Work Text:
Lígdracan
Nunc dimittis servum tuum, Domine,
secundum verbum tuum in pace:
Quia viderunt oculi mei salutare tuum
Quod parasti ante faciem omnium populorum:
Lumen ad revelationem gentium…
Athelstan’s voice echoes clear in the cold, crisp air as he sings of peace and salvation, a light in the darkness. Again he has dreamt of death coming from the sea, but the familiar words and the murmur of his brothers calm his heart.
When the dragon-ships come from across the waves, Athelstan believes it is the end of the world. His life is washed away with fire and blood. The strangers are giants with blood on their faces and murder in their eyes. They do not see the light of the Lord. Their leader is a soft-spoken man with cunning blue eyes which pierce Athelstan like knives. They peel off layers of skin until Athelstan tells him what he wants to know.
Later he comes to realise the giants are but men, yet this is the end of his world nonetheless. Huddled on the ship with the few survivors, Ragnar’s eyes keep haunting him. Every time Athelstan looks up and catches him staring the man smiles at him, a lazy quirk of his mouth which reveals nothing but sly amusement.
Ragnar was the one who saved him, but Athelstan knows he is dangerous, perhaps the most dangerous of them all.
Athelstan is weak. He wants to live.
He ducks his head and stays close to Ragnar. It is not difficult, with a rope around his neck.
Røkkr
He feels like he's tumbled head-first into another world through some crack in creation, neither Heaven nor Hell but somewhere in-between. The inhabitants are certainly not spirits. They are the most earthly people he has met.
Athelstan understands their language, and he wonders if it’s not a curse. He can’t pretend that they’re ignorant or uncivilised, although he is taken aback by their casual violence and easy affection. These people follow a set of rules obscure to him.
The burning of Lindisfarne is a black weight on his mind. The sooty fingers of memory cling to him and make him shave his head, even though it makes him bleed. And still the spark of curiosity is rekindled. Everything around him is new. He wants to learn. He tries to tell himself it’s because he must survive. He knows himself too well to be deceived.
He still can’t reconcile the faces he sees every day with the howling demons who brought such destruction to the shores of Northumbria. Here they work and laugh and scold their children. Feet which march on the village streets trod upon the face of Christ. Axes are used for chopping wood. Ragnar is a farmer with soil under his nails and eyes which look out to the sea until the sea looks back from them.
Ragnar is a strange man.
For all he tries, Athelstan doesn’t understand him at all. He suspects Ragnar prefers it that way. He wants to be an enigma, someone who doesn’t give away his game. As to what the game is, Athelstan has only suspicions.
There is something Ragnar said when Athelstan was brought before the Earl.
“It must be true that there are many more such holy places in England and other lands to the west likewise filled with such... treasure.”
But it wasn’t the treasure he was looking at with such a knowing glint in his eye. He was looking at Athelstan.
It’s almost frightening how easy it is to fit into Ragnar’s home. He watches Ragnar with Lagertha and Björn and Gyda and feels like he’s learning secrets. He doesn’t hate them, even when they threaten to kill him. He tells himself it’s only Christian. He tries to hate Ragnar, but the sweet smell of pine-wood burning in the fireplace dispels the acrid memory of smoke and screams.
He thinks he understands when Ragnar and Lagertha want him in their bed. He presses the Gospel of St. John to his chest like a shield. It only makes him more aware of the wild beating of his heart. It’s all becoming clear, Ragnar’s eyes always on him and the way his touch burns Athelstan’s skin. Man and wife are both naked and he can’t help looking, eyes flickering from one to the other. Whatever happens he is damned.
Nothing happens. Athelstan didn’t even know it was an offer which could be refused until he’d done so. To his surprise, they take away the temptation and slip between the furs. The only punishment he gets is having to listen to the sounds they make in the dark. The empty feeling in his chest is almost like disappointment.
In the long sleepless hours he wonders if this was their way to reward him for looking after the children. To show him they know he’s a trustworthy person. But then he doesn’t know if bedding someone means anything to them at all.
Skammdegi
Once they have escaped Earl Haraldson’s wrath and are safe in hiding at Floki’s house, Athelstan asks them about Ragnarök. He asks them about other things too, about the gods and the world, and he’s always answered. They take pleasure in telling stories and laugh at his ignorance, and he finds himself laughing with them.
