angesradieux

[angesradieux]

The Word of the Lord

Summary: Athelstan finds himself irritated by his work. Inspired by a post about notes written by scribes in the backs of medieval manuscripts. One such note was about the quality of the translation.

Athelstan likes the rain well enough. At least, he likes the way the world looks and smells following the storm. It seems imbued with a sense of newness that he’s always found invigorating and exciting. And yet there are few things that irk him more than an overcast day.

Shrouded by a thick, gray cover, the sun scarcely brings any natural light into the scriptorium. The candles offer some relief, but Athelstan still feels the strain in his eyes as he leans over the desk, painstakingly crafting each letter with precise and careful strokes of the quil. But suddenly, he comes to a halt.

No.

He must have misread that bit. He leans closer to the original text, going back to examine the passage he’s been working on. It must have been a mistake.

Except, it isn’t. At least, not his mistake, anyway.

His lips thin in displeasure, but he continues his work. He’s been tasked with copying the volume, and that’s what he’ll do, no matter how absurd it seems. Athelstan tries to ignore the fact that it feels a terrible waste to devote so many hours to this particular text.

The longer he works, the more the muscles of his jaw grow tight with irritation. To the untrained eye, the pages fit together seamlessly. To anyone who knows Athelstan’s work, however, there’s a subtle difference in the lines. Typically, his lettering is neat, each one distinguishable, and yet there’s often a connection between them. There’s a fluidity to it that looks effortless, and yet has taken countless hours of careful practice to cultivate. Slowly, the letters become just a little less cohesive, perhaps due to some of the tension in his bearing finally translating to the movements of his hand.

At least he no longer has the presence of mind to bother being frustrated by the poor lighting. Thank the Lord for small mercies, he supposes.

It’s a greater mercy still when the book reaches its conclusion. So much so that he stops and offers a quick yet deeply sincere prayer of thanksgiving.

He sets it aside, relieved that he will never have to think about it again.

The irritation lingers, perhaps a little longer than Athelstan would have liked. But, in time it starts to fade and as he takes up new work.

It scarcely registers at all when he sees Cuthbert approach, the book Athelstan is all too happy to have forgotten in hand.

“Brother Athelstan,” he says stiffly. “This is your work, I take it?”

“Hmm?” He stops, looking up from the page to scrutinize the volume. “Yes, Father. I worked on that gospel.”

Father Cutbhert turns to the final page, pointing to a small note at the very end.

“It’s not uncommon,” Athelstan says lightly, “to leave a note at the end of a text when it’s finished.”

Father Cuthbert scowls. “If I knew who wrote the others, I would chastise them as well. But this one…” He picks up the book and reads aloud, “Whoever translated these gospels did a remarkably poor job…”

Athelstan feels the heat rising to his cheeks and ducks his head.

“Followed, of course, by a list of verses, and what the scribe believes to be more conventional translations. Do you deny this is your doing?”

“If our goal is to spread the word of God,” Athelstan argues, “should we not be doing so with as much accuracy as possible?”

“And you’ve read the original text, have you?”

“Well, no, but I’ve seen other gospels, and the convention is--”

“Your place is to copy, Brother Athelstan! That is your work, not passing judgement or offering corrections you think necessary when you lack the experience to make that decision. The Lord demands humility, and you would do well to practice it.”

Athelstan’s eyes drop back to the table. “Very well, Father.” He at least has the sense to look thoroughly chastised as Father Cuthbert leaves.

And yet, the fact of the matter is Athelstan regrets nothing.

[angesradieux]

Upended 2

Summary: Athelstan tries to bury himself in books to hide from his troubles. He finds he’s very good at denial.

Days of Elijah blares through the sound system. He’d found no relief in penance, but perhaps the energetic beat of the music might spur him to an artificially better mood, at least as long as it continues to play. He sings along with exaggerated enthusiasm. Fake it ‘til you make it.

The drive to campus passes quickly, barely long enough to play through the song twice. Most days it feels like an utter waste of gas to drive when he could so easily walk. His strides are long and hurried as he makes his way to the library. 

