Uppsalir - Chapter 10

[gwylliondream]

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!



“Yes,” Athelstan whispered, so softly that Ragnar worried that he did not hear what word passed his lips.

Ragnar dropped his head, uncertain. He had feared that this was perhaps too much for him to ask.

Athelstan’s fingers moved against Ragnar’s and he turned his head to look at him.

Even in the dim light, Ragnar could see the flush on Athelstan’s cheeks. The shimmer from the moonlight sparked in his eyes, making him more beautiful than any shieldmaiden.

“Yes,” Athelstan said, stronger, as if to confirm his answer. He squeezed Ragnar’s fingers.

Ragnar looked up from where he knelt at Athelstan’s feet. He knew Athelstan could see him fully as the moon shined on his face. He slid his hand up so his palm cupped Athelstan’s cheek. The feel of his scruffy unshaven face tickled Ragnar’s fingers. Ragnar rose on his knees and stroked Athelstan’s cheek with his thumb.

Athelstan swallowed and leaned forward.

Ragnar knew better than to rush things where Athelstan was concerned. Athelstan feared his God’s retribution for experiencing almost any kind of pleasure and Ragnar worried about making Athelstan behave in a way that he would later regret.

“Do not be afraid,” Ragnar whispered.

Ragnar brought his other hand to Athelstan, stopping when he held his face in his hands. Ragnar closed his eyes, moving forward. He was careful to press their lips together gently. If Athelstan’s god was good enough to look the other way, Ragnar understood that he ought to appreciate it and treat Athelstan with tenderness, instead of wildly ravishing him from head to toe, no matter how much the lust for Athelstan filled his belly. He kissed him softly and then retreated.

“I’m not afraid,” Athelstan said as he pulled Ragnar closer, tugging with one hand on his messy braids. His tentative lips sought and found the warmth of Ragnar’s mouth.

Ragnar held still, without advancing, while Athelstan licked his bottom lip and artlessly kissed him. The same taste of Athelstan filled Ragnar’s senses as it had done earlier that very morning. The now familiar taste of Athelstan’s mouth quenched his thirst like an elixir that Ragnar could no longer live without.

Ragnar had enough of Athelstan’s exploring. He slid his tongue into Athelstan’s mouth for a better taste.

Athelstan gave a tug on Ragnar’s braids, easing him away.

“You are trembling,” Ragnar questioned, as he felt Athelstan’s lips quivering against his own.

Athelstan drew back. “I’m a little cold,” he said, a smile in his voice.

Ragnar admonished himself. How could he have been so foolish to not notice that Athelstan trembled with the cold from his wet clothing-not the fear of kissing him. Ragnar let one hand leave Athelstan’s face. He wrapped an arm more soundly across Athelstan’s shoulders.

“I would be honoured to warm you,” Ragnar whispered into his ear, hoping he sounded pleasing to Athelstan.

“I’d like that,” Athelstan said, turning and surging forward so his lips moved against Ragnar’s again.

For as cold as Athelstan was, the heat rose off his body. Ragnar could feel it beneath his fingers. He could sense it with his lips.

Ragnar knew if he had been forced by one of his gods to never touch another lover as long as he lived, he would have given up the worship of such a god long ago. But Athelstan’s strange Christian ways were a part of him. Ragnar would never want Athelstan to give up his beliefs, no matter how foolish they seemed to Ragnar. He tried to appreciate that Athelstan had come so far in letting his desires outweigh his vows, but he dared not urge Athelstan to move faster than he was comfortable.

Ragnar skimmed his hands over Athelstan’s body as they kissed. The hard muscles of his arms slid under Ragnar’s fingers. Ragnar let his hand curl around Athelstan’s waist. He became acutely aware that Athelstan was truly cold since his trousers were soaked through from the surf.

Ragnar leaned back, feeling Athelstan’s fingers slip through his hair.

“I have some dry clothes in my pack,” Ragnar said. He would do the best he could to care for Athelstan in his time of need, as Athelstan had done for him when he lay on the cold beach at Lindisfarne.

Athelstan sulked quietly at the loss of heat.

Ragnar could not blame him.

“Wait one moment,” Ragnar said. It took all of Ragnar’s fortitude to work his way free from Athelstan’s enticing lips and caresses. He pressed a quick kiss to Athelstan’s lips and turned to where his pack lay on the deck.

The ship gently rose and fell on the waves.

Ragnar pulled tunics and trousers from the pack. A stray knife went skittering across the deck.

Athelstan looked up from where he was fussing with the bandage on his injured hand.

“I do not remember putting that in there,” Ragnar said, laughing at himself.

Athelstan shook his head, but still he smiled. “Matthew insisted that I bring it, for all the good it has done me.”

Ragnar dragged his cloak out from the pack and threw it over Athelstan’s shoulders.

“Better?” he asked.

“A bit,” Athelstan answered noncommittally. “But help me with these wet boots.”

“Anything you wish,” Ragnar said. He hated himself for not recognizing that Athelstan had a need for his attention and it went unnoticed. He had been so smitten by Athelstan’s kisses that he could no longer keep his wits about him.

Ragnar dropped to his knees and took one of Athelstan’s feet in both hands. With a little tugging, he had removed the boot and went to work on the other one.

Athelstan held onto Ragnar’s shoulder with one hand to keep his balance and to provide some traction.

Ragnar laughed as he turned the boot upside down and let the water slosh over the side of the ship.

“Watch out for the dry things,” Athelstan said, leaning over and grabbing at the pile of clothes with his bandaged hand.

Ragnar bundled the clothes in his arms and set them on the crate beside Athelstan. He was grateful that the deck remained dry as the ship had bobbed in the waves all day. It would make a fine place to sleep for the night, which still promised to be clear.

Ragnar stood and stripped off his damp tunic, tossing it aside on the deck. He pulled off his own boots and drained the sea water from them. He watched Athelstan’s face as he unlaced his wet trousers and pushed them down over his thighs. Keeping his balance, he stepped out of them. Soon, Ragnar stood naked on the deck before Athelstan. He hoped that Athelstan liked what he saw.

Athelstan watched him with mirth in his eyes.

Ragnar emptied his own pack. He shook out his cloak and spread it over the deck. The night air felt colder now that Ragnar was naked. He reached for a tunic from the clothing that he had stolen from the English guards. Even if Athelstan let Ragnar warm him with body heat, he would need some clothing to avoid catching his death.

“This is more your size than mine,” Ragnar said, holding up the dry tunic.

Athelstan took it from him and dropped the tunic onto his lap. Without even a smile for a preamble, Athelstan reached his hand forward and touched Ragnar’s bare skin. He let his fingers wander, tracing the scar left by the wound that he had stitched when Ragnar first arrived at Lindisfarne.

Ragnar inhaled sharply at the touch of Athelstan’s fingers.

“Sorry, my hands are cold,” Athelstan whispered, shyly.

“No, do not apologize,” Ragnar said, taking Athelstan’s hand in his own. He pressed a kiss to Athelstan’s fingers and said, “I enjoy your touch, very much.”