There is only one thing they won’t talk about. It silences all laughter, drags smiles into frowns. The back of Athelstan’s neck prickles with the whisper of something forbidden. He has heard the word mentioned in hushed voices and knows it means an ending. The more he learns of their beliefs, the easier it becomes to find his footing. There are connections, clues laid out for him if he dares to follow.
Athelstan remembers the burden of knowledge. In a lifetime of waiting everything became a sign of the end of the world. He wonders if this world, too, has its measured time. The people around him don’t seem too concerned.
He feels lighter now. Outside, everything is covered in snow.
Torstein comes to visit and Athelstan’s awake at night to hear hushed whispers. He turns to see Ragnar shooing Torstein towards their hosts’ bed. Floki is grinning like a lunatic and Helga smiles like she’s hiding all the secrets of the world. Torstein frowns like a man who doesn’t quite know what he’s in for but is intent on finding out. He takes Helga’s hand and climbs to the bed. Floki follows him, smiling his wolf-grin in the twilight.
Their shadows are dark ghosts against the curtains. The sight of the three of them is incomprehensible to Athelstan. He has a vague sense that this is not how things are supposed to go. Torstein’s a warrior and Floki’s a ship-smith, a respected man, touched by the gods. He shouldn’t think about them but he can’t stop. Even if he closes his eyes he can still hear them, so he keeps his eyes open and draws the covers up to his mouth.
The curtains are not properly closed, and through the gap Athelstan can see fragments of skin and slices of lantern-light. Helga’s low laughter is an invitation, and Torstein sinks into her like a man happily drowning. Their shadows melt together. And there’s the third shadow, stretching huge behind them. He hears muffled curses and more laughter and Floki’s whispering voice, full of trickery. The moment stretches into timelessness. The shadows contort into a new restless beast as Floki plasters himself along Torstein’s broad back. The idea of what they are doing has Athelstan’s heart beating in his throat. Surely he is wrong – but he hears a gasp from Torstein and a hiss from Floki and Helga’s voice urging them on.
He can’t stay. His throat is dry and his eyes prickle. Very carefully he untangles himself from the covers and slips outside, closes the door without a sound and flees.
He doesn’t go far. He stops by the small stream behind the house. The wintry forest is quiet. Night air freezes his lungs and nibbles at his skin. He takes deep breaths. His head feels a little clearer.
Athelstan’s mind drifts back to Ragnar’s offer, long ago now. Was this what Ragnar wanted? He hadn’t understood. He still doesn’t. All he knows is the slow fire burning under his skin, the memory of warmth and light and the three together on the bed, chasing their pleasure.
He sinks to his knees, wraps his arms about himself. He is so lost.
He can’t even remember when he last prayed. Even now he’s barely aware of what he’s saying.
Procul recedant somnia,
et noctium phantasmata:
hostemque nostrum comprime,
ne polluantur corpora…
The words tumble into the cold air, meaningless. He hears his own voice faltering. For the first time he doesn’t trust the words. They can’t dispel nightly phantasms nor protect his body. This place and these people have a power of their own, and it’s pulling him in.
He doesn’t know how to stop it. Worse, he isn’t sure he wants to.
At some point he becomes aware of the snow seeping through his trousers. The tips of his ears have gone numb. The cross he always wears burns like a brand under his shirt. He gets up and goes back inside, crawls under the covers and pretends he isn’t aware of Ragnar’s eyes, watching him in the darkness.
In the morning Torstein looks tired but pleased, calmer than he was when he arrived. Otherwise nothing has changed.
Athelstan can’t help but look at him, at his muscled arms and his bearded face and his confident sprawl. Last night he fucked Helga as Floki fucked him. Yet it is impossible to think him lessened by it somehow.
Of course Ragnar notices.
“Our priest has taken a liking to you,” he says with a careless grin. Sometimes Athelstan really does hate him.
“Oh?” Torstein doesn’t even lift his eyes from the piece of wood he’s carving.
“Don’t be absurd,” Athelstan says and bites down the nervous laughter tickling his throat.
“I’m not absurd,” Ragnar says and wraps an arm around Lagertha who is passing by. “Am I?”
