Into the Rain, chapter II / a vikings fic
Chapter II of Vikings fic. Lagertha/Athelstan, Athelstan/Thyrri, Lagertha/Rollo
They were nearly a mile into the forest before she realized that the priest had forgotten a cloak.
“Are you mad?” she asked, halting and removing the fur-collared cloak from her shoulders. “You’ll catch sickness again in this rain.”
He flinched when she touched his shoulder. He shook his head when she offered the cloak. Raindrops dripped from his hair and onto his chest. She pressed it into his hands and raised an eyebrow. She used to give Gyda and Bjorn the same look. He consented, and pulled the cloak around his shoulders.
It felt strange looking out for another person. In the days after Gyda’s death, Lagertha felt hints of what it had felt like before she was a wife, a mother, a leader. She remembered being a young girl, unburdened by men or children. She remembered the days of bathing alone in the river, making necklaces by candlelight, learning how to braid her own hair.
But then she thought of her daughter’s soft voice, the gentle touch of her hand. Gyda would never be a woman, would never make love with a man or feel a child’s movement in her womb. Gyda was so unlike her brother, her father, and even Lagertha. There were moments when Lagertha wondered if Gyda’s kindness was a weakness, and if that weakness is what killed her. Could she not have fought harder against the sickness? she thought. Did she just give up? I raised my children to be strong.
But Gyda had never been a fighter, even among other children who fought over toys and animals. She preferred flowers and dresses to conflict. Even as an infant, she’d had a faraway look in her eyes. Perhaps her soft-spoken daughter belonged instead in the presence of the gods.
And where do I belong? Lagertha wondered. She hadn’t had word from her husband or son in weeks. She tended to her daily tasks in a daze. She tasted nothing from food, fell asleep only to be wakened by visions of her daughter laughing, nightmares of her son injured in battle, memories of her husband’s lovemaking. She was neither tired nor restful. Was this her future? An eternity of hopelessness?
She looked at the priest walking in silence beside her. He stared down at his feet as he walked, his hand in his pocket fingering the cross he carried with him always. He was always pensive.
“What does the future hold for me, Priest?” she asked him. He stopped walking and looked at her. The sunlight on his wet hair turned his face into a halo.
Perhaps this is what God looks like, she thought.
Emotions cycled on his face-surprise, dismay, uncertainty-and settled on sympathy.
“I can’t predict God’s will,” he answered.
At the sight of his earnest face, she began to cry.
* * *
“What does the future hold for me, Priest?” she asked him.
Athelstan’s stomach clenched. What do you say to a woman who has lost everything and still must be so much for so many people?
He didn’t know what to say. He had often asked himself the same question--would he die here, in this strange place? Alone and old and among heathens? Or would God appear to him at long last? When Ragnar was around, Athelstan was on edge. These men were quick to fight and kill. Any moment could be his last. He’d barely escaped the sacrifice. Lagertha had said afterward that Ragnar was out of his mind-nothing had been the same since she’d lost the child. He feared Ragnar, feared Rollo, even Bjorn, at times.
And the cross in his pocket did not give him much comfort anymore.
“I can’t predict God’s will,” he stammered, immediately regretting it. Wasn’t it his Christian duty to comfort a woman in her moment of pain? But somehow he couldn’t lie to her.
Lagertha turned her face away from him. The sun behind her highlighted the profile of her face, illuminating the curve of her lips. Her drenched braids, now a darkened gold, framed her pale face. A breeze pushed wet tendrils across her brow and mouth.
Again he felt the tightness in his gut, a feeling he’d only ever felt once before when he’d felt Thyri’s warm breath in his ear as she prepared him for sacrifice. He’d nearly succumbed to ecstasy merely from Thyri’s voice and her proximity to him.
And then Lagertha began to cry, and he nearly succumbed again.
He’d always found Lagertha beautiful from the moment he saw her, the same way he found the paintings and sculptures of Mary beautiful. She was a legend, Ragnar had said to him on the ship, and Athelstan believed it. It wasn’t just her golden hair, her full lips, or her knowing eyes that seemed to find him even in a room full of people. He found her beautiful when she spoke kindly to children in the village, when she ladled stew into his bowl, when she came back from the river, arms heavy with fish. She worked hard for her life, cared fiercely for her family and the townsfolk who looked up to her for justice and mercy. He had found her most beautiful when she told the stories of her gods, late in the night, her face aglow from the fire.
But he never expected to find her so striking in this moment of unhinged grief. She didn’t sob while she cried-she just turned her face to the sun, peeking through the curtains of rain. The light caught in her blue eyes and became a beacon of color on her pallid face. If he hadn’t seen the corners of her eyes, he wouldn’t have noticed her tears, streaming down her face in unison with the rain.
This is what a goddess looks like, he thought.
He moved toward her, instinctively, and she turned to him again, reaching her arms out to embrace him. She embraced him hard, her hand on the back of his head with her fingers grasping at his hair, her cold cheek pressed against his. He sighed into her shoulder. How good it felt to be held by another, he thought. Despite the rain, he could feel the heat from her body. He felt her wet braids under his palm and wanted to tangle his fingers in it, wrap himself around her with arms and legs.
