Uppsalir - Chapter 9
Title: Uppsalir
Author: gwyllion
Genre: Canon era
Pairing: Athelstan/Ragnar
Rating: R
Words: 66,794
A/N: Uppsalir was written for NaNoWriMo 2018. Please see Chapter 1 for additional notes.
Disclaimer: I did not create these characters. No disrespect intended. No profit desired, only muses.
Comments: Comments are welcome anytime, thanks so much for reading!
Athelstan scrambled off the makeshift bed. His feet found the floor and sent the bedding skittering to the ground. The hay stabbed sharply at his bare feet. The fresh smell of grass wafted through the window, but the scent was displaced by the smell of sweat and steel.
He dropped to his knees and prayed that God would forgive him for his indiscretion with Ragnar. His mind went in fifty different directions. Shaking with fear, Athelstan was torn between acknowledging his sinful actions and accepting his feeling of being cherished in Ragnar’s arms.
The next thing Athelstan knew, rough hands pulled him out of the barn and dragged him into the harsh sunlight. He caught sight of Ragnar through the doorway, still inside the barn. He looked just as surprised as Athelstan did. His fists clenched for want of a weapon.
Athelstan struggled to free himself, but it was no use. It seemed like, in the few moments it took him to get his bearings, he had forgotten everything that Ragnar had taught him about fighting.
“I told you they were in here,” a bearded man with a shabby fur coat said. He held the barn door open while archers took their positions.
Athelstan suspected that he was the farmer who owned the barn. He had hoped that he and Ragnar would be able to move on and complete their journey to Newcastle, but when he saw the men with spears and arrows that met them outside the barn, he knew it was too late. The men wore the king’s colours and their weapons were drawn.
“What is the meaning of this?” Athelstan cried. “I’m a monk of Lindisfarne.”
“You’re no monk, dressed in those tatters,” one of the guards shouted. He jabbed at Athelstan’s middle with the butt end of a spear. Athelstan was brought to his knees. His hands went to his belly and he choked as he tried to keep from vomiting.
“And your hair is too long to be a monk,” another guard added. He grabbed Athelstan by his hair and yanked him backwards. Athelstan felt the guard’s spit on his face. “You didn’t even try very hard to disguise yourself as a monk.”
Athelstan knew that Ragnar would be strong. He would jump into action to defend them from the intrusion, but Ragnar’s fists would be no match for the spears and arrows that greeted them.
To Athelstan’s surprise, Jonah strode past him. “I didn’t believe him for a moment,” he told the archers, signalling toward Athelstan. “There were three of them in Alnwick. The other two must be around here somewhere.”
Athelstan’s heart sank when he realized that he and Ragnar had been deceived by Jonah and his intentions. May God forgive him for hoping that Jonah met with a painful end for his deception.
Athelstan worried that these men did not know about Brother Benedict’s death. For all they knew, Athelstan and Ragnar alone had been responsible for the death of the king’s men.
“There he is, there is the heathen,” Jonah led the men inside the barn to Ragnar. They kept their weapons trained on Ragnar while he sized them up.
Athelstan cursed himself for braiding Ragnar’s hair. There was no hope of him passing for an Englishman now, no matter how much of the language Athelstan had taught him. Neither he, nor Ragnar, stood a chance.
Athelstan watched Ragnar’s eyes flit from the bows that the men carried to their belts. Athelstan sensed that Ragnar was searching for the weapons that the men might have concealed on their persons.
“I knew there was something odd about him when he turned up in Alnwick,” Jonah said.
“There’s been reports of Northmen sailing up and down the coast for weeks now. They’ve been raiding, attacking, and pillaging, but it looks like you are putting an end to it now,” another of the men said to Jonah. “You’ll be rewarded handsomely for your service to the king.”
So that was it, Athelstan realized. This was all about money, with no regard for honesty or contrition.
“Ragnar is innocent,” Athelstan pleaded, without regard for his own safety.
“Innocent?” Jonah asked with a laugh. “You know, as well as I, that this man was responsible for the raid at Lindisfarne.”
“The king has already determined the punishment for the raiding Northmen and for the apostate,” a spear-wielding guard said.
Another of the guards unfurled a parchment after breaking the crimson seal that held it shut. He read the proclamation, “The punishment for the Northmen is death by hanging.”
“And what of the punishment for impersonating a man of God?” the man with the fur cloak asked.
“I’d say the punishment for apostasy is death by crucifixion,” the guard answered. He then struck Athelstan across his back with the stick that held his spear. Athelstan crumpled into the wet grass. “But that may be too good for this one.”
Athelstan brought his hands together to pray. “Dear Lord Jesus, forgive me for my sins.”
“Apostate!” another guard yelled. “We know what’s to be done. The bishop is on his way.”
Athelstan watched as the archers drew their bows and aimed at Ragnar.
“Ragnar!” From where he lay, Athelstan screamed at the top of his lungs.
A pair of guards hoisted him by his shoulders. Athelstan’s feet slipped in the dewy grass as he was dragged across the meadow.
Upon a rise, more men, wearing the king’s colours, stood ready to receive him.
“Ragnar!” Athelstan shouted again and again with his waning strength, but Ragnar could not save him.
Athelstan was stripped of his tunic. The spikes of the scourger’s whip bit into the skin of his back. He clasped his hands in prayer and begged for God to save him. Another whip strike left its sting across his shoulders. He could feel the burn of the leather as it left a track across the sensitive skin.
With his last breath, he cried out for Ragnar before he fell to the ground.
When he next came to his senses, he felt the sharp pain across his forehead. He wiped away a drop of rain as it leaked into his eyes but when his hand came away, his fingers were covered with blood.
He tried to move his other hand but when he looked at what impeded him, he gaped in horror. His hand had been nailed through the palm into a beam of wood.
From where he lay, he looked onto the field and began to pray, “I will lift thine eyes to the mountains from whence cometh my help,” but there were no mountains, only meadow and field and an old barn where the taste of love’s first kiss had found his lips.
~
“Behind you,” Ragnar said. “Do not try to turn your head.”
Ragnar knelt beside the length of wood in the grassy meadow. He was out of breath, but he knew that he had to work quickly, lest more men come for him and Athelstan.
Athelstan's lips quivered. “I thought you were dead,” he stuttered.
“I am not ready to enter Valhalla today,” Ragnar said. He stroked Athelstan’s tear-stained cheek with the back of his fingers. The silence of the meadow belied the battle that took place only moments earlier.
“It hurts,” Athelstan said. His heels dug into the grass as he lay astride the long beam of the cross on which the bishop intended to crucify him.
“I know it hurts, but try to hold still,” Ragnar said in the most reassuring voice he could muster. He wanted to pet Athelstan's hair to soothe him, but he was afraid that any action would hurt him further.
Ragnar's hands were stained with blood. He picked at the thorny crown that circled Athelstan's head. No matter how much his own fingers were nicked by the prickly thorns, his pain could not compare to what Athelstan had endured at the hands of his fellow Christians.
“There you go,” Ragnar said as he pulled the circle apart. It sickened him to see the streaks of blood that ran down Athelstan’s bare shoulders and chest. He hoped that the lacerations did not fester into a fever that could claim Athelstan’s life. “That is it. Hold still. You are doing beautifully.”
“Ragnar,” Athelstan said softly.
“Just a little bit more,” Ragnar said. He used his thumbs to push the thorns from Athelstan's brow, trying to prevent more injury as he worked. It broke Ragnar's heart to see Athelstan in such pain.
“Help me,” Athelstan cried.
“I am, my friend. You are being so strong,” Ragnar whispered, hoping it would soothe him. Athelstan was stronger than Ragnar imagined he could be. Ragnar was not sure that he could have tolerated the abuse Athelstan suffered. “I need you to stay strong for a little while longer.”
Athelstan let out a shuddery breath. “I know,” he said.
When Athelstan’s head was free from the thorny crown, he began to pant in relief.
“There, that is done,” Ragnar said wiping the blood from Athelstan’s brow. The pair of them were a right mess with their bloodstained skin, and there was still the matter of getting the nail out of Athelstan’s palm.
Ragnar got to his feet and searched the ground for a tool that would help him. He wrenched the mallet out of a dead Englishman’s hand. Another long nail rested in the grass by Athelstan’s foot. Ragnar was relieved that it did not meet its intended target. He plucked the nail from the grass and returned to Athelstan’s side.
