked me a little while ago why I didn't post my epilogue, and it was because I didn't have any, but I totally forgot I had this.  I meant to post it a long time ago, back before I took my three month break, but it slipped my mind, until when I was rereading George's Daggerfall blog, from the start, and Ragnar gets mentioned in the introduction, and it sort of jogged at memory.  This is more at home here than in a blog or a previous part, anyway, since it's the end, and since it provides closure.)

An Ending and a Beginning
The swordsmen approached, and Ragnar steeled himself. Jager stared down at him, eyes cold. Others watched. Some indifferent. Some fearful. Some baring a look of pity. What he did next would likely make that last group reconsider their stance. Ragnar didn’t need pity. He needed them to think. He was more than just a soon-to-be-corpse. He needed them to realize that he represented a real threat to Tharn. A chance. That was what he gave. A chance for his allies to make the difference. Ragnar had already died once. He should’ve died with Nadina, with his men, and with his dream. A second death meant nothing to him.

Give them something to remember.

He roared at them, a great bellow from deep in his lungs, and was impressed for the next half second at how the soldiers did not flinch. At least they were bold.

Then the blades pierced his flesh, around the ribs. The pain was quick and sudden, although it didn’t hurt nearly as much as he had imagined- he’d taken stab wounds before, and in the next moment after the six or so swords cleaved through him and found their way to his insides, he was certain it was the shock that killed him in addition to the immediate trauma.

No, that didn’t hurt at all. At least, compared to what happened next.

Less than a moment after he knew he was dead, there was a horrible tugging sensation, a heartache of sorts, as if something terribly important had just been stolen from him. He shouted again, although this time in agony. He was shattered into a thousand different pieces, then put back together, and then shattered again. Time and colors washed by and all lacked meaning for what could’ve been an eon or a second.

Then he hit the stone platform on his chest, and grunted as the air was knocked from his lungs. He lay there for a moment, recovering from the ordeal, in the mellow sunlight before slowly pushing himself up into a kneeling position.

He was in a meadow, of sorts, and wild flowers and weeds grew on hills, and ancient rubble sat around, overgrown with grasses.

He slowly rose and prepared to grunt at the pain he was bound to feel from his repeated beatings in the years since his capture. But there was no pain. Ragnar glanced down at himself and was surprised to see himself dressed in a fine set of woolens, with a fur cloak to match. A reach to his back set his hand on the familiar weight of his battle-axe. He had always favored the battle-axe since becoming a Housecarl. A Housecarl’s weapon of choice was a battle-axe, it was what made their fighting style unique. Yet, he could not having carried such a weapon in manner years. Nor any weapon, really.

That was not the pressing concern, however. He was somewhere foreign. Which in itself begged question. He should’ve been dead. Had that been a dream? How much of what he knew had been a dream? Was this a dream? An odd one, if that. It did not feel a dream.

He was on a stone platform, one with steps down onto a dirt path. He traversed them slowly, in no hurry. He’d always preferred to adjust to his surroundings as opposed to blindly rushing in. That got you killed.

As he made his way down the path, it lead in one direction, he had to skid to sudden stop as a series of Nordic children ran directly in front of him, as if oblivious to Ragnar.

“Keep up, Frojki!”   The lead one cried, followed by two more, and then a fourth who lagged behind. They made for one of the meadow’s hills, dashing through the wild flowers, and then vanished over the rise. Ragnar watched them go, a frown on his face. He was unsure what to make of that.

“A pleasant sight.”   A deep, baritone voice behind him intoned, but it was kindly, like that of a wizened grandfather. “One that always fills me with pride.”

Ragnar turned around slowly to stare at the speaker. He was an older man, a strong-jawed Nord with a mature face that was lined and wrinkled, and bore a close-cropped whitish-gray beard. Crows’ feet around his eyes bespoke of someone who smiled frequently, and he had his hands folded patiently in front of him. The man was perhaps twenty years older than Ragnar was. He was large, of height with Ragnar, although not quite as heavily built. The man was dressed purely in furs, those of wolves, bears, saber cats, deer, all manner of woodland animals. A cowl crafted from the head of a wolf pelt hung at his shoulders. His eyes were an odd color, seemingly a dark, navy blue, but were speckled with all shades of colors- purples, reds, even greens. Ragnar looked away slightly, as the simple contrast of colors hurt to look at, and once he had done so he could not recall what color the man’s eyes had really been. When he looked at those eyes again, they were a dull blue color.