“You’re impossible. Stop bothering the priest.”
And that’s the end of it.
During those slow days of winter Athelstan feels everything shifting. It isn’t so much a loss of anything as an expansion of what is already there. The world is growing wider, far wider than he ever expected it to be. He learns new stories and songs and finds his mind occupied by the feats of gods and valkyries and giants. There is real skill in the poetry, intricate patterns he begins to recognise. He hears that the mead of poetry is made of blood and honey, and chills go down his spine as Ragnar urges him to drink.
They must return to Kattegat to face an uncertain future. Athelstan can see the glint of ambition in Ragnar’s eyes, even as he struggles to walk. He himself is reluctant to let go of the closeness that’s formed between all of them in their exile. In Kattegat, he will be a slave again.
Blót
So much can change in such a short time. Ragnar becomes Earl. Their family – Athelstan’s family – moves to the big house in the village. Lagertha loses her child.
The festival at Uppsala is one long dream vision, distorted and full of strange horrors and delights. Athelstan feels like a dream-walker, caught in a haze induced by the mushrooms and the drink. Ever since the Gospel of St. John fell apart in his hands his thoughts have been in disarray. It's easy to let go.
He sees men and women dancing like spirits with fire in their hands, laughing couples chasing each other through the trees, Floki and Helga staring up at the sky and talking to the stars. He sees people coupling openly, in any configurations and combinations. His mind reels. Ragnar is looking at him again and Athelstan almost thinks this will be it. But Ragnar turns away. His eyes are like polished shields, they give nothing away. And then there is Thyri, and Athelstan forgets about everything for a time.
He feels strangely attuned to this place, nervous and restless. He doesn't know if it's fear or the presence of the gods. The Seer beckons him to the Temple and he follows. He recognises a place of worship, a site of ancient ritual where every stone feels infused with age-old purpose.
"Do you still worship this God? Are you still in your heart a Christian?" the priest asks him.
He says no and doesn't lie. He doesn't know his own heart anymore. He doesn't know what he is.
When he learns that he is to be sacrificed, his surprise and horror are plain for all to see. The cross hidden in his sleeve damns him and saves him. He brought it as protection to this holy place. The others have the protection of their gods. He can’t count on them.
He's angry with Ragnar but mostly for not telling him. He doesn’t want to die for any god, but he curses his ignorance as Leif is chosen to be sacrificed instead. Had he known, he would have made the same choice. But once again, he would have liked to know that there was any choice at all.
“Looks like your god finally came through for you,” Ragnar says, and Athelstan can’t tell if it’s bitter or not. In that moment, he doesn’t much care.
The ritual is strangely beautiful in its horror. Snow is falling gently, mixing with the flowing blood. Leif has such a serene expression on his face that Athelstan is forced to close his eyes. Guilt gnaws at him, guilt at someone else dying in his stead, guilt at doubting he'd be able to do that for any god. A woman is singing a high, mournful tune. It reminds Athelstan of a hymn rising towards heaven inside the cool stone walls of a church. The idea of martyrdom sickens him, now.
“Why me?” he asks Ragnar later, when the dream of the festival is behind them and the mountain path is firm under their feet. “Why did you choose me?”
“We wanted to get rid of you, priest,” Björn offers. He doesn't like people who tell him what to do. Ragnar cuffs the boy upside the head.
“You were important enough. The sacrifice has to mean something to please the gods.”
“But not too important.” Athelstan’s lips quirk in a smile. It’s much like one of Ragnar’s, although he doesn’t know it.
“No.” There’s a moment’s silence. Ragnar frowns. “Don’t think I don’t like you.”
“I don’t think that.”
Athelstan understands, he does. Everyone liked Leif, and still he was sacrificed. Choosing a family member would have been unthinkable. Athelstan was convenient. He resents the way Ragnar tricked him, although he should probably have expected it.
He takes a deep breath, glad to be alive. Not too important? He can fix that.
Dagan
Everything is always changing around Ragnar. Athelstan misses Lagertha and Björn and poor Gyda. He suspects Ragnar does, too, more than he lets on. But Aslaug is sweet and the house is filled with children’s laughter.