The Divinity library is in the basement, as is Athelstan’s carrel. It’s nothing special, smaller than the average cubicle, with a small desk and a little shelf above it. Still, Athelstan had managed to reserve his early enough to claim one with a lock, and aside from an array of books on the shelf, he stocked it with some instant coffee packets and an assortment of tea bags. It’s small, but it’s quiet, and sequestered in the library he has all the reading material he could ask for--bar the handful of items he needs to request via an interlibrary loan--right at his fingertips.

On another day, he’d likely take up residence at the desk for awhile and work there. Today, he finds the closeness of the walls reminds him of the confessional and leaves him too anxious to focus. For now, he just sets his shoulderbag down on the desk and then wanders to get lost in the stacks.

Athelstan is more familiar with the offerings than he’d care to admit--he’s spent a remarkable amount of time walking up and down the rows of books. He makes a bee-line for a particular shelf, picking up a book whose title had made him pause many times over, but which wasn’t on any of his reading lists, and so he’d told himself he didn’t have time to read. For now, he shows no restraint as he grabs the book from the shelf, along with a whole host of others barely even tangentially related to the things he’s been studying.

He returns to his desk with a stack so ponderous he can barely carry it and then scans the titles neatly arranged on the shelf of his carrel. Five see themselves shoved into his bag, and then he gathers his newfound treasures to bring to the front desk. An arched eyebrow from the employee calls forth a somewhat sheepish smile, but he just shrugs his shoulders and produces his student ID.

“You want a bag for these?”

“That would be great, thanks.” 

Athelstan knows she’s judging him as she piles books into three plastic bags, but it’s something of a relief to be faced with judgement that doesn’t frighten him at all. Unabashed, he accepts the bags and steps back out into the cool, evening air. Usually, driving is a waste, but tonight he’s grateful that he needn’t carry his bounty any further than the parking lot.

He turns the volume of the music up even louder on the drive home.

Read the full chapter here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29963424/chapters/74118318#workskin

[angesradieux]

The second one breaks my heart. But so well done! They're beautiful! <3

Nice clean, pretty Athelstan portrait for you!

If you want to see a little more gory version of this, it’s under the cut. HOWEVER: Season 3 spoiler, and trigger warnings for blood and head wounds. If those bother you, please don’t keep reading!

Keep reading

[angesradieux]

Upended

Summary: Another fic in my modern AU, because I’m just having too much fun with it. Floki is just an interesting person to talk to. It's nothing serious--at least, it isn't supposed to be. But a kiss calls all of that into question and leaves Athelstan floundering, struggling to decide what he wants and how to reconcile burgeoning feelings with his sense of self and his faith.

The beep of the microwave summons Floki back to the kitchen, and he returns in short order with a bowl of popcorn. Finally, he sits back down on the couch. “So, Dracula Untold? You’re sure you wouldn’t rather watch Saw?”

“Positive.”

Athelstan reaches for the popcorn as Floki hits play, but his hand swipes at air as Floki jerks the bowl away with a laugh. “You thought this was for you? Nope!”

“Jerk.” The quiet scoff is devoid of any bite of anger or hostility, and even the disapproving glare Athelstan tries so hard to conjure is far too amused to be taken seriously.

“Guilty.”

Still, with a smirk Floki offers the bowl to Athelstan. The banter quiets as they settle in to watch the movie. Although the way Athelstan leans forward a little, resting a fist beneath his chin and the soft, skeptical, “Interesting,” leaves little doubt that the conversation will resume soon enough.

His eyes narrow just a little and he exhales a puff of breath.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Athelstan waves a hand dismissively, but the hum that follows says otherwise. “It’s just… Why bother to research if you’re not going to go below the absolute most surface level?”

Floki shrugs. “Because no one except you would know the difference?” Athelstan turns his whole body to face Floki, who pretends not to notice. Instead, he muses, “Seems fine to me. Except not nearly enough blood.”

He gives a huff, but turns his attention back to the screen. For the most part, he manages to quell his righteous indignation on behalf of the historians who must have absolutely despised working on this film, although as the first vampire makes his appearance Athelstan can’t quite bite back the hushed exclamation of, “Really?” He groans, so focused on everything wrong with the movie that he doesn’t seem to realize that Floki has spent more time watching him than the television screen.

With an amused smile, Floki returns to the kitchen for another beer.