Athelstan had covered his eyes with his uninjured hand and looked to be fighting to stay still. His chest heaved up and down as he took long breaths.
Ragnar dropped to his knees and set the mallet and the nail by Athelstan’s pinned hand.
“I beg of you, Odin, to let me do this without causing Athelstan more pain,” Ragnar said quietly as he gently touched his fingertips to Athelstan’s wrist. He did not care that Athelstan heard him praying to his own god. Chances were that Odin would be more helpful to them now than Athelstan’s Christ God had been.
Ragnar worked as quickly as he could. He pushed gently on the swollen flesh of Athelstan’s palm to make way for the fresh nail to slide against its brother, like a cross of crucifixion rising from Athelstan’s palm.
Athelstan cried out in pain.
Ragnar spoke over his cries, telling Athelstan how very brave and strong he was. Surely his Christ God would approve of such suffering, but Ragnar left that part out of his encouragements. He took the mallet in his hand and lay down in the grass, so he could strike the nail at the right angle.
Athelstan stopped moving when Ragnar made the first tap against the head of the free nail which was caught between Athelstan’s palm and the head of the nail that pinned him.
Ragnar held the nail in place and tapped against it with the mallet. After three taps, the nail that pinned Athelstan’s palm began to rise from the beam. Three more taps, and Athelstan’s hand was free, although the nail still protruded from his palm.
Athelstan rolled off the beam and lay on his side in the grass. He cradled his hand and gulped in great breaths of air. Before Ragnar could get to his feet, Athelstan had grasped the head of the nail and pulled it from his palm. He screamed in pain as he threw the nail aside and pressed his damaged hand to his bare chest.
Ragnar crouched in the grass beside Athelstan. He stroked his rough hand down Athelstan’s back while he convulsed in a fit of tears over his damaged hand.
“I am so sorry,” Ragnar said.
Athelstan’s skin was cold. The stripes left by the scourger’s whip rose from his back like rows of furrowed fields. Ragnar hoped he could find some clothing to replace what had been torn from him.
“What are you sorry about?” Athelstan asked, turning to face Ragnar with his tear-stained face.
“I promised I would protect you,” Ragnar said. “I failed.”
Athelstan took a moment to scan the meadow spread out before them. His jaw fell open.
Ragnar looked at the ground. He prepared himself for Athelstan’s anger about the sanctity of human life. The bishop and a half dozen Englishmen lay dead around the makeshift cross. Arrows protruded from their limbs, their chests, their heads. A trail of another half dozen dead bodies stretched from the rise to the barn, Jonas and the barn owner included.
With Athelstan’s life threatened, and a quiver of arrows within Ragnar’s reach, he hadn’t even needed to use his bare hands.
Athelstan clutched Ragnar’s arm with his uninjured hand. He looked up to meet his eyes, bruised and bloody from his beating.
“I would say that you did well,” Athelstan said.
~
In the barn, Athelstan did his best to wash off the blood. His hand ached as he plunged it into the bucket of cold water, but it was the only way he could clean the hole that pierced his palm. He used the old bits of his torn habit to scrub at the blood that had dried on his chest. It was nearly impossible to make any progress with only one functioning hand. He let the fabric soak up the water while he searched for where he had left his boots.
The kiss that he and Ragnar had shared leapt into Athelstan’s mind. It seemed like one of those dreams that vanished with morning’s first light, only to be remembered in the contemplative hours later.
Looking out the barn door, Athelstan could see that Ragnar had divested a guard of his clothing. He watched him step over the bodies as he searched for clothing that had not been pierced by an arrow, nor been soiled too badly with blood.
“Bless and keep them, my Lord,” Athelstan whispered as he gazed at the dead bodies in the meadow. Athelstan stopped himself from making the sign of the cross. He was no longer sure that he wanted to pray for the men who used his own faith to promulgate such cruelty.
And Ragnar… although Ragnar had killed to save their lives, Athelstan could not revel joyously in the experience of seeing all the dead Christians. He had stumbled toward the barn in a daze with only Ragnar’s hand on the small of his back to steady him. He had only learned of Ragnar’s fighting skills, days earlier. It would take some time for the truth to sink in. He travelled with a trained killer of men. The poor souls who encountered Ragnar did not stand a chance of surviving his fury.
He kissed him, Athelstan remembered. He kissed the killer of these men. May God forgive him. He wondered if Ragnar would even remember the kiss, after all that had transpired in the aftermath.
Athelstan felt his cheeks burning red. He turned back to the bucket of water. He lifted the fabric from the bucket and squeezed some of the water out, using one hand. He held his injured hand clasped tightly to his chest. With his good hand, he spread the linen out and pulled it over his face. He hoped that the water would soak into his skin and take some of the crusted blood away with it. He covered his mouth, trapping the wet cloth between his palm and his lips, wishing it would take away the sin of his kiss.
Ragnar’s footsteps approached, crunching in the straw. Although he recognised Ragnar’s limping gait, Athelstan pulled the linen from his face, just to make sure. His pulse quickened with the fear that the visitor to the barn might not be Ragnar. He had to work to push this foolish thinking aside when Ragnar entered the barn. He carried an armful of clothing.
“Let me see,” Ragnar said, dropping the clothing onto a pile of hay. He rushed to Athelstan’s side. Except for the limp, Ragnar looked none worse for wear after his deadly encounter with the Englishmen. He pressed his fingers beneath Athelstan’s chin and tilted his face upward.
Athelstan looked up at Ragnar. He let him take the wet cloth from his hand. For all Athelstan’s resolve, it took only a touch from Ragnar to make him acquiesce to anything. He was angry with God for making him so weak.
Ragnar bunched the cloth into a ball and pressed it against the wounds at Athelstan’s hairline. His concerned eyes roved over Athelstan’s face.
A horse neighed in the meadow.
The spikes of pain in Athelstan’s forehead competed with the ache in his pierced hand. He tried to breathe steadily and without fear.
Ragnar rinsed the cloth in the bucket and pressed again, dabbing at the lacerations to clean the dirt from them. When he finished with Athelstan’s forehead, he let the cloth drape wide and cool against the lash marks on his back.
Athelstan was silent as Ragnar picked the stray thorns from his hair.
“That is the best I can do for now,” Ragnar said, finally tossing the cloth into the bucket.
“Thank you,” Athelstan said, forgetting his aching hand for a moment.
Ragnar cupped Athelstan’s chin and looked him up and down. “You have cleaned up nicely,” he said.
A part of Athelstan’s heart thought that Ragnar might kiss him again, but he fought against both the hope for it and the shame of it. He looked away, escaping from Ragnar’s blue-eyed scrutiny.
“You need to soak that,” Ragnar said, motioning toward Athelstan’s hand.
Athelstan caught himself and went to the bucket. He held his damaged hand in his good hand and dipped them both into the water. He winced from the pain, closing his eyes tight. He heard the crunch of straw behind him and felt Ragnar’s warm presence at his back.
“I’ve brought you some clothing,” Ragnar said.
Athelstan turned around, his hands rising from the bucket.
Ragnar had unfurled a white tunic that looked to be clean. He held it up to Athelstan’s shoulders.
“This looks like it will fit,” Ragnar said.
Athelstan absentmindedly shook the water from his hands. He received a sharp reminder that he should not make such a motion while fresh blood dripped from his palm.
Ragnar took Athelstan’s hand before he could cradle it against his chest to ease the pain.
The wound on the back of Athelstan’s hand met Ragnar’s palm.
Ragnar gently forced Athelstan’s hand closed, the blood pooling in his palm again.
“We need to wrap this to stop the bleeding,” Ragnar said, his eyes full of concern.
Athelstan relished the warmth of Ragnar’s hand against his. He took comfort in Ragnar’s touch. It had been a long time since anyone had treated Athelstan with such care. He had devoted his life to God and his Saviour Jesus Christ. He had little time for concerns about his own well-being. He had always believed that God would provide for him… until he didn’t.
Ragnar placed the injured hand against Athelstan’s chest. The position made it ache less. He then turned his attention to the white tunic he had stolen from a dead man.
Athelstan watched in amusement as Ragnar tore the tunic from neckline to hem.
“That is a waste of a perfectly good tunic,” Athelstan chided.
“Nothing but the best for my priest,” Ragnar said.
Athelstan looked at the ground and shook his head. “I’m not a priest,” he said.