Ragnar tugged on Athelstan’s hand and led him to his feet. The cloak fell from Athelstan’s shoulders. Ragnar steadied him with a hand to his elbow as the ship swayed beneath them.

“I promised to warm you,” Ragnar said. “But we must first get you out of those wet clothes.”

Athelstan smiled reassuringly and said, “I might need a little help.”

Ragnar silently thanked all the gods that Athelstan was not going to resist his advances. Despite Ragnar standing there with his cock half-hard, Athelstan did not seem fearful or intimidated in the least.

Athelstan let go of Ragnar’s hand and began to pull his tunic off by reaching behind his neck and grabbing hold of the fabric.

Remembering the lacerations made by the lashing, Ragnar eagerly stepped forward to help. He took the hem of Athelstan’s tunic and pulled it upward over his head. Dropping the tunic, Ragnar took a moment to admire Athelstan as he stood on the deck. His bare skin glowed in the moonlight. A smattering of dark hair graced the centre of his chest. It trailed downward in a straight line to where it crept beneath the laces of his trousers where a bulge strained at the fabric, affirming to Ragnar that Athelstan was no immature boy, but a man with needs of his own-and too little experience in dealing with them.

Ragnar stepped closer and pushed a stray lock of Athelstan’s hair behind his ear. Behind him, the gentle waves crashed on the beach as a breeze kicked up. Ragnar let his mouth follow his fingers as he kissed the soft flesh beneath Athelstan’s earlobe. He followed the line of Athelstan’s neck with his lips, savouring the taste of his skin.

Athelstan shivered. He wrapped both arms around Ragnar and pulled him close, their chests colliding together in warmth.

“I need to touch you,” Ragnar whispered, his rough hands travelling up the fair skin of Athelstan’s bare back. He stayed mindful of the injuries left behind by the lash.

Ragnar remembered how Athelstan had taken care of him at Lindisfarne. Like a mother, Athelstan had tended to his injuries.

Like a father, Athelstan had given him wise counsel on their journey.

Like a son, Athelstan had listened to Ragnar’s instructions while they sparred, even if he could not use the knowledge to defend himself against the Christians just yet. He had learned and he would grow stronger and more skilled with every lesson. Like a warrior, Athelstan might fight at his side one day.

Athelstan found Ragnar’s mouth again and whispered against his lips, “You can touch me. Please.”

And now, like a lover, Athelstan was everything to Ragnar.

Ragnar placed his hands on Athelstan’s chest. He could feel his heartbeat against his palms. He slid his hands lower and hooked his thumbs into the waist of Athelstan’s trousers. Athelstan’s mouth was alive under his. Ragnar practiced kissing and learning what Athelstan liked best, even if Athelstan did not know himself. A gentle suck on Athelstan’s bottom lip had him moaning with pleasure. A lick to the tip of his nose made him laugh.

All the while, Ragnar was conscious of the fact that no one had ever made Athelstan feel this way before. In Kattegat, Ragnar had many lovers, but it thrilled him to know that no one had ever heard the little sounds of pleasure that Athelstan made. The quiet gasps and the soft moans-they were for Ragnar’s ears only and he would cherish them for as long as he lived.

“I’m not very cold anymore,” Athelstan said between kisses, his chest heaving with breathlessness.

“Come,” Ragnar said, “I know a way to make you even warmer.” He licked a path down Athelstan’s neck and bit down on the flesh at the juncture of Athelstan’s neck and his shoulder.

Athelstan stopped kissing. He dug his fingernails into Ragnar’s back while Ragnar tugged his trousers down past Athelstan’s thighs and let them pool on the deck.

If Athelstan was shy, Ragnar did not notice it. He seemed to want Ragnar as much as Ragnar wanted him. Ragnar quickly made a nest of the clothing on top of the cloak. He gently lowered Athelstan to the soft pile, taking care with the lash wounds that scarred his back.

“Grab the other cloak,” Athelstan whispered hurriedly.

Ragnar turned and retrieved the cloak that had been wrapped around Athelstan’s shoulders. He flopped gracelessly onto the pile of clothing and dragged the cloak over them both. Propping himself up on one elbow, he hovered over Athelstan.

Athelstan used both hands to pull Ragnar closer, lifting his head so their mouths could meet again. Their legs tangled together beneath the cloak.

Ragnar’s cock was painfully hard and pressed against Athelstan’s thigh.

“Be careful of your hand,” Ragnar said, catching Athelstan’s injured hand in his. The bandage was wet from the sea and the fabric strips had partially unravelled.

Athelstan gripped Ragnar’s braids with his good hand, while he kissed his jaw.

As they kissed, Ragnar unwrapped the remains of the bandage. He tossed it aside before pressing a kiss to Athelstan’s palm.

“I am sorry you have been so hurt,” Ragnar whispered against Athelstan’s skin. The puncture left by the nail had stopped bleeding, but Ragnar was sure that it was still painful.

“It doesn’t hurt as much now,” Athelstan said. He stroked Ragnar’s back with the fingertips of his uninjured hand.

Ragnar gazed at Athelstan, so brave, so strong, his moonlit hair splayed around his head like one of the gilded halos in the Gospel of Saint John.

“I am here and you are safe now,” Ragnar said, before he kissed Athelstan deeply.

Athelstan welcomed the kiss, moaning deliciously at the contact.

“I will always keep you safe,” Ragnar said, when he came up to take a breath.

“I know,” Athelstan said, arching up to get more friction against his cock that pressed into Ragnar’s groin.

“Whatever you need from me, it is yours,” Ragnar murmured, shoving his thigh between Athelstan’s legs.

Athelstan’s cock was warm and hard against Ragnar’s skin.

Ragnar felt Athelstan grind against him in the dark. If only he could teach the priest that his body was to be enjoyed by both of them. It was not something to hide away, untouched and unkissed. He speared Athelstan’s hair with gentle fingers. He pressed soft kisses to Athelstan’s cheeks, his lips, his eyes.

“Take whatever you need from me to seek your pleasure,” Ragnar whispered. “I am here for you… only for you.”

Athelstan pushed his injured hand against Ragnar’s hand that still held it closely.

It did not take long for Ragnar to understand what Athelstan wanted, despite his lack of words. Ragnar went with the motion and let Athelstan push him onto his back. He held Athelstan’s hand loosely as Athelstan straddled his hips.

Athelstan pressed his forehead against Ragnar’s and rocked against him, his cock sliding against Ragnar’s to the rhythm of the rolling sea.

“I… need… I… I… need.…” Athelstan stuttered.

Ragnar arched up against him, whispering, “That is it. Whatever you need, I will give you. It is yours to take from me,” to encourage Athelstan to chase his release.

Athelstan, hot with lust, collapsed onto Ragnar and ceaselessly slid his body against Ragnar’s heat.

Ragnar held himself steady and murmured encouragements while Athelstan rutted. He wanted to reach beneath the cloaks, to wrap his hand around Athelstan’s cock, but he was afraid that the sensation would be overmuch for Athelstan to bear.