Athelstan finds himself laughing a lot more these days. He’s found his footing at last. His hair has grown out and the beard doesn’t itch his skin anymore. He spends his days helping with chores and practicing the use of axe and shield. He’s surprised by how much he enjoys it. At night, he studies their writing, tracing runes on a writing tablet. Bits of poetry have started to come to him unbidden, gifts from Bragi of the long beard. He writes them down in his own script before memorising them.
There is another raid coming and everyone knows it. Excitement fills the air. The clang of weapons and shields becomes background noise to everyday living. They are preparing. Caught up in it, Athelstan can almost forget it’s his homeland they are going to plunder.
Ragnar approaches him one day. He’s magnificent in the midday sun, sand in his hair and a playful grin on his face.
“Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Athelstan’s been training. He’s ready. Life thrums through his veins in a way he didn’t know of in the drafty monastery with his books. There are tiny pricks of lightning under his skin, Thor’s arrows raising the hairs on his arms. He’s very aware of the sand under his feet, the weight of the axe in his hand. He’s aware of Ragnar.
They circle each other and exchange a few blows. Ragnar’s got the upper hand but Athelstan’s studying him, seeing how this works.
“Not bad for a shield-maiden,” Ragnar tells him, and it can’t be anything but a compliment. The women training around them are truly impressive. Athelstan wouldn’t want to face any of them in a fight.
With the rare sun warming his skin and Ragnar grinning at him, testing him, it’s easy to give him a flippant reply. Of course he’ll go to England. He wants to. Ragnar asked him to. Finally he’s making himself useful.
Then comes a flurry of blows which makes him doubt his usefulness after all. He manages to parry and dodge some of them and aim a few strikes at Ragnar, but he ends up on his knees with Ragnar’s blade against his neck. He lets go of his weapon and gets up, only to be brought down again by the handle of his own axe. Breath leaves his lungs as his back hits the sand with a thud. He jerks his head to the side as the sword is thrust to the ground inches from his head.
Blood is thumping in his ears as he stares up at Ragnar, every part of him attuned to him. Ragnar’s hand on his chest burns his skin through his shirt. He is not afraid. Ragnar’s eyes are fixed on him, ocean-blue but not so unreadable anymore. Athelstan can see the tension in his body, feels it through Ragnar’s fingers. His eyes fix on Ragnar’s lips.
“Never hesitate,” Ragnar is saying, and Athelstan doesn’t.
He reaches up and pulls Ragnar down by the back of his neck. Their lips clash together. Ragnar lets out a sound of surprise. His hands hit the ground on either side of Athelstan’s head. Athelstan inhales his smell and the closeness of him. It’s more biting than kissing, an extension of their fight. It’s good. So good it makes him fist his hand in Ragnar’s hair to get him closer still.
Ragnar pulls away and stares at Athelstan. His lips are still parted.
“Didn’t know you had that in you, priest.” He sounds pleased. Only now does it occur to Athelstan that he might not have been.
Athelstan lets go of his hair and glances about them, suddenly very aware of the people around them. No one seems to pay them much attention. Ragnar offers his hand and pulls Athelstan to his feet. He sways for a moment because once again the ground under him has shifted.
“You don’t know what I have in me,” he says, daring Ragnar with his eyes.
“But I will.” Ragnar winks at him.
Athelstan groans. Ragnar is already heading towards the outbuildings, looking over his shoulder.
“You coming or what?”
Once again he doesn’t know what he's getting into but follows Ragnar anyway. This time it’s his own decision.
They slip inside a shed, lit only by what daylight filters in through the gaps in the beams. Ragnar is on him immediately, broad palms running over his chest and his hips. Athelstan kisses him again, his own hands on Ragnar’s waist. He lets his legs fall open and holds on as Ragnar ruts against him.
They end up on the floor with Athelstan on his back again. He melts into Ragnar’s touch. He’s spent so long fearing it and desiring it that he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Ragnar doesn’t seem to mind. He presses open-mouthed kisses to Athelstan’s throat and bites down at the soft flesh, sucking and worrying at it until Athelstan can’t take it anymore. He slips his hand inside Ragnar’s trousers to palm his cock. The heat of the flesh in his hand is something of a shock. Ragnar lets out a hiss and draws Athelstan’s trousers down his hips.
