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Rhaegal Amos. The All-Father’s indispensable and the son of Heimdall, the Watcher of the Gods. A demi-god left on Midgard to keep a delicate balance of fates. And so he would. Rhaegal was cursed with seeing the past, present, and future despite the grotesque way half of his face was torn away. The wood that covered the top half of his face seemed to grow out of his skin, sprouting into a bloodied crown at the top of his head. A prince of time. Black blood oozed from the wood down his chiseled jaw, neck, and broad chest. It oozed out of the scars that covered his fair skin and dripped around him. His long white hair remained pristine despite the blood that constantly oozed off of him, hanging to his waist as he moved about his cave quietly. His bare feet scraping along the floor, half dragging as he made his way through the inky blackness of his home. The black robe that dangled off his body was loosely tied around his waist, mostly open to reveal the hard lines of his sculpted body.
He had been around for hundreds of years. He had seen the rise and fall of many vikings. Only few mortals had caught his attention. One mortal in particular still bothered him to this day. Ragnar Lokbrok. He was far too ambitious for his own good and despite the cryptic warnings, even a god amongst men fell like any other mortal. Rhaegal would bless those fortunate enough to bring him a worthy sacrifice with a cryptic fortune, one that he did not care to explain and allowed the mortal to figure it out on their own. But for the mortals, that was enough for them. So eager and so greedy for the future, they almost always deciphered it incorrectly.
Today, Rhaegal finds himself pausing in his usual day to day chores as he hears the pitter patter of rushing feet towards his cave. What mortal would dare rush so unceremoniously into his dwelling? A heavy sigh leaves the demi-god as he turns to face the mortal. He can hear their desperate panting, the way their breath trembles with each intake.
“Yes?” He asks deeply, his head tilting to the side as he regards the mortal. They begin speaking quickly, a tale woven between stuttered breath and sobs. A forced marriage to Agnar Coldstar? Rhaegal nearly scoffed at the absurdity of this mortal’s fear. He’d had visions of the irritating viking, visions of the man being torn apart during his first battle. He found this little mortal’s fear childish. “Go, your fears are childish. If you are to marry for the sake of your people, then I am not your savior.” Blood falls down his cheek, a familiar feeling as it drips off his chin and to the floor. “There are far worse things in this world than marriage, silly mortal.”
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