Ragnar continued to tear at the tunic, shredding the garment into long white lengths of fabric for bandaging Athelstan’s hand. “I will be the judge of that,” he said.
Athelstan sighed and sat on the pile of hay where they had slept. The rumpled cloaks still covered the scratchy straw. He pulled a few stray pieces of hay from the cloaks. It helped to distract him from the pain in his hand.
“Hold still,” Ragnar said.
Athelstan fully expected Ragnar to begin bandaging his hand. He looked up to see Ragnar slowly limp toward the barn door.
Ragnar raised his hand and motioned for Athelstan to stay where he sat.
Fear ran through Athelstan’s veins when Ragnar stepped out of sight.
“I knew you would return,” Ragnar said.
Athelstan’s eyes flew open when he heard Ragnar speaking to someone outside the barn.
“Would you like some nice hay?” Ragnar asked. “Come, come.”
Athelstan’s shoulders slumped in relief when Ragnar led a black mare into the barn. The horse had apparently stuck around after Ragnar’s attack on the Englishmen. Athelstan watched while Ragnar fed the animal some hay before tethering it to a rail in the barn.
“I don’t suppose there is another horse wandering outside that will take us to Newcastle,” Athelstan said.
Ragnar found the strips of fabric he had torn and strode up to Athelstan. He took Athelstan’s injured hand from where he had left it clasped to his chest. “We are not going to Newcastle,” Ragnar said, stroking Athelstan’s knuckles with his thumb.
Athelstan reluctantly surrendered his hand to Ragnar. He felt Ragnar’s eyes on him as he carefully wrapped the bandage around his hand. He had doubted that Ragnar would want to travel to Newcastle now. There would be too much danger there for both of them.
“Where will we go then?” Athelstan asked, as Ragnar wrapped the bandage carefully over his palm and around the back of his hand where the nail had torn raggedly through his skin. For one horrible moment, Athelstan thought Ragnar would tell him that he was leaving him. Ragnar would bind Athelstan’s hand and ride off on the horse, leaving Athelstan to fend off whatever attackers came for him.
“We will first go back to Lindisfarne,” Ragnar said, as he secured the bandage around Athelstan’s thumb.
Athelstan sighed with relief. He didn’t care much about returning to the monastery. He only cared that they would be together. A feeling of peace washed over Athelstan when Ragnar released his hand. This savage Northman had protected him, cared for him. He had killed for him. And now he was sworn to travel back to Lindisfarne with him. Athelstan knew not how he would ever repay his kindness.
“This one will do just as well as the other,” Ragnar said, pulling another tunic from the pile of clothing he had amassed.
Athelstan used his newly-bound hand in unison with his healthy hand to hold the tunic up to his chest.
“It looks the same as the other,” Athelstan said.
“Let us get some clothing on you,” Ragnar said. He bunched the tunic up to make an opening for Athelstan’s head.
Athelstan raised his hands in the air, allowing Ragnar to pull the tunic onto him as if he were a small child. He shivered at the feel of the cool fabric on his bare back.
The horse helped herself to the hay that littered the ground.
After tugging the tunic into place, Ragnar patted Athelstan’s chest.
Athelstan looked down to see Ragnar’s large hand lingering where it pressed against him. The fresh tunic lay trapped between Ragnar’s palm and Athelstan’s pounding heart.
Athelstan remembered. The warmth of Ragnar’s hand seeped through the fabric and made Athelstan recall how he had spent the night in Ragnar’s arms.
Ragnar’s eyes were on him, and Athelstan knew that Ragnar remembered too.
Athelstan cursed his own God and all of Ragnar’s gods for making it so easy for him to sin. He took a step backwards and fought against the ache to be touched again.
“We must go,” Ragnar said, breaking the silence in the barn.
Athelstan helped Ragnar pack their belongings, shoving the cloaks into their packs and making use of the horse’s saddlebags for their own needs.
Ragnar helped Athelstan mount the horse before sliding onto the saddle behind him.
Athelstan got his balance and leaned back against Ragnar as he took the reins. He clasped his hands to his chest when the horse began to move. He had to trust that Ragnar would hold him upright as they rode north along the sea.
~
They covered some ground, moving faster than they would have on foot, although the horse walked slowly under the weight of two men. Ragnar kept hold of the reins and made sure to keep a good grip on Athelstan as he sat in front of him, cradled between his arms.
Every so often, Ragnar pressed his nose into Athelstan’s hair. When he dared, he traced the shell of Athelstan’s ear with his nose, stealing a secret touch from him and pretending it was an accident that he had moved so close.
“I am just making sure you are still awake,” Ragnar said, when he was once caught.
Athelstan turned his head. He looked sceptical.
“Git,” Ragnar said, giving the reins a shake.
The horse sped up her gait, oblivious to Ragnar’s ulterior motives.
While he scanned the road for more troops of Englishmen, Ragnar took the time to relish the feeling of Athelstan’s back against his chest. Although Athelstan was slight in stature, his back was broad and rippled with compact muscle. He had obviously done his share of hauling water and rowing a boat at the monastery. His was not exclusively a life of leisurely transcribing texts and gilding manuscripts, no matter how many times Athelstan tried to explain the details of those tasks to Ragnar.
For Athelstan’s sake, Ragnar hoped that he would still be able to wield a quill when his hand healed. He had no hope that Athelstan would be able to spar anytime soon, after his grave injury.
As late afternoon approached, the men quietly passed the place where Ragnar had taught Athelstan to fight. Their bellies had been full then, and they had been well-rested. Athelstan had no bloody hole reamed through his palm by those who professed to follow the same Christian God as he did. Ragnar took some comfort in the fact that he was able to kill the men who had harmed Athelstan. He had high praise for his own gods. They would have dragged Athelstan to glory in Valhalla for all his noble suffering. They would never have permitted Athelstan to return to a life where he still worshipped the same God as his tormentors. But worship, Athelstan did. Ragnar could hear him humming the hymns of Lindisfarne when the air was still. And to Lindisfarne, Ragnar would return him, although it pained Ragnar to have to let him go.
“Do you think we will have to stop to make camp for the night?” Athelstan asked.
Ragnar was ever watchful of the woods at the side of the road they travelled. The fresh sea breeze made the thin trees bow to its demands.
“I am hoping we reach our destination before dark,” Ragnar said.
“Alnwick?” Athelstan asked. He shifted in his seat to turn his head toward Ragnar.
“We can’t go back to Alnwick,” Ragnar said. “As hungry as you are for Mairi’s eggs.”
“It’s not that,” Athelstan said, clasping Ragnar’s arm, instead of keeping his steady grip on his injured hand. “Although a pint of ale would not be refused.”
Ragnar wrapped an arm around Athelstan and held him more securely.
“When we reach the shore where we thwarted the raiders and buried Benedict, I will catch you a fish dinner, if the ship is still there.”
“That seems like an awful lot of trouble too endure for a few fish,” Athelstan said.
Ragnar hated himself for what he was about to do, but truly Athelstan would be safer at the monastery than he would be roaming the countryside with a wayward Northman.
“When we reach the ship-”
“If it is still there,” Athelstan insisted.
“If it is still there,” Ragnar said. “We will sail north to Lindisfarne and you can be reunited with your brothers.”
Athelstan was silent.
“They will be able to heal you, if your wound causes you fever.” Ragnar rationalized his plan, hoping that Athelstan would understand it was for the best. “You can resume your gilding after your hand has healed.”
Ragnar tried to keep his voice steady, although his heart broke to know that they would part and go to live their separate lives.
“And if the ship isn’t there?” Athelstan asked.
“We will make a new plan to get you back where you belong,” Ragnar said.
“And you?”
“I will use the ship to return to Kattegat.”
Athelstan leaned back against Ragnar. He suddenly felt much heavier in Ragnar’s arms.
The sun sunk lower in the sky as they rode up the coast. Ever watchful of changes in the forest, Ragnar let his mind wander back to the morning when Athelstan lay in his arms, when their mouths met in a kiss. It seemed like a lifetime ago. Ragnar knew it was best if he did not dwell on it. Athelstan belonged to the monastery. Ragnar had no business encouraging him to leave his home. He should have prevented him from leaving with Benedict and going in search of the missing supplies in the first place. They should have returned to Lindisfarne after they told the tavern folk at Alnwick about the raid and the missing king’s men. They should have returned to Lindisfarne after Benedict was killed. They had made so many bad decisions. Ragnar would put an end to it, here and now.