“Who are you?”   Ragnar asked, meeting the man’s eyes with a flat stare.

<p class="MsoNormal">The old man smiled patiently, but did not answer outright. He gestured out to the side, up the path.

<p class="MsoNormal">“Walk with me.”   The Old Man said, and began at a slow, steady pace, and not looking to see if Ragnar would fall in alongside him.

<p class="MsoNormal">The former Thane grunted, but easily fell into step with the older man.

<p class="MsoNormal">“Who are you?”   Ragnar asked once again, to which the old man only smiled, once again.

<p class="MsoNormal">“How blunt of you.”   He noted in response, but then smiled a tad wider. “Although, I suppose nothing else could be expected. You were never one for subtlety. Even when your touch was careful, it was in a characteristically… heavy manner.”

<p class="MsoNormal">Ragnar raised his brow, and looked sideways at the unassuming old man. “You know me?”

<p class="MsoNormal">“I know all my children, Ragnar Aakasak. Even the ones who deny me.”

<p class="MsoNormal">Ragnar was about to ask what the old man could ever mean by that but, as they passed a bit further down the path, Ragnar froze.

<p class="MsoNormal">Standing before him, as the edge of bridge made of bones, situated on mountaintop, held over two roaring falls, sat the most magnificent hall Ragnar had ever seen. His eyes trailed up to slowly take it in, and he was stunned again as he looked to the sky. He briefly wondered how there could be sunlight when it was plainly night out. Bright, brilliant stars shown down, and brilliant colors of reds, blues, and greens swirled through them, taking on shapes.

<p class="MsoNormal">Ragnar looked sharply to the old man, who was staring at the hall himself. It took him moment to finally turn to look and meet Ragnar’s eyes.

<p class="MsoNormal">“Quite the sight, isn’t it?”   The old man asked.

<p class="MsoNormal">Ragnar scanned the man’s eyes for any sign of lie or trick, not trusting himself to speak just yet. “I am in Sovngarde.”   Ragnar finally concluded.

<p class="MsoNormal">“You are. Your mind is, at least. You have passed on, to this realm.”

<p class="MsoNormal">Ragnar spent another moment mulling over what had been said by the old man for a moment.

<p class="MsoNormal">“You are He then.”   Ragnar finally said.

<p class="MsoNormal">The old man nodded graciously.

<p class="MsoNormal">Ragnar chuckled dryly and shook his head. “By Shor, there really is a god.”   He stated with amusement, fully aware of the irony in his own statement.

<p class="MsoNormal">“There is.”   The old man agreed patiently.

<p class="MsoNormal">Ragnar took in the old man again for a moment. Shor. The hoar father. God did look much like Ragnar had always imagined him. Tall, thoughtful, hand laced before Himself. Ragnar peered into those endless, serene eyes again, eyes that bespoke of endless wisdom on such a plain face. His clothing even looked right out of a Nordic carving. Perhaps that was on purpose.

<p class="MsoNormal">“They say,” Ragnar said softly, “that You come to all people when they die.”

<p class="MsoNormal">“It is duty I consider to be among my most sacred,” Shor said. “Even with other pressing matters, I find time to take this walk.”   He had a quiet voice, familiar to Ragnar. Like that of a forgotten friend.

<p class="MsoNormal">“I am dead then.”

<p class="MsoNormal">“Yes,” Shor said. “Your body, mind, and soul have separated. Soon one will return to Nirn, another to Aetherius, and third... Even I do not know.”   Shor glanced up at the swirling, starry sky for a moment, and God seemed to be seeing something Ragnar himself could not.

