Chapter 3: Emerald Glare
The physician walked in about 10 minutes later, and to the grace of God, he found no issues with Ragnar.
"He's all good miss, make sure that he rests and rehydrates to make a full recovery. The worst has passed."
Ragnar wondered what these fools even did to come up with that conclusion. Truly a shame that modern medicine wasn't available. Nor a good bath. With their current wealth, all they'd be able to manage was a pitcher of water from the well to douse on himself. The thought of which wasn't very appealing.
Though Ragnar had these thoughts, he kept it to himself. There would be a time and place where he could develop his ideas without looking like an insane person.
As such, he hefted himself up after the physician left and nearly buckled under the weight of his own body. Ragnar flexed his wrists and palms, noting the rather large size of his appendages. He quickly loosened up while his mother, Helga ran up to help prop him up as they moved further into the living room.
"Watch yourself, my boy. Though the physician said you'll be all good, it doesn't mean you should be up and about right now.
Ragnar turned towards his mother and smiled in appreciation as he pushed her hands away and turned to face her.
He raised his arms to support her shoulder and rubbed her for comfort. He was grateful that he had a mother, someone who would warm this home and give it meaning. Something he never had in his previous life, a home. Though he had initally found her a stranger, the few moments he'd had to himself, allowed him to familiarize himself better with this world and the people close to him.
"Well, the day doesn't wait now, does it? I have to ensure that I get used to my body and…." He nearly let slip that this wasn't the same Ragnar that fell ill yesterday.
As he stopped himself, he realized that the entire time they'd been conversing in French. Though the Normans hadn't been converted to Catholicism this time around, most of them still assimilated using the French language. And though most still had knoweldge of Old Norse, this use was even more pronounced for members of ruling society.
Ragnar coughed to clear up the mistake.
"I'll be off, ma" Ragnar bolted out the house, to much of the annoyance of his mother.
His boots crunched down on the gravel as he walked further down the street. Ragnar grinned like a child as he gazed out into the town. Smoke billowing from the hearth of the houses in the distance.
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Ragnar nodded in appreciation of their Barony as he looked around, noticing green pastures for miles.
Pulling in a deep breath of air. The familiar smell of dung from the Iraqi outbacks flooded Ragnar's nostrils. He grinned as he realized that he could quickly get familiar with this life.
A lone tree stood among his father's manor, and he sought it for support as he still got used to his body. Quickly walking over, he patted the large oak tree, before sitting down beside it and meditating on the spot.
Taking deep inhales and exhales, his large lungs allowed his blood to oxygenate and fire up his cells with life. After about 15 minutes, Ragnar opened his eyes as he felt his mind at ease, with a sharp gaze of concentration and vigor.
He stood, ready to set out on his journey. But, before he could explore the town and the manor at the top of the distant hill, a hand clamped down on his shoulder, set on spinning him around. Almost instinctively, his military training kicked in as he grabbed the wrist that dug into his shoulder and heaved, sending a thick blonde mass of solid muscle flying over his shoulder and slamming into the ground.
Ragnar quickly realized what he'd done when he saw the scar-faced scowl of his brother glaring at him from below.
"What the fuk are ye doing, Ragnar? You don't just toss people over your shoulder like that!" Thorkell grunted as he exploded upward to face him.
It was only at this moment that Ragnar realized that they were both at eye level of each other. He smirked in response to the wild eyes of Thorkell, getting ready to lay hands, as until now, he wasn't sure what the dynamic was between his brother and him. But, whatever it was, he sure as hell wasn't going to be one to apologize or explain himself. Over here, everything was about image. You either stake your claim or back down, forever branded a pussy.
Before they could defuse the tension from the corner of Ragnar's eyes, he noticed Thorkell's huge fist coming for his head. Quickly bringing his right palm up and into the bend of the inside of Thorkell's elbow, Ragnar managed to break the momentum of the punch while using his free hand to pivot and throw a hook simultaneously. He watched on as Thorkell managed to catch his fist and slow it down, much to his surprise.
The fight slowed for a second as spit slithered down Thorkell's lips, and a low growl erupted from his lips.
Ragnar fought for supremacy, but his battle was a losing one. Still weakened by the sickness, his arms were burning as he struggled to hold his brother back.
A sly grin broke across Thorkell's face, causing him to erupt into laughter.
"I never knew that you were so raucous, Ragnar? Looks like whatever sickness you'd gotten has done you some good. This is the brother I need on the battlefield. Someone I can trust with my back!"
Thorkell moved closer, just an inch away from Ragnar's ear and sneered.
"If you ever do that again, though. I'll put you in your place, Ragnar. You are my younger brother, after all."
Ragnar continued to stare into his brother's eyes. It looked like his brother had some form of rivalry with him.
Thorkell, noticing the cold gaze that returned from Ragnar's emerald eyes, pulled back to cover up the sudden fear he felt, almost like he was being hunted.
Thorkell laughed as sweat started to break on his forehead. "Well, the reason I was here in the first place was to tell you that Da has called. We're summoned to the lord's manor."
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How was the fight? I will try to choreograph more, but they do take a very long time to write down.
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