Ragnar had made a mess of Athelstan’s life. The least he could do now was to return him to his home among the monks and hope that he could eke out a satisfying life in service to his God.
If they would have him back.
The remaining monks at Lindisfarne could be as narrow-minded as the men who tried to crucify Athelstan. That was Ragnar’s greatest fear.
“Promise me that you will take care around your brothers,” Ragnar said. The words escaped his lips before he even realized he had been speaking aloud.
“What?” Athelstan asked, rousing himself from the monotony of sitting and doing nothing but managing the spikes of pain in his hand.
“Promise me that when we return to Lindisfarne, you will not allow your brothers to treat you as the king’s guards did.”
“They will not,” Athelstan said. “They are good Christians.”
“That is what I am afraid of,” Ragnar said. “The people who did this to you… they, too, were considered to be good Christians.”
Athelstan said nothing, but at least he seemed to have listened to Ragnar’s cautions.
Another mile passed, and the forest grew dark.
Ragnar had been sure that they would make it to the ledges where the anchored ship rolled on the waves and drifted with the tides.
~
Athelstan would say that Ragnar hadn’t exactly lied about the fish. By the time they reached the ledgy cliff where the ship was anchored, darkness had fallen. It was too late to cast a line in hope of catching dinner. The air was thick with the smell from the decaying Northmen who Ragnar had killed and left where they lay. Athelstan suspected that the animals had feasted on them in the days that had passed. Fortunately, it was too dark to see much of what remained of the carnage.
Athelstan used Ragnar’s arm to hold onto as he slid off the horse’s back. He was somewhat relieved that the ship was still there. It made it easier for him to stop daydreaming about what might be.
He hadn’t said anything about it to Ragnar, but Athelstan secretly hoped that the ship had broken from its mooring and drifted away. He hoped that they would be able to spend another night together, even if it meant they would have no food and that they would need to make a rough camp.
But the ship was there, vanquishing his dreams.
The ship’s existence dissuaded Athelstan from exploring an alternative to travelling back to Lindisfarne. It freed him from the temptation of breaking his vows. Ragnar would return him to Lindisfarne. Athelstan would be absolved for the sinful thoughts that tortured his mind and his body as he sat pressed shoulder to thigh against Ragnar all day.
In truth, their journey was ending far too soon for Athelstan’s liking. Exhausted and injured, he thanked God that his torment would soon be at an end. There was no choice to be made. Athelstan would return to Lindisfarne and Ragnar to Kattegat. After all that had transpired, they hadn’t gotten any further from where their story began.
Only a bright moon promised that they would have light enough to reach the ship. The tide worked against them, but Athelstan was able to keep the waves from cresting over his waist as he waded through the surf. He carried his pack with his dry cloak and a few of their diminishing supplies wrapped safely inside.
On the shore, Ragnar set the horse free to graze. She would find her way back to the king’s stables when the next Englishmen travelled through this part of the land.
Athelstan appreciated that Ragnar treated the animal with kindness. From what he had known about the Northmen before he and Ragnar became so close, Athelstan would not have been surprised if Ragnar wished to slaughter the animal and roast its meat over a fire for the pair of them to eat for dinner. Perhaps Ragnar had learned something from Athelstan in their travels, after all. Perhaps they had both learned something from each other.
Athelstan climbed aboard the ship, no easy task since his hand throbbed from disuse during the ride and from the unavoidable fresh soaking in salt water. He held his hand to his chest, willing for the pain to go away. It felt better when he cradled it close. It seemed like the protection of his other hand was enough to make the pain subside.
Aboard the longship, Athelstan found a crate to sit on. He caught his breath as the sea water dripped from his trousers, slicking the deck.
In the dim light, Athelstan saw that the ship held some supplies, but he left it for Ragnar to search. Athelstan could imagine cutting himself on a weapon left behind by the Northmen if he tried to rummage around in the crates and barrels that were stowed away. If he was useless with one hand, he would be even more so with no hands to help Ragnar launch the ship for a journey up the coast to Lindisfarne.
Athelstan unshouldered his pack and waited. He hated the feel of his wet feet inside his boots. But, without two hands, he was as helpless as a child when it came to removing them. He watched Ragnar stride through the surf, his height keeping him more above water than Athelstan was during his short trip from the shore.
The moon cast a streak of light over the undulating waves. Athelstan was grateful that the weather and the seas were mostly calm.
When Ragnar had sloshed his way to the ship, Athelstan reached his good hand over the edge to help him aboard. Ragnar’s hands were still warm.
Ragnar rolled onto the deck during a lull in the waves. After catching his breath, he got to his hands and knees on the deck.
“Have you found anything we can use?” Ragnar asked, tapping on a crate.
“I haven’t really looked,” Athelstan said. He was tired of being cold and wet, so he dug into his pack to search for his cloak.
Ragnar dropped his pack to the deck and by moonlight, pried open a crate.
Athelstan watched as he unpacked the Northmen’s supplies that would have gone to waste. He guessed that at least some of it was from the supplies that had been destined for Lindisfarne.
“This is still good,” Ragnar said, chewing on a piece of hard bread.
Athelstan raised an eyebrow and Ragnar handed a piece to him.
“It is not the meal I promised you,” Ragnar said. He gave Athelstan a little shove and took a seat beside him on the crate.
“Well done, though,” Athelstan said, spreading the cloak over his legs. “The Lord provides.”
It was difficult to see in the moonlight, but Athelstan wondered if Ragnar was laughing at him. Only a fool would continue to worship the God who encouraged his followers to crucify him.
“Your god does some mysterious things,” Ragnar said with a sigh.
Athelstan heard the question in Ragnar’s voice. He did not speak out of anger. He wasn’t bemoaning Athelstan for his continued worship of God, but he questioned the wisdom of it.
Athelstan could not have agreed with Ragnar’s scepticism more. He shifted on the crate, huddling closer to Ragnar for some shared warmth. The lash wounds on his back had stuck to his tunic. They stung as Athelstan moved.
The ship rose and fell gently on the tide. The moon shimmered across the water, like a beam of light from a torch in a dark cave.
Ragnar went to his knees and searched through his pack that he had heaved aboard. Finding what he was looking for, he handed over a waterskin to Athelstan.
Athelstan took it and drank greedily. He hoped they had enough fresh water to supply them as they sailed to Lindisfarne. If not, they would need to find more on board, or they would have to stop along the way. Athelstan knew little about voyaging, but he knew that it would not be easy for the two of them to manage the ship in the dark. He handed the waterskin back to Ragnar, who secured it on the deck before returning to pay attention to Athelstan.
“May I ask your thoughts about returning to Lindisfarne?” Ragnar asked. He knelt on the deck, one hand clutching Athelstan’s damp thigh.
“You may ask,” Athelstan said. He was sure that Ragnar would not find the answer he was looking for. Athelstan knew that it would be nearly impossible to sail the longship to Lindisfarne in the dark, but he was more concerned with anticipating the ache that Ragnar’s absence would cause, than the practicality of night navigation.
Athelstan put his hand over Ragnar’s. He would be lonely without Ragnar. He questioned why God had put Ragnar in his path at all. If this was a test of his faith, he feared that he was failing. He could never convince a heathen to follow the path of Christ’s righteousness now. The hole in his hand made him a liar. He could barely convince himself to return to God’s service, after what he had endured.
“I see that you are tormented, my friend,” Ragnar said, looking at their hands.
Athelstan was tormented. He harboured anger toward God for allowing his brothers to be killed and for leaving him with a damaged hand. He could not manage a quill, even if he wanted to become a scribe again. Then there was the curse of his attraction to Ragnar. Finally, when he thought he had known true joy, his fellow Christians tore him from Ragnar and hauled him off to crucify him. Now Ragnar was going to take him back to Lindisfarne and leave him there to suffer forever alone, while he went on a journey back to Kattegat.
Was this what God wanted for Athelstan? Had he not suffered enough for the love of God?
Ragnar turned his hand over and laced his fingers with Athelstan’s.
“It is too dark for us to travel tonight,” Ragnar said.
Athelstan looked at their hands and nodded. “I understand,” he said, without moving away. If anything, he held Ragnar a little closer, a little tighter.
Only the splash of gentle waves against the rocky shore broke the silence.
For a long moment, Athelstan watched their fingers entwined. He felt Ragnar’s eyes on his face.
“If I asked,” Ragnar said, softly, “would you let me kiss you again?”