<p class="MsoNormal">Ragnar continued walking. Sovngarde grew closer, and so did the sound of… singing? Chanting. Ragnar had a feeling of solidifying, as if he was entering here and full, and everything seemed to come in crisper. But, as that happened, a fog settled around them, vanishing the calm meadow, and they walked on, in nothingness. Ragnar had a feeling that, if he really looked down, he would notice that the ground seemed no more solid than the fog around him.

<p class="MsoNormal">“If You can take time to walk with us,” Ragnar said, a little bitter, but not for his own death, “why not come a littler earlier? Why not stop the walk before it must begin?”

<p class="MsoNormal">“Should I prevent all hardship, Ragnar?”

<p class="MsoNormal">“I know where this is going.”   Ragnar said. “I know what You’re going to say. You value choice. Everyone theorizes about it. But You can help. You’ve done it before, in placing instruments of your will on Nirn--the Shezarrine. No, you intervene. So why not intervene more? Prevent children from being killed. Make certain that the garrisons arrive in time to stop deaths. You don’t have to take away choice, but You could do more. I know You could.”

<p class="MsoNormal">He left the last part unsaid.

<p class="MsoNormal">''You could have saved her from me. Saved her at least. Stopped it all somehow.''

<p class="MsoNormal">He had believed at the time that Nadina had needed to die. She had betrayed him, yes, and that warranted death. She should have known how far Ragnar could go, how far he had gone. But he had saved her from a fate much worse than death. He was certain in that. But he had always thought that, somehow, there could have been a different way. What had always bothered him, deep down inside, was that he had not killed her in anger. He had killed her because he believed it was what needed to be done.

<p class="MsoNormal">Shor nodded. It felt bizarre demanding things, but if this was the end, Ragnar wanted a few answers.

<p class="MsoNormal">“What is it to be God, Ragnar?”   Shor asked.

<p class="MsoNormal">“I do not think that is a question I can answer.”   The Nord rumbled, eyes narrowed just slightly in a guarded expression.

<p class="MsoNormal">“It is not one I ever thought I’d have to answer myself either,” Shor said. “But it has been forced upon me. You would have me intervene and stop the murders of innocents. I could do this. I have considered it. If I were to stop every one, what then? Do I stop maiming as well?”

<p class="MsoNormal">“Of course,” Ragnar said.

<p class="MsoNormal">“And where do I hold back, Ragnar Heljarchen? Do I prevent all wounds, or do I prevent only those caused by evil people? Do I stop a man from falling asleep so that he could not tip a candle and burn down his house? Do I stop all harm that could ever befall a person?”   His voice never rose. It remained ever patient, constantly understanding.

<p class="MsoNormal">Ragnar frowned. “Maybe.”

<p class="MsoNormal">“And once nobody is ever hurt,” Shor said, “will people be satisfied? Will they not pray to me and ask for more? Will some people still curse and spit at the sound of my name because they are poor, while another is rich? Should I mitigate this and make everyone the same, Ragnar Heljarchen?”

<p class="MsoNormal">“I will not be caught in this trap.”   Ragnar said firmly. “You are the God, not me. You can find a line where You prevent the worst. You can find a line where You’re stopping the worst that is reasonable, while still letting us live our lives.”

<p class="MsoNormal">The fog suddenly cleared, and Ragnar found that they’d been rounding a planet. They stood high above it, and had stepped from darkness into sunlight, which Ragnar could see below, bathed in a calm cool light.

<p class="MsoNormal">Beyond that hang hazes of red. All around, pressing in upon the world. He could feel it choking him, a miasma of dread and destruction, everywhere but on that sole continent of Tamriel. And even some beyond Nirn.

<p class="MsoNormal">“Perhaps,” Shor said softly, “I have already done just as you suggest. You do not see it, because the worst never reaches you.”

<p class="MsoNormal">“What is it?”   Ragnar said, trying to take in the vast redness. It beat inward, but he could see something, a thin strip of light—like a bubble around the world, stopping it.

<p class="MsoNormal">“A representation.”   Shor said. “A crude one, perhaps.”   He looked to Ragnar and smiled, like a father at a wide-eyed child.