Their hands were still clasped when Athelstan threw his head back and let a ragged breath escape his throat. Ragnar felt the warmth of Athelstan’s come spread across his belly. He held Athelstan as his body vibrated, thinking how strange it must be for someone so beautiful to have spent his life as a celibate monk.

It pleased Ragnar to no end that Athelstan shared himself with him. When Athelstan stopped shuddering, Ragnar let go of his injured hand. He wrapped his arms around Athelstan and rolled him gently onto his back. He soon followed Athelstan in his bliss, rutting against him, not needing much stimulation besides the debauched look on Athelstan’s face to urge him on. He collapsed beside him, careful not to crush Athelstan under his weight.

The smile on Athelstan’s face told Ragnar all he wanted to know. He rested his head on Athelstan’s outstretched arm while Athelstan’s injured hand rested on his own chest.

When they both had settled, Ragnar played with the dark hair in Athelstan’s armpit, making him giggle and squirm to get away.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Ragnar said. He rolled on top of Athelstan and pressed kisses to his bare chest. He sucked a nipple into his mouth, which earned him a kick from Athelstan as he shivered at the touch.

“If I knew you were going to be like this, I would not have consented to kissing you,” Athelstan laughed.

“Liar,” Ragnar said, accusingly. “You love me. What will your god think of your lies?”

Athelstan could not answer, because Ragnar kissed him again.

They lay beneath the inky sky, studded with stars. The rise and fall of the waves lulled them to sleep.

“Tomorrow, we will sail to Lindisfarne, but I cannot stay there,” Ragnar said, interrupting the gentle crash of the waves.

“But surely you can stay for a little while,” Athelstan said between yawns. He traced circles on Ragnar’s bare shoulder with his fingertips.

“The king wants me dead and his people did this to you,” Ragnar whispered, stroking the back of Athelstan’s injured hand. “I no longer think that you are safe there.”

“But where will I go?” Athelstan asked. “Lindisfarne is my home.”

“I want you to come with me,” Ragnar said sleepily, “to Kattegat, or to wherever this ship takes us. I no longer care where, as long as you are safe.”

Athelstan did not reply. Ragnar let him drift off to sleep, hoping that Athelstan would consider his proposition. Of all the riches Ragnar had hoped to plunder when he raided west from Kattegat, he never could have dreamed that Athelstan would become his most cherished treasure.

~

Athelstan waved to the monks to ensure that they knew it was him, before he helped Ragnar guide the ship ashore. He hopped out after the vessel slid to a stop upon the sand. The tide was low enough, so they didn’t bother with the anchor. There was no need to get their clothing wet again by wading through the waves.

The long graceful neck of the dragon rose from the bow, just as the first Northmen’s bow emerged from the fog, sending fear into the brothers of Lindisfarne when it arrived on these shores. This time, however, the monks were there to greet the arrival.

“Brother Matthew,” Athelstan said, taking Matthew’s arm as he stepped ashore.

“Athelstan,” Matthew said, embracing him. He then scanned the longship for more occupants. Finally, he turned to Ragnar, “Ragnar, I am so glad you have returned.”

“We have terrible news,” Athelstan said.

“As do we,” Matthew said grimly.

Athelstan knew the first thing he needed to do at Lindisfarne would be to break the news of Brother Benedict’s death. It had weighed heavily on his mind as he and Ragnar had sailed the longship up the coast beneath the morning sun.

“Brother Benedict?” Matthew asked. His eyes roved over Athelstan.

Athelstan was sure that Matthew noticed the bandage on his hand, the scrapes on his forehead, and the tentative way that he walked.

“I’m sorry,” Athelstan said, addressing not only Matthew, but the small contingency of monks who greeted them on the beach. “There was an altercation. Our brother was felled by a raider’s arrow. He has gone to dwell in the house of the Lord.”

Matthew pulled Athelstan into an embrace and wept.

Athelstan held him and tried to comfort him. As they embraced, Athelstan’s eyes went to the distant line of monks who ferried crates along the causeway that connected Lindisfarne to the mainland. The tide was low enough that the men could walk without getting their feet wet. At first, Athelstan believed that some new supplies must have arrived, but upon closer observation, the monks seemed to be carrying items from the monastery to the mainland, not the reverse.

“May God bless Brother Benedict’s soul. And your soul, too, Athelstan. Have you been injured?” Matthew asked, taking Athelstan’s bandaged hand in his own.

A pang of sorrow filled Athelstan’s heart. Brother Benedict had been a good man. It pained Athelstan to know that the monks would spend the day of Athelstan and Ragnar’s return in grief over the loss.

“We were lucky to escape with our lives. But what is going on here?” Athelstan asked, directing Matthew away from his injured hand.

“That is the terrible news I must share with you. There have been more raids. A rider brought word from Alnwick two days ago. The heathens have been travelling up and down the coast for these past weeks,” Matthew said. “Brother Finian has decided that we are to relocate to Newcastle before more terror is visited upon our humble monastery.”

“And that is what you are doing?” Athelstan asked. “Moving to Newcastle?” He remembered that he had once hoped to guide his fellow monks into a new age at Lindisfarne after Father Cuthbert’s death, but now it seemed that Finian had stolen the reins from him.

“We have no choice, but to listen to Brother Finian,” Matthew said. “We’ll be safer in Newcastle. Everything has been packed. This is the last of it.”

Athelstan once feared that Finian would thwart his attempts to lead the monks, but now, it seemed like Finian’s leadership was something he was doomed to accept. He could see a pair of carts loaded with the monk’s meagre possessions being pulled to the mainland.

“Finian is right,” Athelstan said. As much as he hated to admit that the monks would be safer in Newcastle, he would not question Finian’s decision. Finian could lead the monks. It made no difference to Athelstan. Everything had changed for Athelstan since he found Ragnar half-dead on Lindisfarne’s shores.

“I’m so glad you came back in time,” Matthew said. “We thought we would meet you and Brother Benedict on the way to Newcastle, but now we are blessed with your return to us.”

Matthew took Athelstan’s arm and within moments Athelstan was swept into the chaotic task of moving the monastery’s contents. The monk’s efforts had obviously been underway for days and were nearly complete. Athelstan watched Finian carry a crate, loaded with scrolls, across the causeway to the mainland.

“You’re just in time. Easier to walk with the dry land under our feet, than to ferry our possessions by boat,” Brother Hedrick said, dropping a crate of kitchen supplies so he could welcome Athelstan back.

Athelstan winced when Hedrick’s hand stroked his back as he embraced him, the memory of the lashes sharp in his mind.

After they embraced, Hedrick continued with his burden while Matthew led Athelstan toward the monastery. Athelstan had no choice but to follow the monks away from Ragnar, who waited silently at the shore.

Still, Athelstan could not tear his eyes away. The longship rested in the sand. From a distance, Athelstan watched as Ragnar adjusted the oars, readying them for his departure. Athelstan wondered how Ragnar would manage alone, although Athelstan was barely a help to him when they sailed up the coast to Lindisfarne. He hoped that Ragnar would say goodbye before the tide took him away to Kattegat and the lands he longed to explore.