When she started to pull away, he caught her by the mouth, and kissed her.
They were nearly a mile into the forest before she realized that the priest had forgotten a cloak.
“Are you mad?” she asked, halting and removing the fur-collared cloak from her shoulders. “You’ll catch sickness again in this rain.”
He flinched when she touched his shoulder. He shook his head when she offered the cloak. Raindrops dripped from his hair and onto his chest. She pressed it into his hands and raised an eyebrow. She used to give Gyda and Bjorn the same look. He consented, and pulled the cloak around his shoulders.
It felt strange looking out for another person. In the days after Gyda’s death, Lagertha felt hints of what it had felt like before she was a wife, a mother, a leader. She remembered being a young girl, unburdened by men or children. She remembered the days of bathing alone in the river, making necklaces by candlelight, learning how to braid her own hair.
But then she thought of her daughter’s soft voice, the gentle touch of her hand. Gyda would never be a woman, would never make love with a man or feel a child’s movement in her womb. Gyda was so unlike her brother, her father, and even Lagertha. There were moments when Lagertha wondered if Gyda’s kindness was a weakness, and if that weakness is what killed her. Could she not have fought harder against the sickness? she thought. Did she just give up? I raised my children to be strong.
But Gyda had never been a fighter, even among other children who fought over toys and animals. She preferred flowers and dresses to conflict. Even as an infant, she’d had a faraway look in her eyes. Perhaps her soft-spoken daughter belonged instead in the presence of the gods.
And where do I belong? Lagertha wondered. She hadn’t had word from her husband or son in weeks. She tended to her daily tasks in a daze. She tasted nothing from food, fell asleep only to be wakened by visions of her daughter laughing, nightmares of her son injured in battle, memories of her husband’s lovemaking. She was neither tired nor restful. Was this her future? An eternity of hopelessness?
She looked at the priest walking in silence beside her. He stared down at his feet as he walked, his hand in his pocket fingering the cross he carried with him always. He was always pensive.
“What does the future hold for me, Priest?” she asked him. He stopped walking and looked at her. The sunlight on his wet hair turned his face into a halo.
Perhaps this is what God looks like, she thought.
Emotions cycled on his face-surprise, dismay, uncertainty-and settled on sympathy.
“I can’t predict God’s will,” he answered.
At the sight of his earnest face, she began to cry.
* * *
“What does the future hold for me, Priest?” she asked him.
Athelstan’s stomach clenched. What do you say to a woman who has lost everything and still must be so much for so many people?
He didn’t know what to say. He had often asked himself the same question--would he die here, in this strange place? Alone and old and among heathens? Or would God appear to him at long last? When Ragnar was around, Athelstan was on edge. These men were quick to fight and kill. Any moment could be his last. He’d barely escaped the sacrifice. Lagertha had said afterward that Ragnar was out of his mind-nothing had been the same since she’d lost the child. He feared Ragnar, feared Rollo, even Bjorn, at times.
And the cross in his pocket did not give him much comfort anymore.
“I can’t predict God’s will,” he stammered, immediately regretting it. Wasn’t it his Christian duty to comfort a woman in her moment of pain? But somehow he couldn’t lie to her.
Lagertha turned her face away from him. The sun behind her highlighted the profile of her face, illuminating the curve of her lips. Her drenched braids, now a darkened gold, framed her pale face. A breeze pushed wet tendrils across her brow and mouth.
Again he felt the tightness in his gut, a feeling he’d only ever felt once before when he’d felt Thyri’s warm breath in his ear as she prepared him for sacrifice. He’d nearly succumbed to ecstasy merely from Thyri’s voice and her proximity to him.
And then Lagertha began to cry, and he nearly succumbed again.
He’d always found Lagertha beautiful from the moment he saw her, the same way he found the paintings and sculptures of Mary beautiful. She was a legend, Ragnar had said to him on the ship, and Athelstan believed it. It wasn’t just her golden hair, her full lips, or her knowing eyes that seemed to find him even in a room full of people. He found her beautiful when she spoke kindly to children in the village, when she ladled stew into his bowl, when she came back from the river, arms heavy with fish. She worked hard for her life, cared fiercely for her family and the townsfolk who looked up to her for justice and mercy. He had found her most beautiful when she told the stories of her gods, late in the night, her face aglow from the fire.
But he never expected to find her so striking in this moment of unhinged grief. She didn’t sob while she cried-she just turned her face to the sun, peeking through the curtains of rain. The light caught in her blue eyes and became a beacon of color on her pallid face. If he hadn’t seen the corners of her eyes, he wouldn’t have noticed her tears, streaming down her face in unison with the rain.
This is what a goddess looks like, he thought.
He moved toward her, instinctively, and she turned to him again, reaching her arms out to embrace him. She embraced him hard, her hand on the back of his head with her fingers grasping at his hair, her cold cheek pressed against his. He sighed into her shoulder. How good it felt to be held by another, he thought. Despite the rain, he could feel the heat from her body. He felt her wet braids under his palm and wanted to tangle his fingers in it, wrap himself around her with arms and legs.
When she started to pull away, he caught her by the mouth, and kissed her.