~
Author: gwyllion
Genre: Canon era
Pairing: Athelstan/Ragnar
Rating: R
Words: 66,794
A/N: Uppsalir was written for NaNoWriMo 2018. Please see Chapter 1 for additional notes.
Disclaimer: I did not create these characters. No disrespect intended. No profit desired, only muses.
Comments: Comments are welcome anytime, thanks so much for reading!
Athelstan scrambled off the makeshift bed. His feet found the floor and sent the bedding skittering to the ground. The hay stabbed sharply at his bare feet. The fresh smell of grass wafted through the window, but the scent was displaced by the smell of sweat and steel.
He dropped to his knees and prayed that God would forgive him for his indiscretion with Ragnar. His mind went in fifty different directions. Shaking with fear, Athelstan was torn between acknowledging his sinful actions and accepting his feeling of being cherished in Ragnar’s arms.
The next thing Athelstan knew, rough hands pulled him out of the barn and dragged him into the harsh sunlight. He caught sight of Ragnar through the doorway, still inside the barn. He looked just as surprised as Athelstan did. His fists clenched for want of a weapon.
Athelstan struggled to free himself, but it was no use. It seemed like, in the few moments it took him to get his bearings, he had forgotten everything that Ragnar had taught him about fighting.
“I told you they were in here,” a bearded man with a shabby fur coat said. He held the barn door open while archers took their positions.
Athelstan suspected that he was the farmer who owned the barn. He had hoped that he and Ragnar would be able to move on and complete their journey to Newcastle, but when he saw the men with spears and arrows that met them outside the barn, he knew it was too late. The men wore the king’s colours and their weapons were drawn.
“What is the meaning of this?” Athelstan cried. “I’m a monk of Lindisfarne.”
“You’re no monk, dressed in those tatters,” one of the guards shouted. He jabbed at Athelstan’s middle with the butt end of a spear. Athelstan was brought to his knees. His hands went to his belly and he choked as he tried to keep from vomiting.
“And your hair is too long to be a monk,” another guard added. He grabbed Athelstan by his hair and yanked him backwards. Athelstan felt the guard’s spit on his face. “You didn’t even try very hard to disguise yourself as a monk.”
Athelstan knew that Ragnar would be strong. He would jump into action to defend them from the intrusion, but Ragnar’s fists would be no match for the spears and arrows that greeted them.
To Athelstan’s surprise, Jonah strode past him. “I didn’t believe him for a moment,” he told the archers, signalling toward Athelstan. “There were three of them in Alnwick. The other two must be around here somewhere.”
Athelstan’s heart sank when he realized that he and Ragnar had been deceived by Jonah and his intentions. May God forgive him for hoping that Jonah met with a painful end for his deception.
Athelstan worried that these men did not know about Brother Benedict’s death. For all they knew, Athelstan and Ragnar alone had been responsible for the death of the king’s men.
“There he is, there is the heathen,” Jonah led the men inside the barn to Ragnar. They kept their weapons trained on Ragnar while he sized them up.
Athelstan cursed himself for braiding Ragnar’s hair. There was no hope of him passing for an Englishman now, no matter how much of the language Athelstan had taught him. Neither he, nor Ragnar, stood a chance.
Athelstan watched Ragnar’s eyes flit from the bows that the men carried to their belts. Athelstan sensed that Ragnar was searching for the weapons that the men might have concealed on their persons.
“I knew there was something odd about him when he turned up in Alnwick,” Jonah said.
“There’s been reports of Northmen sailing up and down the coast for weeks now. They’ve been raiding, attacking, and pillaging, but it looks like you are putting an end to it now,” another of the men said to Jonah. “You’ll be rewarded handsomely for your service to the king.”
So that was it, Athelstan realized. This was all about money, with no regard for honesty or contrition.
“Ragnar is innocent,” Athelstan pleaded, without regard for his own safety.
“Innocent?” Jonah asked with a laugh. “You know, as well as I, that this man was responsible for the raid at Lindisfarne.”
“The king has already determined the punishment for the raiding Northmen and for the apostate,” a spear-wielding guard said.
Another of the guards unfurled a parchment after breaking the crimson seal that held it shut. He read the proclamation, “The punishment for the Northmen is death by hanging.”
“And what of the punishment for impersonating a man of God?” the man with the fur cloak asked.
“I’d say the punishment for apostasy is death by crucifixion,” the guard answered. He then struck Athelstan across his back with the stick that held his spear. Athelstan crumpled into the wet grass. “But that may be too good for this one.”
Athelstan brought his hands together to pray. “Dear Lord Jesus, forgive me for my sins.”
“Apostate!” another guard yelled. “We know what’s to be done. The bishop is on his way.”
Athelstan watched as the archers drew their bows and aimed at Ragnar.
“Ragnar!” From where he lay, Athelstan screamed at the top of his lungs.
A pair of guards hoisted him by his shoulders. Athelstan’s feet slipped in the dewy grass as he was dragged across the meadow.
Upon a rise, more men, wearing the king’s colours, stood ready to receive him.
“Ragnar!” Athelstan shouted again and again with his waning strength, but Ragnar could not save him.
Athelstan was stripped of his tunic. The spikes of the scourger’s whip bit into the skin of his back. He clasped his hands in prayer and begged for God to save him. Another whip strike left its sting across his shoulders. He could feel the burn of the leather as it left a track across the sensitive skin.
With his last breath, he cried out for Ragnar before he fell to the ground.
When he next came to his senses, he felt the sharp pain across his forehead. He wiped away a drop of rain as it leaked into his eyes but when his hand came away, his fingers were covered with blood.
He tried to move his other hand but when he looked at what impeded him, he gaped in horror. His hand had been nailed through the palm into a beam of wood.
From where he lay, he looked onto the field and began to pray, “I will lift thine eyes to the mountains from whence cometh my help,” but there were no mountains, only meadow and field and an old barn where the taste of love’s first kiss had found his lips.
~
“Behind you,” Ragnar said. “Do not try to turn your head.”
Ragnar knelt beside the length of wood in the grassy meadow. He was out of breath, but he knew that he had to work quickly, lest more men come for him and Athelstan.
Athelstan's lips quivered. “I thought you were dead,” he stuttered.
“I am not ready to enter Valhalla today,” Ragnar said. He stroked Athelstan’s tear-stained cheek with the back of his fingers. The silence of the meadow belied the battle that took place only moments earlier.
“It hurts,” Athelstan said. His heels dug into the grass as he lay astride the long beam of the cross on which the bishop intended to crucify him.
“I know it hurts, but try to hold still,” Ragnar said in the most reassuring voice he could muster. He wanted to pet Athelstan's hair to soothe him, but he was afraid that any action would hurt him further.
Ragnar's hands were stained with blood. He picked at the thorny crown that circled Athelstan's head. No matter how much his own fingers were nicked by the prickly thorns, his pain could not compare to what Athelstan had endured at the hands of his fellow Christians.
“There you go,” Ragnar said as he pulled the circle apart. It sickened him to see the streaks of blood that ran down Athelstan’s bare shoulders and chest. He hoped that the lacerations did not fester into a fever that could claim Athelstan’s life. “That is it. Hold still. You are doing beautifully.”
“Ragnar,” Athelstan said softly.
“Just a little bit more,” Ragnar said. He used his thumbs to push the thorns from Athelstan's brow, trying to prevent more injury as he worked. It broke Ragnar's heart to see Athelstan in such pain.
“Help me,” Athelstan cried.
“I am, my friend. You are being so strong,” Ragnar whispered, hoping it would soothe him. Athelstan was stronger than Ragnar imagined he could be. Ragnar was not sure that he could have tolerated the abuse Athelstan suffered. “I need you to stay strong for a little while longer.”
Athelstan let out a shuddery breath. “I know,” he said.
When Athelstan’s head was free from the thorny crown, he began to pant in relief.
“There, that is done,” Ragnar said wiping the blood from Athelstan’s brow. The pair of them were a right mess with their bloodstained skin, and there was still the matter of getting the nail out of Athelstan’s palm.
Ragnar got to his feet and searched the ground for a tool that would help him. He wrenched the mallet out of a dead Englishman’s hand. Another long nail rested in the grass by Athelstan’s foot. Ragnar was relieved that it did not meet its intended target. He plucked the nail from the grass and returned to Athelstan’s side.