It’s an almost herculean task, but Athelstan does his best to keep his grumbling to a minimum, although Floki’s encouragement makes it incredibly tempting. Still, he manages to mostly hold it together until the credits roll. He sighs and slumps back, as if the effort of sitting through the movie has utterly exhausted him.

“Alright. Let’s hear it.”

“You’ll make fun of me!”

“Probably. But out with it, I know it’s killing you.”

Athelstan rolls his eyes. “I mean. There’s nothing! Absolutely nothing there that’s even close to vampire folklore! And they researched! I know they did!” Floki’s eyes glitter as he just gives a hum, gesturing for Athelstan to continue. “I mean, come on! They cast Dracula’s brother! No one does that. They obviously researched enough to know he had a brother. And Mehmed the Conqueror! How many Dracula movies even mention him? But even that was… I mean, yeah. They existed and Dracula fought them. But even that was mostly wrong!”

“Mmm. So you’re a Dracula scholar now?”

“I at least know vampires! And—”

“But they aren’t even real!”

“The folklore is! It was a thing! You can read about alleged vampire sightings in Greece, from the seventeenth century. They took it seriously enough that word of it came back to France. It fueled arguments about theology!”

Floki doesn’t interrupt, and that’s all the encouragement Athelstan needs to continue his tirade.

“I mean, seriously! A Catholic priest observed it. And he was convinced it meant that western Catholicism was the true faith, as opposed to Eastern Orthodox, because if vampires appeared in the east, obviously it meant their souls were corrupt. Meanwhile, the Greek priest argued that the appearance of vampires was a good thing. Because the devil was trying to corrupt their souls, and if he wasn’t trying in the west, it meant their souls were already corrupt and the devil needn’t bother. It’s fascinating!”

“So the church says vampires are real, does it?”

Athelstan’s brow knits and he shakes his head. “Well, it did at one time. I mean, they were seeing something, weren’t they? I’m sure now there’s a scientific explanation for it—I think it’s the stories from Serbia, there’s some speculation that what they saw was actually the effects of death from scurvy?—but it meant something to people at the time. And when the source material is so rich and interesting, why wouldn’t you use it!”

His hands wave as he speaks, voice raising in volume as his frustration mounts, spurred on only by his own interest in the subject. Floki rests his chin on a hand, eyes glittering in amusement as he allows Athelstan to continue to dismantle an opposition that exists in the confines of his mind rather than anywhere in the room. Athelstan comes alive when he argues. If this is the result, then sitting through a lackluster movie was more than worth whatever minor suffering it caused.

“It’s a crime!”

He hasn’t noticed that Floki’s come to sit just a little bit closer. It doesn’t register until suddenly lips brush against his, surprisingly gentle. He stiffens momentarily, but then finds himself relaxing into it. There’s a second, however brief, where he starts to return the kiss. Just a second, and then he stops, pulling away.

“Stop.”

“Hm?”

Floki obliges, watching him curiously.

“I can’t.”

“Of course you can,” Floki says. There’s an air of mischief about him as he adds, “And I’m an excellent teacher.” He leans in again, but Athelstan just about leaps off the couch.

“I have to go.”

He looks rather like a frightened rabbit as he rushes for the door.

He hears his name, but he neither stops nor looks back. Floki hasn’t chased him, and yet that doesn’t stop Athelstan from locking his car immediately once he’s settled in the driver’s seat. He runs a hand through his hair. “Fuck,” he breathes. For a long while, Athelstan just sits in the silence of his car, waiting for his heart to stop racing and allow him to calm down at least enough that he trusts himself to drive.

That night, Athelstan sleeps poorly, but he can't say whether it's the tender softness that shrouds his dreams or the burn of hellfire that fills his nightmares with brimstone that disturbs him more. 

It’s barely past six when he rises, giving up on a restful sleep. He rolls over and turns on the bedside lamp. He grabs the laptop from his nightstand, settling it on his lap. If he’s not going to sleep, maybe he can at least get some work done. However, no matter how hard he tries to gather himself enough to crank out a few pages for the next chapter of his dissertation, his thoughts remain scattered.  It’s fine. It doesn’t need to be good right now, anyway--that’s what editing is for. At least, that’s what he tries to tell himself.