Athelstan’s brothers greeted him as they walked past on their way across the causeway to the mainland, and Newcastle beyond. Athelstan scratched at his chest where the evidence of his sin had dried. Some of his fellow monks gaped at him, noting his strange attire. Athelstan folded his arms across his chest, certain that they could sense that he was now different from the rest of the monks. Still, the sin of his lust marked him out in the eyes of God, even if his brothers could not see it.

“You may want to take one last look around, Athelstan,” Brother Roderick said, clasping Athelstan’s shoulder.

Brother Sebastian joined them in the monastery courtyard, where the gate still hung in disrepair from when the Northmen first pillaged the site. “With the arrival of the heathens to Northumbrian shores, we might never return here again,” Sebastian said.

If this was to be his last time at Lindisfarne, Athelstan so wanted to wander through the monastery’s rooms once more. He needed to feel the love of God soothing his soul, guiding him, and assuring him that all would be well, despite his transgressions.

Inside the monk’s dormitory, Matthew found an old habit for Athelstan and insisted that he change into it immediately.

“I will admit, I almost didn’t recognise you in these clothes,” Matthew said, looking Athelstan up and down.

“Much has happened since I left here,” Athelstan said, clasping Matthew’s arm. “I’ll tell you all about it on the way to Newcastle.”

“I can’t wait to hear, but you need to hurry,” Matthew urged Athelstan. “The tide will soon be coming in, and no monk would want to be stranded here.”

Athelstan agreed. Nothing should delay the monks from making their way to the safety that awaited them in Newcastle. They were already anxious over the raid they had experienced when Ragnar arrived. The threat of other raiders in the area would likely make them even more distressed. Athelstan had no way of knowing if there were more raiders besides the ones that Ragnar had dispatched at the caves.

“Thank you, my brother,” Athelstan said, before Matthew departed to shepherd the last of the monks across the causeway from Lindisfarne.

Alone in the dormitory that Athelstan once called home, he stripped off the tunic and trousers that Ragnar had painstakingly plucked from a dead Englishman. He ran his hand over the sparse hair of his chest, remembering the feeling of Ragnar’s fingers on his bare skin. In all the years that he had lived cloistered in the monastery, he had never dreamed that he would be as touched by lust as he was when in the company of Ragnar. Shoving the sinful thoughts aside, he donned the undersmock, the habit, and the cincture that Matthew had left with him. He pressed the small wooden cross to his lips and prayed that God would forgive his sins and accept his devotion again.

Outside the dormitory, the empty monastery hall beckoned to him. Athelstan knew that he had one more place to visit before he left Lindisfarne forever. He soon found himself in Father Cuthbert’s room, where he had once tended Ragnar. A bowl still sat on the desk. The smell of the peat fire permeated the walls. A breeze from the sea wafted through the tiny window.

He was not entirely surprised when Ragnar joined him there.

“I don’t think they know yet about the attack on the king’s guards,” Athelstan said, looking into the hall to make sure none of the monks could hear what he conveyed to Ragnar. Despite their language differences, the monks and Ragnar had become quite adept at communicating since Ragnar had arrived at Lindisfarne.

Ragnar looked Athelstan up and down, taking in the sight of him in a habit once more.

Athelstan grimaced, imagining how he must look, garbed in the clothing that once again defined him as a monk to Ragnar.

“And they know not about this,” Ragnar said, taking Athelstan’s hand and stroking his thumb across the wrappings that hid his wound.

When Athelstan felt the warmth of Ragnar’s hand, he was momentarily unsure whether Ragnar meant that the monks did not know about their lovemaking or about the wound left by the crucifier’s nail in Athelstan’s palm.

“I fear that they will soon find out, and they will kill you when they learn about the dead men in Burradon,” Athelstan said. “I don’t want this, but it is the only way of keeping you alive.”

“But what will you do in Newcastle?” Ragnar asked.

“I will keep you safe,” Athelstan said, clutching Ragnar’s arm.

“By running away and hiding?” Ragnar asked. “If the monks learn of your sins, they will treat you the same way that the king’s guards did. You will be in as much danger as I am.”

Athelstan closed his eyes and sighed. He felt Ragnar pull him into a warm embrace. He held onto Ragnar tightly, trying to memorize the feeling of Ragnar petting his hair, the sound of his voice whispering in his ear, the salty smell of his tunic. He never wanted to forget what this intimacy felt like.

“As soon as I can, I will make a sacrifice to Odin to ask for your safety,” Ragnar whispered into Athelstan’s hair.

It was true, then. Ragnar was leaving in the longship and Athelstan would accompany the monks to Newcastle, where he could rededicate himself to God. Tears spiked in Athelstan’s eyes. He felt his body curve against Ragnar’s, his hands splayed wide on his back.

“I want to beg you to come with me,” Ragnar said.

Athelstan could not bear the thought of Ragnar begging him to stay. His devotion to God pulled him in the direction of the monks, while his heart and his sinful thoughts rode the waves with Ragnar. If Ragnar asked, if he begged, Athelstan would be powerless against the tug of Ragnar’s words at his heart.

“But you are a warrior, and warriors do not beg,” Athelstan reminded him softly.

Ragnar pulled back and gazed into Athelstan’s eyes. “Nor do they cry, but like you, I cannot keep the rain from my eyes,” he said as he tried to smile.

Athelstan thought his heart would break. Tears rolled down his cheeks. He sucked in a breath, unable to get enough air.

Ragnar brushed his thumbs over Athelstan's eyelashes, wiping his tears away.

Athelstan laid his hand on Ragnar’s chest. He was certain that the agony of his decision showed on his pained face.

Ragnar reached up and touched the lines between Athelstan’s brows. He rubbed his finger on the wrinkles that Athelstan knew to be there when he frowned. Like a trio of runes, they told Ragnar his worries without Athelstan uttering a word.

“Athelstan,” Ragnar said his name tenderly, “you must do what you will.”

Athelstan swallowed the lump in his throat.

“Grieve, as I will grieve,” Ragnar said, trailing a finger down Athelstan’s scruffy cheek. “But please do not despair about your decision. It is not yours to make.”

As difficult as it was to leave Ragnar, Athelstan did not want to believe that Ragnar would leave him. “So, it is your decision to leave me?” he asked, the burn rising from his lungs, his voice breaking.

“No, no, dear Athelstan. It is not my decision,” Ragnar said, putting his fingers to Athelstan’s lips, quieting him. “The Norns have already woven our story. They have already decided whether we stay or go. Neither you, nor I, have any say in the matter at all.”

“Norns?” Athelstan sniffled.

“The three goddesses,” Ragnar said, his eyes bright. He took Athelstan’s hand from his chest and kissed his fingers. “They sit in the high halls of Uppsalir. It is there that they weave the threads of our lives, yours and mine. It is for them to decide which way you will go, and which way I will go. I am grateful that they wove the thread of our lives together, twined in the same tapestry, the same story, as told by the gods. But it is they who decide the path that the threads of the story will take, not us. So, put your despair aside. If you are meant to be here, in England with your brothers, it has already been decided by the gods, and so you shall stay.”

Ragnar stepped back and let go of Athelstan’s hand.

Athelstan closed his eyes. “And if not?”