It’s frantic but it’s also surprisingly gentle. They bring each other off with their hands, kissing and touching everything within reach, shirts rucked up and trousers pushed down their thighs. Outside Athelstan can hear the bustle of the village, but it seems to matter very little. He looks into Ragnar’s eyes as he comes with Ragnar’s hand on his cock. Ragnar’s hands tighten on his arse hard enough to leave imprints as he gasps out his release.
They dress in silence. It’s not an uncomfortable one. Athelstan picks a piece of straw sticking out from Ragnar’s braid, and Ragnar pulls him in for a filthy kiss. He smacks Athelstan’s arse just as they’re stepping out. Athelstan punches him on the arm in retaliation.
They both go their own ways and Athelstan waits for the guilt to drop on him. It doesn’t. He feels exhilarated. Alive. Ready to sail across the sea and fight.
Kostr
What shocks Athelstan most is the noise of it, the thunder of shields crashing into shields, the screams rising like the wind in a storm at sea. The blood spattering his face is almost an afterthought. His muscles are straining against the push of bodies, his feet slip on ground that’s quickly becoming muddy. He is afraid, but he smashes his fear with his shield and moves forward so it doesn’t catch up with him. In the middle of the chaos his eyes are always on Ragnar.
Ragnar gives him an opening, a chance to get out of the shield-wall and fight, and he takes it without thinking. His axe finds meat and bone, his shield slams into faces. He’s out of control as he whirls around, but men are falling before him. He sees a man raise his axe above Ragnar’s head and sinks his own axe into the man’s back. Ragnar flashes a bloody grin at him. He looks like a demon. Athelstan must look the same. He grins back.
The roar of victory is deafening and he joins in.
Ragnar finds Athelstan later, when he’s sitting in the forest a little apart from the others. He’s aware of Ragnar’s approach, but he doesn’t look at him. He feels numb. He doesn’t understand the joy he took in dealing death. Now that the fever has gone from his head he feels weak and sickened by it.
Ragnar lays a hand on his arm and sits down next to him, needlessly close, as close as Athelstan needs him to. Their knees are touching, their ankles pressed together.
“You did not hesitate today,” Ragnar says. “You’re making a habit of it.”
Athelstan lets out a huff but still doesn’t meet his eyes. He only looks up when Ragnar holds something out to him. His breath catches as he sees the arm ring.
“Take it if you want,” Ragnar tells him. Sometimes he knows just the right thing to say. Athelstan takes the ring and slips it on, feeling Ragnar’s eyes on him all the while and delighting in the burn.
The weight of the ring around his wrist gives him strength to speak coldly to the captive Saxon soldiers even as Ragnar holds the decapitated head of their leader under his arm. It gives him the freedom to take joy in his knowledge when he leads them to the treasure hidden under the altar. It feels good to be useful, to know what he’s doing.
In a quiet, well-lit chamber inside the minster he finds parchment and ink. Something twists painfully inside him. A longing he hasn’t known for a long time is awakened. He used to create beautiful illustrations with red and yellow ochre and verdigris, the details so minuscule they could only be completed when the day was at its brightest. His hands itch for the quill and he lays his axe on the writing table without thought. His thumb strokes the soft feather lovingly.
The moment is broken when a young monk disturbs him and he doesn’t even think. He looks in surprise at the axe buried in the boy’s chest. It was his hand that threw it. The boy is clutching a book to his chest in a cruel parallel of what Athelstan used to be, the antithesis of what he is now.
He shakes his head and stumbles out of the room. There are tears in his eyes and he doesn’t quite know why. He was not that boy. He lived and he learned.
Killing in battle is one thing, senseless torture another. This is something he doesn’t want to learn. The bishop curses him, but he saves the man from suffering the destiny of St. Sebastian. He saves him by slitting his throat. This doesn’t gain him favour with Floki or King Horik, but he is past caring. He sees Ragnar watching him from the doorway, illuminated by sunlight. Athelstan can’t read his face but he thinks Ragnar might be pleased.
Later that night they celebrate. There’s fire and laughter and too much drink. Athelstan is unsteady on his feet as he goes into Ragnar’s tent. He’s exhausted.
Ragnar is waiting for him, laying on his side with his head propped on his hand. He offers Athelstan a drink. It’s one of the golden cups from the church, filled with ale. Athelstan sinks down beside him, takes it and drinks deep. Ragnar’s eyes follow the curve of his throat.
