Work Text:
By Vera d'Auriac
Ragnar kisses Athelstan’s hand. The act is reverent and sexual in equal parts, his desire to worship and consume warring inside him. Ragnar often becomes like this before battle, a need to know the terrain of Athelstan’s body as thoroughly as the ground he will fight upon come sunrise. And he always begins with Athelstan’s hands. Always begins mass in praise of Athelstan’s deepest scars. Knowing what awaits him, Athelstan trembles at the first hum of Ragnar’s lips on his palm. Always.
Their particular worship service continues up Athelstan’s arm, Ragnar’s tongue flicking across the inside of the elbow. It causes Athelstan to smile (it is why Ragnar does it), makes Athelstan long to lie back, offer his body to Ragnar. Lips trail back to the palm. Yes, Athelstan would sacrifice anything—everything—for Ragnar. His life is Ragnar’s. His hopes and thoughts. His body. All Ragnar’s. A finger disappears into Ragnar’s mouth, and Athelstan feels it in his knees.
They don’t follow the proper order of service, having created their own form of worship. Prayers are offered at the altar, yes, but crying out for mercy comes later. The Credo is never-ending, a chant occasionally interrupted by a Benedictus or a Gloria, but their belief in each other runs throughout.
Then the worshipped becomes the worshipper, Athelstan needing the skin of Ragnar’s abdomen under his tongue. The flesh is warm, the taste sharp, distinctly Ragnar. He tastes more, licks higher, bites the skin, wishes to swallow, consume, become one with.
I offer myself to you.
Athelstan takes the offering, cherishes, embraces.
Ragnar resumes his earlier mapping, mouth on shoulder, lips at the juncture of shoulder, torso, neck. Athelstan hisses at the tender fierceness that is uniquely Ragnar’s. Then Ragnar strips him—literal, metaphorical—hands join mouth, down Athelstan’s back, his side where he would surely have been pierced if left crucified a moment longer. Someone moans. Neither can say who. Ragnar’s hands continue down.
The sermon begins.
In the battle you will stay at my side. I have fought battles beyond count. My enemies will fall before me. I will protect you.
Amen. Athelstan arches into Ragnar’s most intimate touch. He relaxes. Opens. Accepts the message.
I set proud death beneath my feet.
Athelstan smiles. It is not what Boethius meant. Athelstan approves Ragnar’s rereading, though. Always approves of Ragnar when he touches him so. Fingers in and out, preparing the way for the love he preaches.
We die together in here, not out there. God and Odin must wait their turn for us. I am not done with you yet. I will not be done with you until the earth shakes and the land floods, and even then, I shall not be done with you. Plagues and horsemen do not frighten me. We are one in here and always.
Kyrie eleison!
The first note of their hymn. The song they sing in their ecstasy. It is composed of their names and oaths and exclamations of joy. Their deepest desires laid at the feet of the other. The tempo of the hymn ebbs and flows, some notes held by one as the other intones the sacred chant of passion. Throughout, they are in perfect tune with each other, no note out of place. The rhythm is their own, bending and turning, but always the two of them together, a single entity. The hymn grows, expands, until it at last fills into a shattering climax of Hosannas.
I did not know what life could be before I met you.
In blindness men are content, and know not where lies hid the good which they desire.
It is now Athelstan’s turn to blaspheme Boethius, like Ragnar twisting the great man’s words to suit their love. But he cares not, his world beginning and ending with the man atop him. Ragnar will go nowhere for a time. He is stuck to Athelstan with sweat and spend and exhaustion. Both wish to remain thus. A moment of meditation in the midst of their mass.
You have anointed me.
Athelstan smiles, hums. At peace.
We have anointed each other.
Will your anointing make me strong in battle?
They kiss slowly, languorous contentment seeping into their limbs. They wish to sleep, but Ragnar has a greater wish—to complete his mapping before the imminent dawn. He shifts, Athelstan sighs, accepting and warm. Ragnar’s lips track muscles, become slick with spend, kiss thighs and knees and ankles. He ends at the scars on Athelstan’s feet, kissing soft and deep, trembling in sympathy with the old pain and rejoicing at the uniquely perfect body under his lips. Athelstan is more spirit than man, drifting outside himself, his body rendered limp and boneless by Ragnar’s worship.
But their great tragedy is that they are bodies—skin and sinew—and they must be made ready. Ritual cleaning: first Ragnar lying out Athelstan prone so he might scrub his back fresh from neck to toes. Change and repeat. Then together they kneel facing each other in an attitude of prayer, wiping clean the beloved. They cannot help joining their mouths, teasing sensitive spots, and soon they are full once again, pressed against the other body, chasing the glory one more time before missa est.
They wrap arms around one another, one with a hand at the nape of the neck holding mouths together, one with hands snaked around the waist to hold hips together. They lunge, press, moan, fingers digging in. Sensation radiates from the bases of their spines. Limbs quiver, both overwhelmed by awe of the other.
Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus.
After, they sag together, now tears mingling on their cheeks. They feel satisfied, rendered holy by their mass of true love. Grips tighten, knowing the letting go is at hand.
How quickly do all our pleasures pass.
You will stay with me today?
Where would I ever be but at your side?
Ragnar kisses away the last of Athelstan’s tears. Athelstan brushes away Ragnar’s with his fingertips. Their breaths come in unison. Ragnar bestows his final blessing, lips trailing along the light, fading scars of Athelstan’s hairline. He comes to rest, eyes down, Athelstan laying a hand below Ragnar’s ear.
Ragnar turns his mouth to the palm on his cheek. He presses his lips hard against it a final time, his reluctance to part coiling every muscle in his body. But he falls back on his heels. The two are no longer touching. They wipe their own bodies clean this time, not trusting their desire. Eyes stay locked throughout, two icy seas flowing back and forth into and out of each other.
The time comes to cover their nakedness. They would like nothing more than to live in the time before the fall, before they would need to hide their bodies when in the presence of others. Battle looms. They feel it when they pull on pants, slip tunics over heads. Tighten belts. Hang axes and swords. Shields are raised, then dropped hastily aside for a final embrace, a last kiss.
I look fortune in the face, unbending.
Athelstan looks his fortune in the face as well, their lives as one, Ragnar’s future his. They battle today, side-by-side in the shieldwall. What the day holds for them, neither can say, save to know that it holds the same for them both. One fortune.
Amen.