His fingertips remain still upon the keyboard as words refuse to come, chased away by the feeling of lips brushing against his own and the burning shame that comes from the realization that he may have put a stop to it, but he hadn’t wanted to. 

Clearly, this is all an exercise in futility and soon the laptop, just like sleep, is abandoned. Instead, Athelstan gets up and gets himself dressed. He scarcely takes the time to run a brush through his hair before making his way to St. Joseph’s church.

The doors are open. Father Cuthbert likes it that way, providing a refuge in the early hours for those who need a moment of quiet contemplation before diving into the hustle of daily life. The sanctuary has its own distinctive scent, incense that lingers and the warmth of smoke from candles lit for loved ones lost that hangs itself about the shoulders of the faithful. In the past, it has always been a comfort, a familiarity that seemed to welcome Athelstan home, centering him and calling his mind to the task of worshipping the Divine. 

Today, it leaves Athelstan sick.

Read the full fic here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29963424/chapters/73761141

[angesradieux]

Home

Summary: This is a fic inspired by a fantastic piece of fanart by @laughinglynx Ragnar notices Athelstan limping and wants to help

 Kattegat is home, but it is exhausting. And right now, Athelstan just wants to rest. His limp grows more pronounced with each step and he no longer has the energy to pretend it doesn’t exist. His shoulders are stiff from the pain and his jaw set against it. With each step, the unevenness of the earth digs into the soles of his damaged feet—all he wants is to sit, and to hide in the privacy of his small house.

 Yet Ragnar’s voice makes him stop.

 Athelstan can’t muster a smile. In fact, a shadowed touch of dread creeps into his eyes as he sees Ragnar beaming, hands behind his back.

 “Priest,” he repeats, pace quickening.

 One hand remains behind his back while the other arm drapes itself around Athelstan’s shoulders. “Come with me!”

 Athelstan cranes his neck, trying to see what it is Ragnar’s trying so hard to hide. But whatever it is, it’s concealed by furs.

 “Ragnar, please. I’m tired.”

 He gives no indication that he’s heard Athelstan’s protest. Blue eyes glitter as he follows Athelstan’s gaze to the package he’s obscured, and he tuts, “Patience, priest.” There’s laughter in his voice, even as his grip on Athelstan tightens and he draws him closer, encouraging Athelstan to lean against him. At the very least, Ragnar has seen his pain.

 Athelstan expects to be steered back towards Ragnar’s hall, to sit among his friends. He dreads it. It’s not always so bad, but right now he just doesn’t have it in him to smile and talk and pretend that everything is as it once was. It isn’t. And Athelstan just wants a moment of quiet and privacy to nurse his wounds. However, he senses the futility of his objections, and allows himself to be led wherever Ragnar would like to go.

 His brow creases as they near the door of his home.

 “You’ve not been yourself, priest,” he says as he shepherds Athelstan inside.

 “I’m sorry—”

 “For what?” Ragnar tilts his head, eyes narrowing a fraction. “It’s an observation,” he says lightly, “not an accusation.”

 He encourages Athelstan to sit on his bed and then sits beside him. The mirth in his eyes is tinged with sorrow as he takes hold of Athelstan’s hand, thumb tracing the scar. “You’ve been in pain. I should have seen sooner.”

 “I’m fine    .”

 “You’re not.” Ragnar speaks firmly, leaving little room for argument. “I don’t like to see you limp.”

 Athelstan’s lip curls a little. “Well. I hope you’ll forgive—”

 “Athelstan.” At the use of his given name, the bitter retort dies on his lips. “I am trying to help. Let me.” He sets the parcel on his lap, folding back the furs to reveal a pair of shoes. He turns one on its side and shows Athelstan the sole, firmer than on any shoe he’d ever worn before. “To better protect your feet.”

Read the full fic here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29888247

[angesradieux]

I love this so much!

According to some research I vaguely remember doing a while back, Saxons generally used soft soled shoes. Which are, of course, not exactly fantastic if you’ve been crucified, because that soft sole means that every single rock in the road will dig right into your foot. Anyways, that lead to this very silly drawing, and the head canon that Ragnar notices Athelstan limping around post-Wessex and gets him some nice, fancy new shoes.

Made on Krita with a Wacom Intuos tablet.