“Trust in the gods, for only the gods know.”

Father Cuthbert’s room was silent.

When Athelstan opened his eyes, Ragnar was gone….

Although he anticipated Ragnar’s absence, it didn’t make it any easier for Athelstan to accept it. He stood in the quiet room with its musty smell and the remains of his efforts from when he tended to Ragnar’s injuries. The knife, the needle and spool, the chair where he once sat and read to Ragnar from the Gospel of Saint John. Athelstan stood motionless until he felt a tug on the arm of his habit.

“Athelstan, I have been looking everywhere for you. What is taking you so long?” Matthew asked.

Athelstan touched his fingers to his lips, lamenting that Ragnar had not given him a final kiss goodbye. “I was just saying goodbye to Ragnar,” he said.

“He passed me on his way to the ship,” Matthew said. “We must go.”

And so, Matthew led Athelstan out of the monastery, beyond the rock shaped like a wild boar, to the causeway where Athelstan collected mussels with Ragnar, and onto the sand. Although he was shaken by their parting, Athelstan told himself that this was for the best. He trusted Matthew to urge him on, to take him to a new life with the rest of the monks. Matthew didn’t seem to notice Athelstan’s broken heart.

Athelstan’s feet sunk into the sand of the causeway. A curving half-mile ahead, on the mainland, his brothers waited, their carts piled with their possessions that they would haul to Newcastle.

Athelstan took a deep breath and steadied himself. He tried to tell himself that all would be well again. He would go to Newcastle and study with his brothers. They would be safe from the Northmen who pillaged the monastery-and any other Northmen who threatened England’s shores.

“You’ll miss Ragnar,” Matthew said. He stopped and turned to look back toward the monastery.

Athelstan promised himself he wouldn’t look, but he turned his head anyway.

He watched Ragnar in the distance. He had managed to launch the longship on the rising tide. Now, he worked to untie the ropes that collapsed the sail. His tall lean figure, a silhouette against the summer sky, stretched from the deck to the mast.

Athelstan had tied the ropes securely. This allowed Ragnar to row the ship across the last bit of sea before they reached the sands of Lindisfarne. With the sail down, they didn’t have to worry about the wind taking them off course. Now, Ragnar was preparing to depart again.

“Yes,” Athelstan said, his gaze unwavering. “I will miss him.”

A breeze kicked up and blew Athelstan’s hair into his eyes.

“Come Athelstan, the tide is rising,” Matthew said, tugging his sleeve.

Athelstan blinked back tears. He gave Matthew his arm and they strode along the causeway where each incoming wave reached closer to the path their feet walked.

“You seem different, for having spent so much time with the Northman,” Matthew said, after they had travelled some distance. “You promised to tell me what happened after Benedict’s death.”

Athelstan sighed. He supposed he needed to tell Matthew what had happened.

“We buried Brother Benedict’s body. It was dreadful, but Ragnar looked after me,” Athelstan said. He shifted his eyes to Matthew to gauge his reaction.

Matthew smiled broadly. “I asked him to look after you before you left Lindisfarne,” he said. “Remember?”

Athelstan remembered all too well. “Rest assured, he did as you asked,” Athelstan said with a smile.

“I’m so glad. What did you do after that?”

As Athelstan shuffled along in the sand, he remembered the events of the past week. He believed that if he shared them with Matthew, it would serve to keep them alive in his memory. After he settled in Newcastle, he could take them out to examine them again, like a treasure locked inside a box to which only Athelstan had a key.

“After we escaped the raiders who shot arrows at us, we made camp in the woods. The next day, Ragnar taught me to fight, so I might be able to defend myself,” Athelstan recalled fondly.

“I can hardly imagine that,” Matthew said with a laugh. “But if anyone could teach you such a thing, it would be a sturdy man, such as Ragnar. He barely flinched when we set his broken leg.”

Athelstan remembered the weight of Ragnar’s body as he sat astride his chest when they sparred. The spark of arousal that arose in Athelstan was as fresh in his mind now as it had been on the forest floor.

Matthew gazed behind them to check on Ragnar’s progress.

Athelstan promised himself that he would not look back again to where Ragnar manned the ship at the shore. He focused on the journey ahead, although he was tempted to watch Ragnar sail away.

In the rising tide, each incoming wave stretched closer to his and Matthew’s feet. If Athelstan spoke quickly, he thought perhaps his feet would match the pace of his words and they would arrive on the mainland sooner.

“It amazed me to learn how strong Ragnar is,” Athelstan said, as he remembered their time together and the many talents that Ragnar displayed. “Not only in physical strength, but in knowledge. He caught fish for us to eat and he found clothing and shelter for us when the nights grew dark.”

“It sounds like Ragnar was more than capable of looking after you,” Matthew said.

“I have never, in my whole life, met anyone like him,” Athelstan said wistfully.

Matthew nodded in acknowledgement.

“It was like a dream.”

They had reached the halfway point on the causeway. Athelstan could see the monks on the mainland. He knew Ragnar was the same distance behind him as the monks were from Matthew and him.

“It sounds like a wonderful adventure,” Matthew said.

Athelstan decided to continue with his story as they walked. There was no harm in sharing his memories with Matthew. They had time before reaching the end of the causeway. Matthew was a good friend and seemed eager to listen.

“Last night, we found the ship. We waded out to it, so we could use it for shelter. We were cold and wet, as night had fallen,” Athelstan said. Then, he grew bold, and added, “But Ragnar kept me warm.”

“No!” Matthew’s jaw fell open. The gleam in his eye told Athelstan that he was enthralled.

Athelstan glanced toward the brothers who gathered on the shore ahead of them. “I can tell you, and only you, that I have questioned my vows of celibacy,” Athelstan whispered conspiratorially.

Matthew punched Athelstan’s arm. “I knew it!” he said, excitedly. “Tell me more.”

The sea breeze battered the causeway, sending a spray of sand across their path.

“I can’t explain it. Before this,” Athelstan continued cautiously, “I had always suspected that the physical union of a husband and wife was something holy-a kind of holiness that we monks were not supposed to experience. But now, after spending the night with Ragnar, I believe that this type of holiness doesn’t only apply to a marriage bed.”

Matthew stopped walking. His eyes went wide with shock. Patting Athelstan’s shoulders with both hands, he asked, “How are you still alive?”

Athelstan would not have believed it himself, if some other monk had told him the tale that he related to Matthew.

“Do you think that God looked the other way?” Matthew asked.

Athelstan pondered Matthew’s question as they resumed walking. God may not have looked the other way, Athelstan realised. To his utter surprise, he determined that God may have actually looked on. He remembered that he had felt God’s presence in every touch of Ragnar’s hands. The presence of God’s love was in every kiss they shared. Athelstan slowly came to the realisation that God had not only looked over him and Ragnar, but he had given his blessing to the two of them. Athelstan’s mind reeled with the new realisation as it washed over him.

“Well?” Matthew asked.

Such was his inherent guilt, that Athelstan did not dare share his understanding so blatantly with Matthew. Instead, he tried to frame it through Ragnar’s explanation, in hopes that it would still make some sense.