Athelstan had covered his eyes with his uninjured hand and looked to be fighting to stay still. His chest heaved up and down as he took long breaths.
Ragnar dropped to his knees and set the mallet and the nail by Athelstan’s pinned hand.
“I beg of you, Odin, to let me do this without causing Athelstan more pain,” Ragnar said quietly as he gently touched his fingertips to Athelstan’s wrist. He did not care that Athelstan heard him praying to his own god. Chances were that Odin would be more helpful to them now than Athelstan’s Christ God had been.
Ragnar worked as quickly as he could. He pushed gently on the swollen flesh of Athelstan’s palm to make way for the fresh nail to slide against its brother, like a cross of crucifixion rising from Athelstan’s palm.
Athelstan cried out in pain.
Ragnar spoke over his cries, telling Athelstan how very brave and strong he was. Surely his Christ God would approve of such suffering, but Ragnar left that part out of his encouragements. He took the mallet in his hand and lay down in the grass, so he could strike the nail at the right angle.
Athelstan stopped moving when Ragnar made the first tap against the head of the free nail which was caught between Athelstan’s palm and the head of the nail that pinned him.
Ragnar held the nail in place and tapped against it with the mallet. After three taps, the nail that pinned Athelstan’s palm began to rise from the beam. Three more taps, and Athelstan’s hand was free, although the nail still protruded from his palm.
Athelstan rolled off the beam and lay on his side in the grass. He cradled his hand and gulped in great breaths of air. Before Ragnar could get to his feet, Athelstan had grasped the head of the nail and pulled it from his palm. He screamed in pain as he threw the nail aside and pressed his damaged hand to his bare chest.
Ragnar crouched in the grass beside Athelstan. He stroked his rough hand down Athelstan’s back while he convulsed in a fit of tears over his damaged hand.
“I am so sorry,” Ragnar said.
Athelstan’s skin was cold. The stripes left by the scourger’s whip rose from his back like rows of furrowed fields. Ragnar hoped he could find some clothing to replace what had been torn from him.
“What are you sorry about?” Athelstan asked, turning to face Ragnar with his tear-stained face.
“I promised I would protect you,” Ragnar said. “I failed.”
Athelstan took a moment to scan the meadow spread out before them. His jaw fell open.
Ragnar looked at the ground. He prepared himself for Athelstan’s anger about the sanctity of human life. The bishop and a half dozen Englishmen lay dead around the makeshift cross. Arrows protruded from their limbs, their chests, their heads. A trail of another half dozen dead bodies stretched from the rise to the barn, Jonas and the barn owner included.
With Athelstan’s life threatened, and a quiver of arrows within Ragnar’s reach, he hadn’t even needed to use his bare hands.
Athelstan clutched Ragnar’s arm with his uninjured hand. He looked up to meet his eyes, bruised and bloody from his beating.
“I would say that you did well,” Athelstan said.
~
In the barn, Athelstan did his best to wash off the blood. His hand ached as he plunged it into the bucket of cold water, but it was the only way he could clean the hole that pierced his palm. He used the old bits of his torn habit to scrub at the blood that had dried on his chest. It was nearly impossible to make any progress with only one functioning hand. He let the fabric soak up the water while he searched for where he had left his boots.
The kiss that he and Ragnar had shared leapt into Athelstan’s mind. It seemed like one of those dreams that vanished with morning’s first light, only to be remembered in the contemplative hours later.
Looking out the barn door, Athelstan could see that Ragnar had divested a guard of his clothing. He watched him step over the bodies as he searched for clothing that had not been pierced by an arrow, nor been soiled too badly with blood.
“Bless and keep them, my Lord,” Athelstan whispered as he gazed at the dead bodies in the meadow. Athelstan stopped himself from making the sign of the cross. He was no longer sure that he wanted to pray for the men who used his own faith to promulgate such cruelty.
And Ragnar… although Ragnar had killed to save their lives, Athelstan could not revel joyously in the experience of seeing all the dead Christians. He had stumbled toward the barn in a daze with only Ragnar’s hand on the small of his back to steady him. He had only learned of Ragnar’s fighting skills, days earlier. It would take some time for the truth to sink in. He travelled with a trained killer of men. The poor souls who encountered Ragnar did not stand a chance of surviving his fury.
He kissed him, Athelstan remembered. He kissed the killer of these men. May God forgive him. He wondered if Ragnar would even remember the kiss, after all that had transpired in the aftermath.
Athelstan felt his cheeks burning red. He turned back to the bucket of water. He lifted the fabric from the bucket and squeezed some of the water out, using one hand. He held his injured hand clasped tightly to his chest. With his good hand, he spread the linen out and pulled it over his face. He hoped that the water would soak into his skin and take some of the crusted blood away with it. He covered his mouth, trapping the wet cloth between his palm and his lips, wishing it would take away the sin of his kiss.
Ragnar’s footsteps approached, crunching in the straw. Although he recognised Ragnar’s limping gait, Athelstan pulled the linen from his face, just to make sure. His pulse quickened with the fear that the visitor to the barn might not be Ragnar. He had to work to push this foolish thinking aside when Ragnar entered the barn. He carried an armful of clothing.
“Let me see,” Ragnar said, dropping the clothing onto a pile of hay. He rushed to Athelstan’s side. Except for the limp, Ragnar looked none worse for wear after his deadly encounter with the Englishmen. He pressed his fingers beneath Athelstan’s chin and tilted his face upward.
Athelstan looked up at Ragnar. He let him take the wet cloth from his hand. For all Athelstan’s resolve, it took only a touch from Ragnar to make him acquiesce to anything. He was angry with God for making him so weak.
Ragnar bunched the cloth into a ball and pressed it against the wounds at Athelstan’s hairline. His concerned eyes roved over Athelstan’s face.
A horse neighed in the meadow.
The spikes of pain in Athelstan’s forehead competed with the ache in his pierced hand. He tried to breathe steadily and without fear.
Ragnar rinsed the cloth in the bucket and pressed again, dabbing at the lacerations to clean the dirt from them. When he finished with Athelstan’s forehead, he let the cloth drape wide and cool against the lash marks on his back.
Athelstan was silent as Ragnar picked the stray thorns from his hair.
“That is the best I can do for now,” Ragnar said, finally tossing the cloth into the bucket.
“Thank you,” Athelstan said, forgetting his aching hand for a moment.
Ragnar cupped Athelstan’s chin and looked him up and down. “You have cleaned up nicely,” he said.
A part of Athelstan’s heart thought that Ragnar might kiss him again, but he fought against both the hope for it and the shame of it. He looked away, escaping from Ragnar’s blue-eyed scrutiny.
“You need to soak that,” Ragnar said, motioning toward Athelstan’s hand.
Athelstan caught himself and went to the bucket. He held his damaged hand in his good hand and dipped them both into the water. He winced from the pain, closing his eyes tight. He heard the crunch of straw behind him and felt Ragnar’s warm presence at his back.
“I’ve brought you some clothing,” Ragnar said.
Athelstan turned around, his hands rising from the bucket.
Ragnar had unfurled a white tunic that looked to be clean. He held it up to Athelstan’s shoulders.
“This looks like it will fit,” Ragnar said.
Athelstan absentmindedly shook the water from his hands. He received a sharp reminder that he should not make such a motion while fresh blood dripped from his palm.
Ragnar took Athelstan’s hand before he could cradle it against his chest to ease the pain.
The wound on the back of Athelstan’s hand met Ragnar’s palm.
Ragnar gently forced Athelstan’s hand closed, the blood pooling in his palm again.
“We need to wrap this to stop the bleeding,” Ragnar said, his eyes full of concern.
Athelstan relished the warmth of Ragnar’s hand against his. He took comfort in Ragnar’s touch. It had been a long time since anyone had treated Athelstan with such care. He had devoted his life to God and his Saviour Jesus Christ. He had little time for concerns about his own well-being. He had always believed that God would provide for him… until he didn’t.
Ragnar placed the injured hand against Athelstan’s chest. The position made it ache less. He then turned his attention to the white tunic he had stolen from a dead man.
Athelstan watched in amusement as Ragnar tore the tunic from neckline to hem.
“That is a waste of a perfectly good tunic,” Athelstan chided.
“Nothing but the best for my priest,” Ragnar said.
Athelstan looked at the ground and shook his head. “I’m not a priest,” he said.
Ragnar continued to tear at the tunic, shredding the garment into long white lengths of fabric for bandaging Athelstan’s hand. “I will be the judge of that,” he said.