[angesradieux]

Leap of Faith

Summary: As Valentine's Day approaches, Floki invites Athelstan out for drinks. He ought to say "no," but Floki is interesting, and Athelstan has never been good at walking away from an interesting conversation. Things go awry when Floki introduces Athelstan to some of his friends and Ragnar can't seem to understand what it is about the uptight young man that's captured Floki's interest. They're very different people, and Athelstan isn't sure what Floki is to him, but whatever it is, he has his own doubts whether it can work.

  By Saturday evening, Athelstan has made sufficient progress to justify a night out. He’s made his way through the literature on church music and moved onto heresy and witchcraft and he’s made some decent headway on the reading for his classes in the upcoming week. The only question is whether he wants to spend his much coveted free time in a bar with Floki when he could be lounging around the apartment, playing his guitar for a bit, and then going to bed at a decent hour so he might actually feel rested in the morning. A quiet night in sounds delightful.

 Except Athelstan knows better than that. He might manage to relax a little, but it will only last so long before that pile of papers waiting to be graded or the grant proposal he’s been working on starts to call his name. If he’s really looking for a night away from work, the best way to make it happen is to be out of the apartment, and accepting Floki’s invitation seems easier than trying to wrangle a group of students together at the last minute.

  Or maybe Athelstan just actually wants to go. Maybe the company of someone different, who he hasn’t met through either school or church, intrigues him.

  Maybe.

  Whether it’s convenience or desire that drives him, Athelstan finds himself getting into his car and pulling up directions to Valhalla. It’s a place a bit off the beaten path, not a part of town Athelstan’s been to before. But he supposes that makes sense. He and Floki tend to prefer very different kinds of places.

  The first word that comes to mind is loud.

  The bar is crowded, packed with boisterous people, many of whom have had a little too much liquor to remember how to speak quietly. And then there’s the… Well, actually Athelstan thinks it might be too generous to call it music. Noise is probably a better word to describe the heavy bass and wailing vocals coming from the speakers. It’s a far cry from the quiet bars that are more restaurant than actual bar that he sometimes goes to with friends from class.

  In his jeans and sweater and with the ever-present cross around his neck, Athelstan can’t help but feel incredibly out of place in this crowd.

 Grimacing, he almost turns to leave, but then somehow a familiar voice manages to cut over the cacophonous racket of the bar. “Athelstan!” Floki waves him over, leaving no doubt that he’s been spotted. Dressed in tight leather and even more eyeliner than usual, the other man looks much more suited to the atmosphere than Athelstan.

  As he approaches their table, Athelstan realizes Floki’s sharing it with two others. At a glance, they almost look related, both blue eyed and sporting impressive manes of blond hair. And yet, they sit much too close together to be brother and sister. He feels the heat rising to his face as he flushes when he realizes how low cut the woman’s top is.

  The man’s eyes rake over him, lingering on his crucifix.

  “So this is the choir boy you’ve been telling us about, hm?”

  “Athelstan,” he supplies, although he has his doubts whether anyone can hear him over the background noise.

  Whether he’s heard him or not, the man doesn’t yet acknowledge Athelstan. “Not your usual type. Little straitlaced for you, no?”

  The woman smacks his shoulder and scolds, “Play nice.” She offers a hand. “I’m Lagertha. And this brute is my husband, Ragnar.”

  “Athelstan,” he repeats, a little steadier than before.

  “Yes, yes, And now that everyone knows everyone, come sit down. Don’t be shy!” Floki chuckles, which does very little to set Athelstan at ease. As he takes a seat at the table, he looks rather like he’s just sat down on a pincushion. His shoulders rise up and pull inward as Floki drapes an arm around him.

  “You look like you need a drink.” Lagertha winks at him, and then waves a server over. “Feel free to pick something expensive. Floki’s buying the next round.”

Read the full fic here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29813769

[angesradieux]

Good Death

Summary: Caught up trying to survive in his new world, Athelstan hadn't had time to properly grieve the loss of his brothers and his life in England. The chill of autumn in the air brings with it a painful realization and he finds the pain has become too much to ignore. He tries to distance himself from his master to keep it hidden, but when Ragnar notices his slave is not himself, Athelstan has no choice but to tell him why.