“This I know… Ragnar believes in a different god than we do, many gods, actually. But he believes that our paths are woven by his gods. That seems to make sense to me, whether I am thinking of Ragnar’s gods or our own Heavenly Father. I think that God put Ragnar in my path to show me that love between two people is a holy thing.”

“You believe that?” Matthew asked, stopping to clutch Athelstan’s arm.

“With all my heart,” Athelstan replied knowingly. It was as if a curtain of mystery had been lifted before his eyes. Where he had been blind, now he could see. “With all my soul, with all my being.”

Athelstan leapt quickly to avoid the rushing wave that flooded the causeway where he had just stepped.

“Oh, Athelstan,” Matthew said. “After all that, how can you leave him?”

Athelstan stopped in his tracks. The water swirled over his sandaled feet. “I don’t think I can,” he said.

“The tide is coming quickly today,” Matthew said, pulling on Athelstan’s sleeve.

Athelstan stayed where he stood.

“We will need to hurry,” Matthew said, glancing behind them. “Besides, it looks like your Northman is leaving.”

“He’s not my-” Athelstan touched his lips, remembering the kisses he shared with Ragnar.

“What is it, Brother Athelstan?” Matthew asked.

“You are right,” Athelstan said. He turned and looked down the causeway toward Lindisfarne. The water had rushed over the land, leaving only a narrow strip of sand when the oncoming waves receded. Ragnar was a short distance from the shore, the sail of the longship filled with wind.

“He is my Northman,” Athelstan said. “He still is, and he always will be. I must go to him.”

Athelstan began picking his way along the wet sand, on his way back toward the monastery.

“But Athelstan! The tide… you will be drowned in the sea,” Matthew implored Athelstan to stop.

Athelstan couldn’t bear to be an accomplice to his brother’s drowning. “Go to the shore,” he shouted as he trudged through the incoming waves.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Matthew cried.

“Godspeed, brother,” Athelstan called to Matthew. “Keep the others safe. Do not let them come after me.”

Although the incoming waves crashed against Athelstan’s legs, he was fearless. He strode forward with single-minded determination to reach Ragnar as he prepared to sail away. He trudged through the deepening water, barely keeping his balance on the shifting sand.

He thought about shouting to get Ragnar’s attention, but he decided that the sound of the surf would drown out his call. He saved his energy for the swim ahead of him. The waves soaked Athelstan’s habit up to his waist. The cold water chilled him, making him clench his jaw.

If Athelstan drowned in the sea, it was because his own true God and Ragnar’s Norns had determined that it should be. Athelstan decided that, Norns or not, it would be far better to drown while pursuing his love than it would be to die by crucifixion when the English caught up to his and Ragnar’s deeds.

Athelstan would weave his own story from now on.

The sand of the causeway slipped under his feet.

He dove into the sea.

~

If there was one consistent thread that the Norns wove through Ragnar’s life, it was the thread of loss.

Ragnar had lost his parents. He lost Lagertha, the children, his homeland, and his men. Every absence gnawed a fresh hole in Ragnar’s heart as he prepared to depart Lindisfarne. And now, he had lost Athelstan, the only person in recent memory who meant anything to him.

The loss of Athelstan would be a hard one to bear. Although they had only known each other for the passing of two moons, Ragnar trusted Athelstan with his life. If not for Athelstan’s loving care, Ragnar would have died on the beach where his kinsmen had left him.

Ragnar could not bear to turn back to watch Athelstan and Matthew as they strode along the causeway and into a new life. Ragnar cursed the Norns, although he knew it was no use. Whatever the Allfather had planned for him, Athelstan was not to be a part of it. It would serve Ragnar well to leave these shores as quickly as possible, so he could mourn his loss and grieve over what might have been.

With no particular destination in mind, Ragnar waited for the incoming tide to arrive so he could set off from Lindisfarne. He needed to get to the open sea so he could try to put his sadness about Athelstan behind him. Athelstan’s safety in travelling with his fellow monks gave Ragnar a small measure of hope that Athelstan would not be killed so easily for his association with a heathen like him.

The incoming waves grew bolder with every minute that passed. The longship rose up and down as the tide lifted it from the sand. Before the ship became completely free, Ragnar had taken the time to investigate the contents of the crates that the ship bore. It seemed that he found enough stolen supplies to see him off on any length voyage that he chose. Despite the supplies, Ragnar lamented over the loss of the extra pair of hands that Athelstan could have provided, even if he was injured. Hands that once sweetly caressed Ragnar’s back, hands that tended his wounds, hands that pulled on his braids and roused his passion, Athelstan’s hands would not be forgotten.

Ragnar’s sorrowful thoughts turned to worry. He hoped that Athelstan’s wounded hand would heal properly. He tried to put his mind at ease, telling himself that Matthew would care for Athelstan’s injury. Still, he feared that the next Englishmen Athelstan encountered could finish the crucifixion that the king’s guards had begun.

“Oh, Athelstan,” Ragnar muttered to himself. “What will you do without me to care for you?” But he knew very well that Athelstan could say the same thing about him.

When the longship rose and fell freely on the water, Ragnar untied the sail and used the steering oar to aim for the surf zone. In a moment of inattention, he had dared to catch a final glimpse of Athelstan as he and Matthew walked arm in arm along the causeway, but the pain was too great. He turned away before the monks came into focus, never to look back again on the man with whom he shared a beautiful memory.

A spray of sea splattered Ragnar’s face as the longship crashed through the surf. He wiped the salt from his eyes with a hand that stung from his spear wound. After the ship breached the surf, the sea beneath Ragnar became calm. The sound of distant waves splashed on the shore behind him. With the red sail fluttering in the breeze, Ragnar secured the ropes to set sail with the wind at his back.

It was then that Ragnar heard the smooth sound of the ram’s horn echoing across the water.

He had not meant to look one more time, but the horn caught Ragnar’s attention. He turned and gazed toward the mainland. He could barely make out the monks that stood on the shore with their two carts piled high with all of their worldly possessions.

The horn sounded again and Ragnar scanned the beach. The slim causeway was now underwater, swallowed by the incoming tide. There, in the middle, where the causeway would rise from the sea at low tide, a figure in a brown woollen habit struggled in the water.

“Athelstan,” Ragnar whispered in disbelief.

Without hesitating, Ragnar grabbed the steering oar and shoved it hard against the boards. The clatter of shields resounded above the calm water. The groaning longship responded and turned on the sea, the sail collapsing as the wind deflated from it.

“Please mighty Allfather, do not let it be Athelstan,” Ragnar prayed, sure that the monk would drown before he could reach him.

Ragnar felt the wind on his face. His braids flew on the breeze like whips held in a scourger’s hand. He steered left and right, willing the wind to fill his sail again and again, each time making some progress, getting closer to where the monk… Athelstan… it had to be him… flailed in the deepening tide.

As he neared the mainland, Ragnar could see Matthew with the horn in his hand. He had stopped blowing it when Ragnar turned from Lindisfarne and sailed toward the centre of the hidden causeway.

Matthew and the monks who surrounded him looked on in horror.