<p class="MsoNormal">Ragnar’s face became like a stone and he narrowed his eyes at Shor. The smile hadn’t helped. “We are not done with our conversation.”   The Nord said, voice hard. “You let her die. You let me kill her.”

<p class="MsoNormal">“And how long,” Shor asked softly, “must you hate yourself for that?”

<p class="MsoNormal">Ragnar clenched his jaw, but couldn’t force down the swell of emotion that welled up inside of him. He lived it again. Once outside of his cold focus that day, the day he killed her, and realized just what he had done. Why he had done it. He lived it again, holding her as she died. Knowing it was he who killed her.

<p class="MsoNormal">That hatred seethed inside of him. Hatred for Shor. Hatred for the world. Hatred for all the injustice.

<p class="MsoNormal">And yes. Hatred for himself.

<p class="MsoNormal">“Why?”   Ragnar finally asked. His tone made a blizzard seem warm.

<p class="MsoNormal">“Because you demanded it of me.”

<p class="MsoNormal">“I did not.”   Ragnar said, eyes narrowed. “I demanded no such thing. She betrayed me, and she paid for it.”

<p class="MsoNormal">“A part of you did. An eventuality I can see, one of many possible Ragnars, all you—yet not set. Know yourself, Ragnar. Would you have had another kill her? Someone she didn’t know?”

<p class="MsoNormal">Ragnar was silent for a moment, mulling over his answer. “No.”   He said quietly.

<p class="MsoNormal">“Would you have had her live on, a slave to those you hated, a slave to them because of you? Corrupted by your own actions, that would leave her scarred forever, damage done by you unable to ever be fixed?”

<p class="MsoNormal">“No.”   Ragnar looked away.

<p class="MsoNormal">“And if you had known,” Shor said, his all-knowing eyes focused dead set on Ragnar’s own, “that you’d never have been able to do so unless you thought it ultimately   necessary? If you’d realized what knowledge and mercy would do to you—stilling your hand, trapping her in an endless prison of her own making, a puppet and a tool your new masters would use against you—what would you have asked of me?”

<p class="MsoNormal">“Don’t tell me.”   Ragnar whispered, shutting his eyes and turned his head away fully.

<p class="MsoNormal">The silence that followed seemed to stretch until eternity.

<p class="MsoNormal">“I am sorry.”   Shor said in a gentle voice. “For your pain. I am sorry for what you did, what we had to do. But I am not sorry for making you do what had to be done.”

<p class="MsoNormal">Ragnar opened his eyes.

<p class="MsoNormal">“And when I hold back, staying my hand from protecting those below,” Shor said, “I must do it out of trust in what people can do on their own.”   He glanced towards the red haze. “And because I have other problems to occupy me.”

<p class="MsoNormal">“You didn’t tell me what it was.”   Ragnar said.

<p class="MsoNormal">“That is because I do not know.”

<p class="MsoNormal">“That… frightens me.”

<p class="MsoNormal">Shor looked at him. “It should.”

<p class="MsoNormal">Down below, a tiny spark flickered on one of the landmasses, the mass of Tamriel, and directly at its very center. Ragnar blinked. He’d seen it, despite the incredible distance.

<p class="MsoNormal">“What was that?”   He asked.

<p class="MsoNormal">Shor smiled. “Trust.”

<p class="MsoNormal">And Ragnar watched. And what he saw was a group of people who were so small, so unimportant in the grand scheme of the cosmos, so insignificant compared to the vastness of Shor and Sovngarde.

<p class="MsoNormal">Jagar Tharn lay dead at the end, by Agatha’s hand.

<p class="MsoNormal">And Talin kept his promise.

<p class="MsoNormal">Something tugged at Ragnar’s heart. Remorse? Guilt? Satisfaction? Pride?

<p class="MsoNormal">He wasn’t sure. But something about it made him feel… complete.

<p class="MsoNormal">“Now what?”   Ragnar asked, as time rolled by again. “Do I fade off into nothing?”

<p class="MsoNormal">“I don’t believe it’s nothing.”   God said. “There is something beyond. Though perhaps my belief is merely my own desire wishing it to be so. My mortal form is as dead as yours, remember.”