Athelstan sighed and sat on the pile of hay where they had slept. The rumpled cloaks still covered the scratchy straw. He pulled a few stray pieces of hay from the cloaks. It helped to distract him from the pain in his hand.
“Hold still,” Ragnar said.
Athelstan fully expected Ragnar to begin bandaging his hand. He looked up to see Ragnar slowly limp toward the barn door.
Ragnar raised his hand and motioned for Athelstan to stay where he sat.
Fear ran through Athelstan’s veins when Ragnar stepped out of sight.
“I knew you would return,” Ragnar said.
Athelstan’s eyes flew open when he heard Ragnar speaking to someone outside the barn.
“Would you like some nice hay?” Ragnar asked. “Come, come.”
Athelstan’s shoulders slumped in relief when Ragnar led a black mare into the barn. The horse had apparently stuck around after Ragnar’s attack on the Englishmen. Athelstan watched while Ragnar fed the animal some hay before tethering it to a rail in the barn.
“I don’t suppose there is another horse wandering outside that will take us to Newcastle,” Athelstan said.
Ragnar found the strips of fabric he had torn and strode up to Athelstan. He took Athelstan’s injured hand from where he had left it clasped to his chest. “We are not going to Newcastle,” Ragnar said, stroking Athelstan’s knuckles with his thumb.
Athelstan reluctantly surrendered his hand to Ragnar. He felt Ragnar’s eyes on him as he carefully wrapped the bandage around his hand. He had doubted that Ragnar would want to travel to Newcastle now. There would be too much danger there for both of them.
“Where will we go then?” Athelstan asked, as Ragnar wrapped the bandage carefully over his palm and around the back of his hand where the nail had torn raggedly through his skin. For one horrible moment, Athelstan thought Ragnar would tell him that he was leaving him. Ragnar would bind Athelstan’s hand and ride off on the horse, leaving Athelstan to fend off whatever attackers came for him.
“We will first go back to Lindisfarne,” Ragnar said, as he secured the bandage around Athelstan’s thumb.
Athelstan sighed with relief. He didn’t care much about returning to the monastery. He only cared that they would be together. A feeling of peace washed over Athelstan when Ragnar released his hand. This savage Northman had protected him, cared for him. He had killed for him. And now he was sworn to travel back to Lindisfarne with him. Athelstan knew not how he would ever repay his kindness.
“This one will do just as well as the other,” Ragnar said, pulling another tunic from the pile of clothing he had amassed.
Athelstan used his newly-bound hand in unison with his healthy hand to hold the tunic up to his chest.
“It looks the same as the other,” Athelstan said.
“Let us get some clothing on you,” Ragnar said. He bunched the tunic up to make an opening for Athelstan’s head.
Athelstan raised his hands in the air, allowing Ragnar to pull the tunic onto him as if he were a small child. He shivered at the feel of the cool fabric on his bare back.
The horse helped herself to the hay that littered the ground.
After tugging the tunic into place, Ragnar patted Athelstan’s chest.
Athelstan looked down to see Ragnar’s large hand lingering where it pressed against him. The fresh tunic lay trapped between Ragnar’s palm and Athelstan’s pounding heart.
Athelstan remembered. The warmth of Ragnar’s hand seeped through the fabric and made Athelstan recall how he had spent the night in Ragnar’s arms.
Ragnar’s eyes were on him, and Athelstan knew that Ragnar remembered too.
Athelstan cursed his own God and all of Ragnar’s gods for making it so easy for him to sin. He took a step backwards and fought against the ache to be touched again.
“We must go,” Ragnar said, breaking the silence in the barn.
Athelstan helped Ragnar pack their belongings, shoving the cloaks into their packs and making use of the horse’s saddlebags for their own needs.
Ragnar helped Athelstan mount the horse before sliding onto the saddle behind him.
Athelstan got his balance and leaned back against Ragnar as he took the reins. He clasped his hands to his chest when the horse began to move. He had to trust that Ragnar would hold him upright as they rode north along the sea.
~
They covered some ground, moving faster than they would have on foot, although the horse walked slowly under the weight of two men. Ragnar kept hold of the reins and made sure to keep a good grip on Athelstan as he sat in front of him, cradled between his arms.
Every so often, Ragnar pressed his nose into Athelstan’s hair. When he dared, he traced the shell of Athelstan’s ear with his nose, stealing a secret touch from him and pretending it was an accident that he had moved so close.
“I am just making sure you are still awake,” Ragnar said, when he was once caught.
Athelstan turned his head. He looked sceptical.
“Git,” Ragnar said, giving the reins a shake.
The horse sped up her gait, oblivious to Ragnar’s ulterior motives.
While he scanned the road for more troops of Englishmen, Ragnar took the time to relish the feeling of Athelstan’s back against his chest. Although Athelstan was slight in stature, his back was broad and rippled with compact muscle. He had obviously done his share of hauling water and rowing a boat at the monastery. His was not exclusively a life of leisurely transcribing texts and gilding manuscripts, no matter how many times Athelstan tried to explain the details of those tasks to Ragnar.
For Athelstan’s sake, Ragnar hoped that he would still be able to wield a quill when his hand healed. He had no hope that Athelstan would be able to spar anytime soon, after his grave injury.
As late afternoon approached, the men quietly passed the place where Ragnar had taught Athelstan to fight. Their bellies had been full then, and they had been well-rested. Athelstan had no bloody hole reamed through his palm by those who professed to follow the same Christian God as he did. Ragnar took some comfort in the fact that he was able to kill the men who had harmed Athelstan. He had high praise for his own gods. They would have dragged Athelstan to glory in Valhalla for all his noble suffering. They would never have permitted Athelstan to return to a life where he still worshipped the same God as his tormentors. But worship, Athelstan did. Ragnar could hear him humming the hymns of Lindisfarne when the air was still. And to Lindisfarne, Ragnar would return him, although it pained Ragnar to have to let him go.
“Do you think we will have to stop to make camp for the night?” Athelstan asked.
Ragnar was ever watchful of the woods at the side of the road they travelled. The fresh sea breeze made the thin trees bow to its demands.
“I am hoping we reach our destination before dark,” Ragnar said.
“Alnwick?” Athelstan asked. He shifted in his seat to turn his head toward Ragnar.
“We can’t go back to Alnwick,” Ragnar said. “As hungry as you are for Mairi’s eggs.”
“It’s not that,” Athelstan said, clasping Ragnar’s arm, instead of keeping his steady grip on his injured hand. “Although a pint of ale would not be refused.”
Ragnar wrapped an arm around Athelstan and held him more securely.
“When we reach the shore where we thwarted the raiders and buried Benedict, I will catch you a fish dinner, if the ship is still there.”
“That seems like an awful lot of trouble too endure for a few fish,” Athelstan said.
Ragnar hated himself for what he was about to do, but truly Athelstan would be safer at the monastery than he would be roaming the countryside with a wayward Northman.
“When we reach the ship-”
“If it is still there,” Athelstan insisted.
“If it is still there,” Ragnar said. “We will sail north to Lindisfarne and you can be reunited with your brothers.”
Athelstan was silent.
“They will be able to heal you, if your wound causes you fever.” Ragnar rationalized his plan, hoping that Athelstan would understand it was for the best. “You can resume your gilding after your hand has healed.”
Ragnar tried to keep his voice steady, although his heart broke to know that they would part and go to live their separate lives.
“And if the ship isn’t there?” Athelstan asked.
“We will make a new plan to get you back where you belong,” Ragnar said.
“And you?”
“I will use the ship to return to Kattegat.”
Athelstan leaned back against Ragnar. He suddenly felt much heavier in Ragnar’s arms.
The sun sunk lower in the sky as they rode up the coast. Ever watchful of changes in the forest, Ragnar let his mind wander back to the morning when Athelstan lay in his arms, when their mouths met in a kiss. It seemed like a lifetime ago. Ragnar knew it was best if he did not dwell on it. Athelstan belonged to the monastery. Ragnar had no business encouraging him to leave his home. He should have prevented him from leaving with Benedict and going in search of the missing supplies in the first place. They should have returned to Lindisfarne after they told the tavern folk at Alnwick about the raid and the missing king’s men. They should have returned to Lindisfarne after Benedict was killed. They had made so many bad decisions. Ragnar would put an end to it, here and now.