Ragnar’s pulse raced. The incoming tide would be treacherous to fight and Athelstan would be weighed down in his water-soaked habit. Ragnar begged Odin to fill his sail so he could reach Athelstan before he drowned.

Pangs of regret flooded Ragnar’s heart. He berated himself for leaving Athelstan there, in Father Cuthbert’s room, without so much as a proper kiss goodbye. With one breath, Ragnar damned the gods for taking Athelstan from him, but in another, he pleaded, please, please, by Odin, by Thor, by Freyr, please let him be reunited with the man he loved.

When Ragnar reached Athelstan’s lifeless body, he leaned over the boards and plucked him from the water with one mighty heave. Although Athelstan’s saturated form had doubled in weight, Ragnar knew not the source of the strength he had acquired to lift it. He understood that it came from a place of the love that he bore for Athelstan. Perhaps the gods helped a little.

Ragnar collapsed with Athelstan onto the deck. His own clothing became soaked with water.

“Hail Odin,” Ragnar whispered.

Ragnar laid Athelstan’s body on the deck, wishing it were some other monk and not this cherished one.

Beyond the longship, there was only silence. Ragnar was well aware of the monks who stood on the shore, some fifty yards away, waiting to see if Ragnar had successfully rescued their brother. Ragnar released the ropes and the sail fell. The tide could take the longship where it would.

Athelstan lay in a wet heap of wool on the deck.

Ragnar slid onto his knees and supported Athelstan’s head on his lap.

Athelstan’s wet hair stuck to his forehead. He had no breath. The wounds from his crucifixion bled afresh and leaked down Athelstan’s blue skin.

“Help me, Odin,” Ragnar cried, taking Athelstan’s head in his hands.

Ragnar railed at the unfairness of it all. He could not bear to lose Athelstan now. Although he had acquiesced to Athelstan’s idea that they should go their separate ways, he did not want to live in a world where he could never touch Athelstan again. There could be no joy in living, if he could never again see Athelstan’s beautiful blue eyes open wide with surprise as Ragnar kissed him. So many memories flooded into Ragnar’s mind. He would not let this go, no matter what path the Norns had woven for him.

“Come back to me,” Ragnar pleaded. “I promise I will never leave you again.”

Ragnar buried his hands in Athelstan’s hair. He wished he had not left him at the monastery, never to be seen again, except in his dreams.

“Please come back to me,” Ragnar cried at the unthinkable-that Athelstan went to his death while trying to return to Ragnar.

Tears fell from Ragnar’s eyes and leaked down onto Athelstan’s face as Ragnar leaned over him. He kissed Athelstan’s closed eyes, his lips. He tasted the salty sea in his mouth.

“You cannot leave,” Ragnar demanded. “You cannot leave me. I love you.”

Holding tightly to Athelstan’s habit, he pulled at Athelstan’s shoulders and held him against his body.

“I will never let the gods take you from me again. I will make love to you every day, if only you would come back to me,” Ragnar said, his voice cracked with tears.

With that, Athelstan let out a little cough.

At first, Ragnar thought he imagined it. He drew back, and in doing so, Athelstan’s head tilted to the side. A rush of sea spewed from Athelstan’s mouth. His chest heaved up and down with effort.

Ragnar’s eyes flew open wide. “Athelstan,” he cried. He raised his knee to tilt Athelstan onto his side. He rubbed his hand roughly over Athelstan’s back while he coughed buckets of sea water from his lungs. Ragnar’s heart felt like it was going to burst out of his chest, such was his joy.

Athelstan’s spasms began to quiet. He pushed one hand against the deck and lifted his head to face Ragnar.

“With a promise like that, how can I resist?” Athelstan coughed.

Ragnar could not control himself. He pressed his lips to Athelstan’s, the Athelstan that he knew and loved, alive and breathing in his arms again.

Athelstan reached out and cupped Ragnar’s cheek with a trembling hand. “I’ve changed my mind about going to Newcastle,” he whispered, his voice rough. “If you’ll still have me.”

Ragnar could not contain his smile. “Of course, I’ll have you.” He blinked back tears from his eyes as he kissed Athelstan again. Athelstan’s lips were cool, but the colour was returning to his skin.

“Your brothers,” Ragnar said hurriedly. “You need to show them you are alive.”

Ragnar knew that it would be cruel to let the brothers wonder what happened to Athelstan after his ordeal. He helped Athelstan to his feet and stood behind him. He wrapped his arms around Athelstan’s waist to support him while he waved to the monks on the shore.

Matthew sounded the ram’s horn again and waved back to them, acknowledging that he and his fellow monks knew Athelstan was well, and in good hands.

Ragnar held Athelstan close. He slid his fingers into the neckline of Athelstan’s habit and splayed his hand against his skin. He hoped Athelstan was warm enough in his wet wool. Now that he was safe, Ragnar simply could not let him go again. There would be time enough to cast off their wet clothing and find dry clothing among the ship’s stores. Ragnar kissed the top of Athelstan’s head. He noted that the longship had drifted a considerable distance from the shore. Without the sail unfurled, it rode on the whims of the tide.

“Do you wish to return to shore?” Ragnar asked gently. “At least to say goodbye to your brothers?”

Athelstan turned in Ragnar’s arms. He held him close and said, “There is nothing there for me now. My future lies with you, Ragnar.”

Ragnar pressed his fingers under Athelstan’s chin and tilted his head upward so he could kiss his lips again.

Athelstan parted his lips to let the warmth of Ragnar’s mouth ravish him. Ragnar took care to kiss Athelstan tenderly, to make sure he knew how very loved and cherished he was.

Athelstan’s eyes fluttered open and he drew back. “My brothers, they will see us,” he said.

Ragnar laughed, his heart light.

Athelstan shook his head and laughed with Ragnar. “I don’t care either,” he said. And then, he kissed Ragnar breathless again.

The longship rose up and down on the gentle waves as it drifted out to sea.

“I do not care about what the monks see. Nor do I care about what your Christ God might think of this,” Ragnar said, when Athelstan let him go long enough to catch his breath again.

“And what about your Norns?” Athelstan asked.

“What about them?” Ragnar asked, brushing Athelstan’s wet hair from his face.

“They have spent all our lives weaving this story for us,” Athelstan said. He looked genuinely worried. “And now I’ve gone and ruined their work.”

“They will have to weave a new story,” Ragnar said pressing his forehead to Athelstan’s. “One that tells the tale of our lives as we explore the world together.”

Athelstan stepped back. He took Ragnar’s hand in his and gazed out onto the open sea filled with possibilities and said, “Let’s go.”

~

Athelstan woke some hours later. He took inventory of his limbs, stretched out his legs, and revelled in the afterglow of his and Ragnar’s lovemaking. He had fallen asleep in a nest of blankets and furs, but now a fresh bandage was wrapped around his hand. A soft dry tunic and trousers had replaced his water-logged habit. Above his head, a red sail billowed in the gentle wind. He rolled onto his side and tucked his hands under his chin. In the distance, England’s shore passed by slowly as the gentle sea tried to rock him back to sleep.