The sensation of eyes watching him sends tension creeping up his spine. He rolls his shoulders, willing himself to relax, because he refuses to acknowledge it. Athelstan is exhausted and he doesn’t want to talk to Ragnar. Or anyone else for that matter. Yet, he hears the characteristic, heavy footsteps of his master that inspire a jolt of panic. His head shoots up and he looks around.

 Where is Gyda? Surely she’ll find something for him to help her with. Or Bjorn. There must be somewhere else he can make himself useful. He stands, determined to find something quickly, but the distance between them closes before he can skitter off.

“Priest.”

 Athelstan doesn’t turn around, finding something or other to suddenly become incredibly interested in. “What is it, Ragnar?” Already, his voice has an edge to it.

 “I’ve not seen much of you lately.”

 “There has been work to be done,” he answers tightly.

 He flinches away from the hand that seeks a place on his shoulder. Ragnar frowns. “You’d stopped doing that.”

 It’s true, Athelstan had grown more comfortable with his role in their lives, settling in as something of a companion to them. Today, he is too raw, and yet he doesn’t have it in him to argue. “I’m sorry.” He steels himself, but Ragnar makes no move to touch him again. Whatever response he was looking for, that doesn’t appear to have been it.

 “You look tired. Why don’t you come inside?”

 “I can’t. I have to…” He gestures vaguely around him. Honestly, he isn’t even sure what he’s doing anymore. Just that it must be more important than his master’s need for company. What about Arne? Or Torstein? Floki’s usually lurking somewhere. Any of them must be more interesting company than Athelstan.

 And yet Ragnar doesn’t relent. “Leave it. There are others who can see to it.” He’s at least generous enough to humor Athelstan and pretend that he’d been engaged in something worthwhile. “You’ll be of no use to anyone if you run yourself into the ground.”

 Athelstan closes his eyes for a moment. “Alright.” Finally, he turns to face his master and tries to smile, if only to fend off the concern in the Northman’s eyes. He doesn’t want Ragnar’s concern—it will only make him even more overbearing than he already is. Perceptive as he often is, Ragnar seems entirely incapable of understanding that sometimes his company simply isn’t wanted.

 He plods along after his master in silence and obeys the unspoken command to sit beside him in the hall.

 “You’ve not spoken of your God for some time,” he prods.

 “You’ve already heard all the stories I have to tell,” Athelstan counters.

 “You’re being difficult.”

 Athelstan’s lip curls and his eyes narrow. Still, he says nothing.

 “You’ve never minded my curiosity before.”

 “Ragnar, please. I can’t. Not today.”

 “You’ve not been yourself lately. Why is that, Priest?”

 Athelstan presses fingers to his temple. He’s too tired for this. “I will begin a fast tomorrow,” he finally says. “I would ask you not to interfere.”

 Ragnar tilts his head, scrutinizing his priest. “What is a fast?”

Had he not explained it before? He supposes there hadn’t yet been a need. Perhaps he also assumed his master would be familiar with the concept. In hindsight, however, the gods of the Northmen don’t see terribly interested in seeing their followers abstain from much of anything. There is so much excess in everything they do it shouldn’t come as a surprise that the notion of a fast might be foreign.

 “For the next few days, I will not eat,” he explains through a heavy sigh. He can already see the argument on his master’s face.

 “Why would you do something like that?” Athelstan purses his lips. “What do you have to gain from weakening yourself like that?”

 “I have to,” he insists. “It is only a few days. I will still be able to work and it won’t do any harm.” Maybe it was stupid to have said anything. If he’d just kept his mouth shut and gone about his business, Ragnar might not have even noticed. But it would have been foolish to hang his hopes on that—his master is perceptive and has eyes like an eagle’s. He may not understand everything, but there is little he doesn’t at least see.

 “What purpose does it serve? I’ve told you before, Priest. I don’t like those in my household to go without.”

 “Yes, but at the time you were hardly concerned with my comfort.” If he wanted to douse the fire of Athelstan’s temper, he’d chosen a poor memory with which to do so. Ragnar wanted to use him that night, when he’d spoken those words, and the ale he offered had been just another weapon to turn against the monk. Ragnar opens his mouth the speak, but Athelstan cuts him off. “My brothers are dead, Ragnar. You may have forgotten, but I haven’t.”