Ragnar had made a mess of Athelstan’s life. The least he could do now was to return him to his home among the monks and hope that he could eke out a satisfying life in service to his God.
If they would have him back.
The remaining monks at Lindisfarne could be as narrow-minded as the men who tried to crucify Athelstan. That was Ragnar’s greatest fear.
“Promise me that you will take care around your brothers,” Ragnar said. The words escaped his lips before he even realized he had been speaking aloud.
“What?” Athelstan asked, rousing himself from the monotony of sitting and doing nothing but managing the spikes of pain in his hand.
“Promise me that when we return to Lindisfarne, you will not allow your brothers to treat you as the king’s guards did.”
“They will not,” Athelstan said. “They are good Christians.”
“That is what I am afraid of,” Ragnar said. “The people who did this to you… they, too, were considered to be good Christians.”
Athelstan said nothing, but at least he seemed to have listened to Ragnar’s cautions.
Another mile passed, and the forest grew dark.
Ragnar had been sure that they would make it to the ledges where the anchored ship rolled on the waves and drifted with the tides.
~
Athelstan would say that Ragnar hadn’t exactly lied about the fish. By the time they reached the ledgy cliff where the ship was anchored, darkness had fallen. It was too late to cast a line in hope of catching dinner. The air was thick with the smell from the decaying Northmen who Ragnar had killed and left where they lay. Athelstan suspected that the animals had feasted on them in the days that had passed. Fortunately, it was too dark to see much of what remained of the carnage.
Athelstan used Ragnar’s arm to hold onto as he slid off the horse’s back. He was somewhat relieved that the ship was still there. It made it easier for him to stop daydreaming about what might be.
He hadn’t said anything about it to Ragnar, but Athelstan secretly hoped that the ship had broken from its mooring and drifted away. He hoped that they would be able to spend another night together, even if it meant they would have no food and that they would need to make a rough camp.
But the ship was there, vanquishing his dreams.
The ship’s existence dissuaded Athelstan from exploring an alternative to travelling back to Lindisfarne. It freed him from the temptation of breaking his vows. Ragnar would return him to Lindisfarne. Athelstan would be absolved for the sinful thoughts that tortured his mind and his body as he sat pressed shoulder to thigh against Ragnar all day.
In truth, their journey was ending far too soon for Athelstan’s liking. Exhausted and injured, he thanked God that his torment would soon be at an end. There was no choice to be made. Athelstan would return to Lindisfarne and Ragnar to Kattegat. After all that had transpired, they hadn’t gotten any further from where their story began.
Only a bright moon promised that they would have light enough to reach the ship. The tide worked against them, but Athelstan was able to keep the waves from cresting over his waist as he waded through the surf. He carried his pack with his dry cloak and a few of their diminishing supplies wrapped safely inside.
On the shore, Ragnar set the horse free to graze. She would find her way back to the king’s stables when the next Englishmen travelled through this part of the land.
Athelstan appreciated that Ragnar treated the animal with kindness. From what he had known about the Northmen before he and Ragnar became so close, Athelstan would not have been surprised if Ragnar wished to slaughter the animal and roast its meat over a fire for the pair of them to eat for dinner. Perhaps Ragnar had learned something from Athelstan in their travels, after all. Perhaps they had both learned something from each other.
Athelstan climbed aboard the ship, no easy task since his hand throbbed from disuse during the ride and from the unavoidable fresh soaking in salt water. He held his hand to his chest, willing for the pain to go away. It felt better when he cradled it close. It seemed like the protection of his other hand was enough to make the pain subside.
Aboard the longship, Athelstan found a crate to sit on. He caught his breath as the sea water dripped from his trousers, slicking the deck.
In the dim light, Athelstan saw that the ship held some supplies, but he left it for Ragnar to search. Athelstan could imagine cutting himself on a weapon left behind by the Northmen if he tried to rummage around in the crates and barrels that were stowed away. If he was useless with one hand, he would be even more so with no hands to help Ragnar launch the ship for a journey up the coast to Lindisfarne.
Athelstan unshouldered his pack and waited. He hated the feel of his wet feet inside his boots. But, without two hands, he was as helpless as a child when it came to removing them. He watched Ragnar stride through the surf, his height keeping him more above water than Athelstan was during his short trip from the shore.
The moon cast a streak of light over the undulating waves. Athelstan was grateful that the weather and the seas were mostly calm.
When Ragnar had sloshed his way to the ship, Athelstan reached his good hand over the edge to help him aboard. Ragnar’s hands were still warm.
Ragnar rolled onto the deck during a lull in the waves. After catching his breath, he got to his hands and knees on the deck.
“Have you found anything we can use?” Ragnar asked, tapping on a crate.
“I haven’t really looked,” Athelstan said. He was tired of being cold and wet, so he dug into his pack to search for his cloak.
Ragnar dropped his pack to the deck and by moonlight, pried open a crate.
Athelstan watched as he unpacked the Northmen’s supplies that would have gone to waste. He guessed that at least some of it was from the supplies that had been destined for Lindisfarne.
“This is still good,” Ragnar said, chewing on a piece of hard bread.
Athelstan raised an eyebrow and Ragnar handed a piece to him.
“It is not the meal I promised you,” Ragnar said. He gave Athelstan a little shove and took a seat beside him on the crate.
“Well done, though,” Athelstan said, spreading the cloak over his legs. “The Lord provides.”
It was difficult to see in the moonlight, but Athelstan wondered if Ragnar was laughing at him. Only a fool would continue to worship the God who encouraged his followers to crucify him.
“Your god does some mysterious things,” Ragnar said with a sigh.
Athelstan heard the question in Ragnar’s voice. He did not speak out of anger. He wasn’t bemoaning Athelstan for his continued worship of God, but he questioned the wisdom of it.
Athelstan could not have agreed with Ragnar’s scepticism more. He shifted on the crate, huddling closer to Ragnar for some shared warmth. The lash wounds on his back had stuck to his tunic. They stung as Athelstan moved.
The ship rose and fell gently on the tide. The moon shimmered across the water, like a beam of light from a torch in a dark cave.
Ragnar went to his knees and searched through his pack that he had heaved aboard. Finding what he was looking for, he handed over a waterskin to Athelstan.
Athelstan took it and drank greedily. He hoped they had enough fresh water to supply them as they sailed to Lindisfarne. If not, they would need to find more on board, or they would have to stop along the way. Athelstan knew little about voyaging, but he knew that it would not be easy for the two of them to manage the ship in the dark. He handed the waterskin back to Ragnar, who secured it on the deck before returning to pay attention to Athelstan.
“May I ask your thoughts about returning to Lindisfarne?” Ragnar asked. He knelt on the deck, one hand clutching Athelstan’s damp thigh.
“You may ask,” Athelstan said. He was sure that Ragnar would not find the answer he was looking for. Athelstan knew that it would be nearly impossible to sail the longship to Lindisfarne in the dark, but he was more concerned with anticipating the ache that Ragnar’s absence would cause, than the practicality of night navigation.
Athelstan put his hand over Ragnar’s. He would be lonely without Ragnar. He questioned why God had put Ragnar in his path at all. If this was a test of his faith, he feared that he was failing. He could never convince a heathen to follow the path of Christ’s righteousness now. The hole in his hand made him a liar. He could barely convince himself to return to God’s service, after what he had endured.
“I see that you are tormented, my friend,” Ragnar said, looking at their hands.
Athelstan was tormented. He harboured anger toward God for allowing his brothers to be killed and for leaving him with a damaged hand. He could not manage a quill, even if he wanted to become a scribe again. Then there was the curse of his attraction to Ragnar. Finally, when he thought he had known true joy, his fellow Christians tore him from Ragnar and hauled him off to crucify him. Now Ragnar was going to take him back to Lindisfarne and leave him there to suffer forever alone, while he went on a journey back to Kattegat.
Was this what God wanted for Athelstan? Had he not suffered enough for the love of God?
Ragnar turned his hand over and laced his fingers with Athelstan’s.
“It is too dark for us to travel tonight,” Ragnar said.
Athelstan looked at their hands and nodded. “I understand,” he said, without moving away. If anything, he held Ragnar a little closer, a little tighter.
Only the splash of gentle waves against the rocky shore broke the silence.
For a long moment, Athelstan watched their fingers entwined. He felt Ragnar’s eyes on his face.
“If I asked,” Ragnar said, softly, “would you let me kiss you again?”
~