At the front of the ship, Ragnar leaned against the wooden dragon’s neck. He scanned the sail with satisfaction, but his face lit up when he noticed Athelstan was awake. He pushed himself from his resting spot at the bow of the ship and stepped gingerly among the crates and scattered shields that littered the ship’s deck. He tested the rigging as he passed and glanced up at the sail to make sure the ship stayed on course.

“You are awake,” he said, when he arrived at Athelstan’s side.

Athelstan smiled and tried to stand. The ship swayed under his feet. Athelstan knew it would take time for him to become accustomed to sea travel. He took Ragnar’s hand to keep steady.

When Athelstan got his balance, Ragnar welcomed him into his arms.

Athelstan sunk into the warmth of Ragnar’s embrace. He noticed that Ragnar had donned some clean clothing as well. With his face buried in Ragnar’s fresh white tunic, it was easy to tell that he had washed up after their blissful reunion.

“Did you sleep well?” Ragnar asked, drawing back.

“Yes, it seems so,” Athelstan said.

Ragnar leaned toward him and pressed their lips together.

Athelstan loved to kiss-this was something new that he had discovered about himself in the past days. His lips parted, wanting more, but instead he fought unsuccessfully against a yawn.

“I am sorry, I should have warned you,” Ragnar said with a laugh.

“Warned me about what?” Athelstan asked.

Ragnar had a glint in his eye that let Athelstan know he was thinking about the encounter they had within an hour of leaving Lindisfarne. Ragnar slid his hands to Athelstan’s hips and pulled him closer.

Athelstan could feel that he was hard again.

“I should have warned you that such activities tend to make a man very sleepy,” Ragnar said. Ragnar dipped his head and pressed his lips to Athelstan’s cheek. He trailed kisses down Athelstan’s jaw and along his neck.

“Really?” Athelstan asked. He knew he had a lot to learn, but this explained much. He had fallen into a deep sleep soon after Ragnar had taken him apart with his hands and then… oh God… Athelstan nearly needed to cross himself… his mouth… Athelstan remembered how his thighs shook with the pleasure of it. He felt his face flush with heat.

Athelstan needed to take a moment to wonder if that really happened, or if perhaps it was another of those feverish dreams that he had since Ragnar’s first night in Father Cuthbert’s room.

Ragnar grinned. The bright sunlight made him look like an angel from one of the sacred texts, with his hair gilded in gold. He slid his hands down Athelstan’s arms and laced their fingers together. He pulled him closer.

“You have much to learn, priest,” Ragnar said. “But I will teach you.”

Athelstan drew back and looked up at Ragnar. He could hardly believe this beautiful man wanted someone as ordinary as him. Ragnar was a warrior, a Northman with rippled muscles and the strength of a dozen men. But Ragnar made his desires known and he had woken Athelstan’s desires that he had spent so many years of his life ignoring. Athelstan still worshiped the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, but he had a lot to think about when it came to their relationship to Ragnar.

Ragnar reached up and traced Athelstan’s lips with his fingers. “What are you thinking about?” Ragnar asked.

Athelstan sucked Ragnar's thumb into his mouth. He let his tongue swirl over the taste of it, committing Ragnar’s reaction to memory.

“Easy there, priest,” Ragnar said between moans. “We have plenty of time for you to make up for the pleasures you have missed because of your vows.”

If there had been any doubt as to what Ragnar referred to, the question was answered when Ragnar slid his hand back to Athelstan’s hip and across his flat belly to paw at the laces of his trousers.

“You are as insatiable as I am,” Athelstan whispered, thoroughly enjoying that he could elicit such a response from Ragnar.

“And you are so pretty,” Ragnar said. “I can not keep my hands off you, but I will give you a break if it is what you desire.”

“No,” Athelstan said. “I don’t want you to stop. This is all so new to me. I fear that I, too, cannot get enough of your hands on my skin.”

Athelstan surprised himself by voicing his desire in his own words.

Ragnar raised an eyebrow. “I am honoured that you want to share yourself with me,” he said.

“There is nothing I desire more,” Athelstan said. He wrapped his arms around Ragnar’s waist and rested his head on Ragnar’s chest.

“Your God is going to be so angry with me!” Ragnar shouted.

Athelstan laughed. “Don’t worry, my God is a forgiving one,” he said, “besides, I think he approved of me giving up my vows of celibacy.”

“Really?” Ragnar asked. “What would make you say that?”

“Something I feel when I’m with you,” Athelstan said. “I’m sure that it’s God’s will that I travel by your side. I cannot describe it. This just feels right.”

“Perhaps you can bring the words of your God to the places we will travel, if it pleases you,” Ragnar said.

“Oh, but I haven’t got my books or-” Athelstan was silenced by Ragnar’s finger across his lips.

Ragnar stepped away and opened one of the crates that lined the boards of the longship. He shoved his hand inside and pulled out the Gospel of Saint John, the very book that Athelstan had brought with them on their trip to Newcastle. Athelstan had forgotten that he left it behind with Ragnar.

To Athelstan’s surprise, Ragnar dipped his hand into the crate again and pulled out a bundle of quills and a quantity of vellum.

“Where did you…?” Athelstan asked, his eyes going wide. He took the book and raised an eyebrow at the scribing materials.

“I may have stopped in the scriptorium before I left the monastery for the final time,” Ragnar said.

“You raided the monastery for these?” Athelstan asked with a laugh. “I suppose I should thank you.”

Athelstan wrapped his arms around Ragnar. He could not imagine how he could love this man any more than he already did. His protector and his lover, Ragnar filled Athelstan with delight at every turn.

With his head against Ragnar’s chest, Athelstan observed the shoreline, a mile or more away from the path that the longship sailed. “Where are we?” he asked.

Ragnar turned Athelstan in his arms so they both looked in the direction that they travelled. He rested his hands on Athelstan’s hips and narrated their journey.

“This is still England. We will travel up the coast and find a little island and drop our anchor for the night. Then, if the weather is still favourable, we will resume our journey tomorrow,” Ragnar whispered, his lips brushing the back of Athelstan’s neck.

“Where will we go?”

“I do not know yet,” Ragnar said.

Athelstan clasped Ragnar’s wrist and brought his hand to rest across his chest. He imagined that only Ragnar’s gods or his own God Almighty knew what the future held for them. He excitedly dreamed about the places he had visited as a young monk and the many more places of the world that he might visit with Ragnar at his side.

“Will we go to Kattegat?” Athelstan asked. “I feel like I already know so much about it, I would love to travel there with you.”

“I am not sure,” Ragnar said, holding Athelstan tight. “There are many other places to explore. A wanderer once told me of an island beyond the western lands, where steam rises from cracks in the land so boldly that one can see it from the sea.”

“Steam? Is it a steam from some natural source, or is it something man-made?” Athelstan asked.

Ragnar grunted and pressed a kiss to the tender spot below Athelstan’s ear. “All I can say to you, priest, is this-the steam rising once we get there will certainly be man-made.”

Athelstan laughed and turned to kiss Ragnar again.

The longship cut a path north through the water. The red sail billowed, filled by the breath of the gods.

-The end-