 “Priest—”

 “This is the only way I have left to honor them,” he persists. “Don’t take this from me, too.”

Read the full fic here

[angesradieux]

First Blood 3

Summary: Ragnar and Ecbert negotiate, and Athelstan must make a choice. Final chapter of First Blood! It’s finally finished, and I’m really happy with how it turned out. I hope you like it, too!

As the light of dawn creeps over the horizon, Athelstan is more anxious than he cares to admit to set out for the Vikings’ camp.

 Aethelwulf is less eager, but he abides by his father’s wishes. He, like Athelstan, is a familiar face, and one the Vikings know to be too important to kill thoughtlessly. The prince doesn’t trust him, Athelstan knows. Athelstan is unarmed—it’s just as well, even if he had a weapon he doubts he’d be able to use it—but the others with him are not. He understands, but still thinks it unwise. All it takes is for a scout to see a party of armed men and a single arrow is enough to destroy the tentative truce.

 Still, he knows better than to voice his concerns. Instead, he rides a little ahead of their small party and keeps an eye and an ear out for possible trouble. His eyes track for movement in the underbrush and he remains tense even as the camp comes into view.

 An archer takes aim.

 “I bring word from King Ecbert. Ragnar will be expecting me.”

 “You, perhaps. And I see your friends have not come unarmed.”

 “What are you saying to them,” Aethelwulf demands.

 Athelstan’s eyes don’t leave the bow, still drawn and ready to shoot. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the prince’s hand on the hilt of his sword. He suspects he will die here, yet for now he cannot say whether it will be with an English sword in his back or a Viking arrow in his chest. He can’t speak to both groups at the same time, and where Aethelwulf will take continued conversation in Norse as a sign of betrayal, he knows that switching to English will appear to the Northmen as a signal to attack.

 He hopes the prince will stay his blade for just a little longer. Athelstan dismounts his horse. He’s clumsy—most days he can’t even walk without pain—and the way the foot flexes in the stirrup leaves him with an ache that makes him quite graceless. He holds up his hands to show that while his companions may be armed, he holds no weapon. “We have not come to fight.” He glances over his shoulder at Aethelwulf. “Killing the king’s son kills Rollo and ends negotiations before they have even begun.”

 Slowly, the archer lowers his bow.

 “Please. Get Ragnar, and then we can all talk.”

 As the Northman retreats, Aethelwulf’s hand remains on his sword. “What did you tell him, apostate?”

 “That it would be ill-advised to kill us, your highness,” Athelstan answers, unable to keep the bite from his tone. “And that he should get Ragnar, so that we can all understand each other.”

 “Stay alert,” he advises, as if there is a chance any of them might come away alive if the tentative truce is broken.

 He relaxes a little when Ragnar approaches, flanked by Lagertha and Horik. “Priest. You’ve brought friends.” Blue eyes scan the other men, but he doesn’t seem particularly bothered by it. Still, Athelstan can’t quite suppress a grimace.

 “King Ecbert would like to meet with you to discuss terms.” Athelstan switches to English, allowing Ragnar to translate, for Aethelwulf’s benefit more than anything else.

 “And yet your king is not among you.” Horik’s eyes are on Athelstan rather than any of the other Saxons.

 “He invites you to his villa,” Athelstan explains in English, waiting for Ragnar to translate.

 Ragnar speaks, this time directly to Aethelwulf. “We will need some assurance,” he says, “that we will not be killed if we go with you.” Horik’s lips thin as the conversation becomes one he can no longer understand, both sides speaking English. When the prince doesn’t answer, he presses, “You already have my brother. Surely, you understand our desire to balance the scales? We will accompany you and Athelstan back to your court, but the rest of your men will remain here until we return.”

 “It’s not an unreasonable request,” Athelstan interjects.

 “I have your word they will be unharmed,” Aethelwulf finally relents.

 “Of course, provided we return safely.”

 “Fine.”

 Tension hangs thick in the air as they make ready to leave, but Athelstan is grateful that, if nothing else, hope for peace remains intact. He does his best to hide the difficulty with which he mounts his own horse, unwilling to show Horik that weakness.

