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Two days on, and the dizzy, sick feeling would not leave Ragnar. Horik’s blood still stained the floor of his great hall. The stench of the man’s death still filled his nose. The guilt over having to order the executions of Horik’s children still made his belly ache, as if he had swallowed a rat that was now trying to gnaw its way out. He sought no comfort in the arms of his wife, his lover, or his sons. He found no joy in the love and loyalty of his friends. He could not eat; he could not sleep, for the question that filled his mind:
He was king, now, but should he be?
Kattegat was silent in these still, dark hours long before dawn. Aslaug had returned to bed after Ivar’s last feeding and was sound asleep. Only the beasts of night and the lapping of the waves on the shore made any sound to cover his footfalls as he strode across the courtyard and into the hall.
Yet, he was not alone.
“When did you last sleep?”
The room was dim, lit only by shreds of moonlight and the embers of last night’s fire, but he didn’t need his sight to tell him who had asked the question—nor where the asker was sitting.
“What are you doing there?” Ragnar asked, approaching the dais.
“I asked my question first,” Athelstan said.
He knew he should be offended by the cheek, but he couldn’t muster the indignance. “I don’t remember,” he answered honestly. He thought he may have drifted off a time or two, with the help of a lot of ale, but it was never for long.
Athelstan sighed. “That’s what I thought.”
“I answered your question,” Ragnar said. “What about mine?”
Athelstan chuckled lightly. “I just wanted to know what the world looked like from here. I wanted to see if it felt any different to be sitting in this chair instead of looking up at the person in it.”
“And does it?” Ragnar sat on the step below, settling his back against the chair.
“Not really. It’s just a chair. Not even a very comfortable one, to be honest.”
Ragnar couldn’t help a bitter laugh. “It’s not, no.” His head felt heavy, and he let it fall, resting his cheek against Athelstan’s knee.
Athelstan petted his head, fingertips tracing the path of the braid. “Do you know what my name means in my language?”
Ragnar hummed softly. “Stan . . . stone.”
“’Athel’ is ‘noble.’ I am ‘noble stone.’ Rather a strange name for a poor family to give their son, isn’t it?”
“Now that you mention it. Do you know why?”
“Not specifically, but I can guess. Nobility means so very much in England. Gaining any sort of power is next to impossible if you’re not already born to it. There are wars for various high seats, certainly, but those wars are usually fought by those already rich enough to have armies. The rest of us just till their lands, grow their food, bless their souls . . . and fight those wars. I think my mother knew her children would lead hard, short lives, but she still wanted better for us, and I think that came out in our names.”
“That makes sense,” Ragnar said. “But maybe your mother gave you your destiny. With that name and your education, maybe it’s right that you’re the one sitting in that chair instead of me.”
Athelstan shook his head. “No. I don’t want that kind of power. Do you?”
“Yes and no.” Ragnar closed his eyes, concentrating on the gentle contact. “I didn’t want to become earl. I only wanted enough autonomy to explore and find new lands. I had to kill Earl Haraldson because he attacked my family.”
“As did Horik. He was going to kill all of us; that was his plan. You, me, Aslaug, your children.”
“Yes.”
“Even though you had no designs on his position to begin with—contrary to what he thought.”
Ragnar bit his lip. “Yes,” he said again, “I have become king, but this is not what I intended. This is not who I believe myself to be. I have . . . done things that I would never have dreamed doing.”
“I know.” Athelstan stroked his cheek. “You’re an unusual man, Ragnar. I think you know that. Everyone else knows it, too, but I don’t think they understand exactly what it is that’s unusual about you.”
Ragnar frowned. “Which is?”
“Your passion and your desire for glory are not the same as other men. You don’t want power; you want knowledge. You want the poets to call you a pioneer, not a conqueror. You are truly a descendant of the Allfather in that sense. Yet other men don’t understand that. They don’t understand why any man would seek a different path than the path to power they want for themselves. So when they see you striking out, seeking what’s over the horizon, they see it as an act of aggression.”
“So it will always be like this, then. Men will always believe I mean to attack them, and I will always have to overcome them—however I must—to stop that.” Ragnar rubbed his gritty eyes.
“Perhaps. But I will tell you this: Even if it is not your aim, I think you actually are far better suited to rule than the men who have ruled you before.” He smiled, and gave Ragnar’s head a nudge. “Any other man who owned this seat would have beaten me for sitting in it, and yet here you are sitting at my knee instead of blackening my eyes.”