“Tell me, Athelstan, why did you kill the priest?”
“Because he was an old man and they were being cruel.”
“Are we not cruel, all of us? You fought like a beast today.”
“Not all of us kill for sport.” Once Athelstan would have been hard-pressed to believe it, but it’s true. Ragnar doesn’t take pleasure in inflicting suffering like some men do.
Ragnar smiles at him. “It is true that I prefer other games.”
He picks a lock of Athelstan’s hair and tucks it behind his ear. His fingers trail over Athelstan’s cheek, down his neck, and play with the neckline of his shirt.
Athelstan sighs and turns to Ragnar. Despite his exhaustion he is falling already, a fire burning low in his stomach. For once it’s not a hurried grope behind a shed or a quick fumble in the dark. There is more naked skin, and time, and kisses which turn violent like they always do. Athelstan lays himself down on the furs and looks at Ragnar. It’s a dare, a challenge. It is answered as he knew it would be as Ragnar pushes him down to the mattress and covers his body with his own. Each point of contact is a bright star, pulsing with warmth.
Ragnar licks a long stripe down his neck. His mouth finds Athelstan’s nipples and Athelstan twists his fingers in Ragnar’s hair as they are bitten and toyed with. Ragnar lays a trail of toothy kisses down his stomach until he’s squirming desperately, and Ragnar laughs, of course he does. He blows warm air against the head of Athelstan’s cock and Athelstan curses him until he takes the cock in his mouth.
In the dim light of the candles it’s easy to let go. Ragnar’s cock pushes into him and it’s good, he’s so strung out that even the burn turns to pleasure. Ragnar’s holding his arms above his head as he fucks into him. The arm ring is digging into his wrist and the weight of it sets him free, even if there’s going to be a circle of bruises in the morning. He trashes under Ragnar, struggles against the hold just to feel it. Ragnar grins down at him like a wolf and he grins back, eyes wide and drugged with pleasure.
He is Ragnar’s. All of him. Because he chooses to be.
When the news arrive that Kattegat has been taken, Ragnar rushes to sail back home, all thought of raiding forgotten. Athelstan chooses to stay, although he can see that it hurts Ragnar. They exchange hushed words, standing too close in the dimly lit tent. Athelstan can feel everyone’s eyes on them.
He knows he’s doing the right thing. This is important to Ragnar, even though worry for his family has made him forget it for the moment. And there is still a voice in Athelstan’s mind telling him that he has to prove himself, over and over. He needs Ragnar to listen to him. He needs Ragnar to need him.
He tells Ragnar he is sure of this. For a moment he thinks Ragnar is going to kiss him. He does, when they’re inside their tent again and Ragnar’s throwing his things together.
“You better be waiting for me when I come back,” Ragnar says into Athelstan’s mouth, tugging at his hair.
“I will be,” Athelstan tells him. He wonders if Ragnar still thinks he will try to run.
He stands on the beach as the ship disappears into the fog. Although Ragnar is going after his family and his lands, he looks reluctant to leave. They stare at each other, Ragnar and him, until Ragnar very consciously turns his back and faces the open sea instead. Suddenly Athelstan feels cold. He tugs his sleeves down over his hands. The ring of bruises around his wrist throbs dully.
He returns to the fire, but it doesn’t seem to warm him at all.
Cargást
He is wearing the arm ring when he is crucified.
He’s almost senseless from the beating they gave him, unable to believe what is happening to him as he is dragged to the cross. His hands are spread wide and tied to the crossbeam. When he looks to his left with the one eye that’s not swollen shut, he sees the bronze of the ring shining in the sunlight. Then the hammer falls and the awful pain in his hands and feet wrenches his mind away.
They hoist the cross up, and for the first time he wants to die.
Thoughts and images flit through his mind like birds wanting to escape. Odin the one-eyed, a sacrifice to himself. Thought and memory. A flurry of black feathers. Ragnar. He doesn’t know what he’s saying. It could be a prayer or a drinking song. It doesn’t matter.