<p class="MsoNormal">“You are not encouraging me. Aren’t you omnipotent?”

<p class="MsoNormal">“Hardly,” Shor said, smiling, “But I believe parts of me could be.”

<p class="MsoNormal">“That does not make any sense.”

<p class="MsoNormal">“It won’t until I make it do so,” Shor said, extending His hands to either side. “In answer to your question, however, you don’t fade just yet. First, you make a choice.”

<p class="MsoNormal">Ragnar looked from one of the Divine’s hands to the other. “Does everyone get this choice?”

<p class="MsoNormal">“Their choices are different.”   Shor proffered His hands to Ragnar, as if offering them from him to take.

<p class="MsoNormal">“I don’t see the choice.”

<p class="MsoNormal">“My right hand,” Harmony said, “is freedom. You can feel it, I think.”

<p class="MsoNormal">And he could. It showed Sovngarde. The chanting, intoning masculine voices, chanting future glories in a long dead language. Everlasting existence and dining with legends until the end of time. Adventure into the unknown, seeking only fulfillment of his own curiosity. It was glorious. It was what he’d always wanted, and its lure thrummed through him.

<p class="MsoNormal">Freedom.

<p class="MsoNormal">Ragnar glanced over to the left hand. “What is the other?”

<p class="MsoNormal">Shor held up his left hand. Ragnar heard something. Voices?

<p class="MsoNormal">Shouts, and cries, the clashing of battle. Voices he recognized though. Those of his allies.

<p class="MsoNormal">“This hand,” Ragnar said, looking at it, “That hand is duty, isn’t it?”

<p class="MsoNormal">“No, Ragnar.”   Shor said gently. “Although that is how you’ve seen it. Duty or freedom. Burden or adventure. You were always the one who made the right choice, when others played. And so you resent it.”

<p class="MsoNormal">“I do not.”   Ragnar replied.

<p class="MsoNormal">Shor smiled. The understanding in his face was infuriating.

<p class="MsoNormal">“This hand,” Shor said, “is not duty. It is but a different adventure. It will bind you to me, as a legend, hero, and champion. You will be a Shezarrine, and shall be reborn into the world at my behest, or will be summoned by the Thu’um at another’s. In your rebirths you will forget yourself, but you shall assume the memories of all your lives when you return here. They will not be happy lives, but you will do my work.”

<p class="MsoNormal">The cries of battle grew harsher. They were cries that called to him. For his service. Freedom was not becoming of one such as him. He was a Housecarl. A Thane. War and glory were his- they were his nature. He had not always known it, but he felt it to his very bones now. What Shor offered was everlasting, but Sovngarde itself, but

<p class="MsoNormal">Ragnar reached for the left hand and, astonishingly, Shor pulled it away.

<p class="MsoNormal">“Are you certain?”   The Divine asked.

<p class="MsoNormal">“I have to.”   Ragnar said with a nod, no hesitation in his voice.

<p class="MsoNormal">“Do you?”

<p class="MsoNormal">“I have to.”   Ragnar repeated. “It is who I am.”

<p class="MsoNormal">“Then perhaps,” Shor said, “you should stop hating that, my son.”   He extended the hand.

<p class="MsoNormal">Ragnar reached out, but paused. “Tell me one thing.”

<p class="MsoNormal">“If it is within my means.”

<p class="MsoNormal">“Did she come here? When she passed?”

<p class="MsoNormal">Shor smiled. “She asked me to look after you.”

<p class="MsoNormal">Ragnar seized Shor’s left hand. The light filled him, consuming him- he became and the light, and the light was him. And then he was nothing yet everything all at once.

<p class="MsoNormal">Within the next year a boy child would be born to a Nordic family and he would grow in a talented warrior and statesman.

<p class="MsoNormal">As would many children blessed with a similar gift until the end of time, the connection invisible to the mortal eye, yet all connected in spirit.

<p class="MsoNormal">The cycle of rebirth for Ragnar Heljarchen would continue unbroken.