Ragnar squirmed. “I would never do that to you.”
“I know. And that’s why I think you do belong here, even if you don’t really want it. When I was your slave, you always ruled me with love, not fear. You do the same for your children, and for your subjects. That is how a leader becomes great. It is why I stayed with you instead of trying to run away. It is why I came back to you.” He tilted Ragnar’s chin up and looked into his eyes. “Yes, people know that the justice you issue is hard and swift and sure, but it is just, and that makes all the difference.”
Part of him wondered whether Athelstan was merely trying to make him feel better, or whether even he, too said these things out of fear of reprisal, rather than honesty. But another part of him simply enjoyed the feeling of Athelstan’s hand on his face. “All right,” he finally said. “I will take you at your word.”
“I’m glad. I think you’ll do far better in this chair than I ever would,” Athelstan said. Then a strange look crossed his face. “Although . . .”
“What?”
“I think you do look kind of good down there.” Athelstan smiled significantly.
Ragnar felt a sudden stirring; a positive sensation that seemed almost alien to how he had felt the last few days. “Do I?”
“You do. And in fact, I feel I must order you to get on your knees and swear fealty to me.” Athelstan’s hand curled around Ragnar’s braid and gave it a tug.
Ragnar’s breath caught in his chest. The weight of the world seemed to have fallen on his shoulders, and though he now felt able to bear it, he still didn’t want it there. The idea of at least putting it aside for a short while certainly had its appeal. He knew there was at least some small risk of someone walking in on them, but at the moment he didn’t care. He smiled and nodded. “As you command, My King.”
All other thoughts left Ragnar’s mind as he knelt between his lover’s thighs and pulled out his cock. Swiftly, he sucked the still half-turgid organ fully into his mouth, his lips tight around the shaft and his nose buried in dark, musky curls at the base.
Athelstan’s breath hitched, and he gripped the arms of the chair. His cock swelled and jerked, and as it did, so, too did Ragnar’s. He reached down to adjust himself and soothe some of the sudden ache.
“No,” Athelstan gasped. He nudged Ragnar’s hand away with the tip of his boot. “You serve me.”
Ragnar shuddered all over and sucked harder, putting all of his desire for pleasure into an effort to please. Pulling back, he swirled his tongue around the head, dipping under the foreskin and tasting the honey that had collected there.
“Use your hands,” Athelstan hissed. “Touch me.”
Ragnar did as he was ordered, one hand tight around the damp shaft, the other cradling Athelstan’s balls and stroking the silky skin of their sack, while his mouth continued to work on the swollen head.
Athelstan’s voice grew ragged. “Suck me harder,” he panted. “Yes! Like that. Good.” His hips began to roll, and then buck. He released one arm of the chair only to instead clamp his hand on the back of Ragnar’s head. Soon, he was thrusting in earnest, holding Ragnar’s head steady while he fucked his mouth. High, needy noises escaped his throat.
Ragnar’s head swam. He had greatly enjoyed pleasing Athelstan before, and had even succumbed to him, but this was wholly different. This was Athelstan taking command in a way he didn’t know was possible, and certainly didn’t know he would like so much. The whole thing seemed utterly ridiculous—the king, on his knees and taking direction from a former slave—and yet it filled him with bliss. Athelstan had told him once that he had found joy in service. Ragnar had never before understood that until this moment. All his guilt about how he had come to power, and all his worry about what he was going to do with it evaporated as he thought only about how best to gratify this man he so loved.
As Athelstan’s keening reached its peak, he shoved down hard on Ragnar’s head. Ragnar nearly choked, but ignored the impulse, choosing instead to take his lover’s cock as deeply as he could while it spasmed and throbbed, emptying down his throat.
Finally, Athelstan released his head and Ragnar sat back, catching his breath, but still aware of the now-painful ache at his own crotch. He itched with the need at least to stroke himself. “Did I please you, Sire?” He asked instead.
Athelstan laughed quietly. “Yes, my faithful subject. I am pleased.” He nodded down at the telltale tenting of Ragnar’s breeches. “You’re not done yet, though.”
“Oh?” Ragnar raised an eyebrow.
Athelstan closed up his own breeches and settled back in the chair. A slow, sly grin spread over his face. “Entertain me.”