He is saved, once again, by a powerful man with a gleam in his eyes. This King is in many ways like Ragnar but infinitely more dangerous. Athelstan is sick and tired. His spirit is cracking. To the northmen he was always the priest, strange and set apart. Now among his own people he is the pagan. King Ecbert keeps circling him, and although he has shown great kindness, Athelstan can’t be sure it wasn’t the King who ordered him crucified. Ecbert’s presence makes his skin crawl.
Perhaps once he could have forgiven and forgotten. Not now.
The King knows how to play him. He offers him paints and brushes and the keys to knowledge. He sees Athelstan’s love for these things. And it is true that the rasp of parchment under his fingers is a consolation of sorts. The colours of the paints seem bright enough to hurt his eyes. But when he tries to hold a brush, the wounds in his palms make his hands cramp. The delicate precision is beyond his reach. The angular forms of the runes are easier, meant to be carved in wood or stone. He’s traced a whole row of them before he knows what he’s doing.
The visions have returned to plague him like they did when he was younger. He sees gods and devils in every shadow. He tries to pray, but God is silent. The darkness presses in close like an old enemy.
One day he sees a raven outside his window, its round eye staring at him through a crack in the glass. He remembers Odin the Allfather who hung from the tree for nine days and nights and lived. The raven doesn’t tell him anything, but he breathes easier for a time. He lives.
When Ragnar returns and they meet again, he is wearing Athelstan’s arm ring. It draws Athelstan’s gaze even as he’s talking of terms and plans. For a moment his focus slips. Lagertha is smiling at him like she knows.
Ragnar slips the arm ring back on Athelstan as soon they are alone. He doesn’t ask. His lips brush against Athelstan’s palm. Athelstan puts his hand on top of his head and closes his eyes. He knows Ragnar can feel the scars on his hands.
“I had a dream while you were away, that you hung from a tree like Odin, and ravens were circling over you. That’s how I knew you were alive.”
Athelstan doesn’t know what to say, where to begin. If he tells Ragnar it wasn’t sacrifice but spiteful torture, he can’t be sure Ragnar wouldn’t undo the painstakingly negotiated truce. From the desperation in Ragnar’s voice, Athelstan suspects he’s become altogether too important.
“I missed you,” he says in the end.
Perhaps he has learned some wisdom.
When it comes time to leave for home Ragnar does ask him first. Then he almost orders Athelstan to come, his fingers twisted in Athelstan’s robe. Athelstan wonders when this inscrutable man became so easy to read.
Skáld
Time passes. All men journey from darkness into light and fade back to darkness again. In the transitory place between, there is life to be lived. In the great hall of King Ragnar, the darkness is kept at bay with songs and stories. Some of those songs are Athelstan’s.
His whole life is a series of choices. Some of them seemed impossible at the time. All of them have led him here. To Ragnar. To his family. He sees Aslaug and Lagertha sitting close together, laughing at something. Ragnar stares at them with his eyebrow raised.
Athelstan has changed. He was a good Christian, once. He was a man who would accept his fate and forgive. Now he is not. He knows he is willing to fight for this family and for himself. And when gods speak to him in the rush of the waves or in dreams at night, he listens, whatever their names may be.
Ragnar throws a meaningful look at him, asking for his help. Athelstan smiles and shrugs. He is wise enough not to get between Ragnar and his wives. If they get in an argument, they will throw Ragnar out of the bed and he will come to Athelstan. Or they will invite Athelstan in.
Athelstan sits at his place by the fire. He watches the way the flames light up Ragnar’s skin. He didn’t have a choice when he first saw Ragnar’s cold blue eyes. Now he has made his choice countless times.
It is time for a song.
I have swallowed
spit and blood,
the honey of Idunn's husband.
Listen as I sing of
sword-storm's slaughter.
Odinn's eyes are watching.
Sea-wolves sailed
to the western shores
hunting for red gold and riches.
Dragons of the north
brought destruction
to the hallowed holy island.
Ragnar Lodbrok
reached the land
guided by sun-stone and stars.
He dared to dream
what no one did,
took a great gamble and won.
He is a great man.
I believed him a giant,
thought no less of him later.
Wielder of sword and
spiller of wound-sweat,
he is known to be kin to the gods.
He pays poets to
sing his praises.
I sing poor without payment.
I'll get my own later,
take what I'm owed,
will be taken again in turn.