 Horik and Aethelwulf are not so dissimilar as they might like to claim. Both slow to trust, they bring up the rear, riding side by side, neither willing to expose his back. Athelstan leads, with Ragnar and Lagertha not far behind.

 “Has England been everything you imagined it would be,” Ragnar asks.

 Athelstan knew this conversation would come—honestly, he was surprised it hadn’t when he’d first arrived to their camp. “In many ways, it has not,” he answers. He heaves a sigh before adding, “And yet, in some ways it is more.”

 “How so?”

 He glances over his shoulder, back towards the prince. Athelstan chooses to continue their discussion in Norse. “I… It doesn’t feel like home,” he admits. “The people are no longer my own.” Perhaps they never had been. Athelstan doesn’t remember much from before he’d been given to the church. His entire life had structured by the monastery, filled with the companionship of those similarly devoted to the service of the Lord. Perhaps even then the world at large would have felt just as foreign as it does now, albeit a bit less hostile. Either way, he cannot shake the feeling that he does not belong. “And yet, Christ is still my God. He speaks here in a way He never did in Kattegat.”

 True, he frequently hears more judgement than pardon of late. But it is still his God, and how long had he ached to hear His voice? It is as if a gaping hole in the depths of his soul has been filled. “I had missed hearing His voice.”

 “What does that mean, Priest?” His gaze shifts to the arm ring, still in its place on Athelstan’s wrist. There’s steel in his voice that Athelstan chooses to pretend he doesn’t notice. He knows the question Ragnar meant to ask and he doesn’t have the answer.

 “It means,” he answers, brow knitting as he looks away from the Viking, “that my most earnest prayer is that today you and Lord Ecbert will reach an agreement. Perhaps then I may make peace with myself.”

Read the full fic here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28631574/chapters/71747259

[angesradieux]

Serve Him in Death

Summary: Floki had to kill the priest. Now that he has, he sits beside the body and tells it so.

Floki traces a hand across the priest’s brow almost tenderly, smoothing his dark hair. “I had to do it.” His lips twist as he folds his legs beneath him, sitting beside his victim. “You could have died with honor, all those years ago,” he muses. “Were you a little less of a coward. Instead, we lost Leif and kept you.” He scoffs. How much better off would they all have been had the priest proven himself a worthy sacrifice, long before he managed to dig his Christian claws into Ragnar’s heart? Floki regrets only that it has taken him so long to right that wrong.

 “You poisoned him. I still don’t know why he listened to you.”

 His brow knits at the sight of the cross hung around the dead man’s neck. “The rope suited you better.” Floki hadn’t minded the priest so much in those early days, leashed like livestock. The way a slave ought to be. He’d been a tool, then. Those guileless eyes wide with naivety and fear, a weak and simple man who Ragnar might ply with drink to extract information before leading the Vikings to plunder and desecrate another Christian church.

 Floki had quite liked him then. At least, he’d liked what the little priest could do for them. He’d also not minded him while he’d kept his head down, performing the duties of a servant quietly and keeping out of the way. Then, he’d known where he belonged.

 “The gods brought you here to serve. You’d have done better to mind your place.”

 He couldn’t pinpoint when it happened, exactly. But somewhere along the way, the priest’s purpose had become something more than to serve. He’d latched on like a tick and become entirely too much to Ragnar.

 “But now you’ve made me hurt him.”

Read the full fic here

[angesradieux]

His Sorrowful Passion Snippet

I’d posted another snippet of this piece previously, but I just had so much fun writing it I wanted to share another

Summary: Jesus Christ spoke seven times upon the cross. During his own crucifixion, Athelstan recalls each statement, but as much as he tries to focus his mind on Christ, he finds his thoughts are all of Ragnar.

I thirst

It had seemed out of place to Athelstan. He’d wondered how, amidst the pain, Christ had been able to spare a thought for thirst. He hadn’t questioned it aloud—he knew such a thing would not be well received at Lindisfarne—but no matter how he thought on it, he never reached an understanding.

Now, he has.

Blood trails down his face and stings his eyes as the crown of thorns is forced upon his head. His instinct is to wipe it away and the mere twitch of his pierced hands as it tries to move drives him to rasp out a feeble cry. There is no longer a bone in his body that doesn’t hurt. Yet, his screams have left his throat raw, and the other wounds cannot entirely distract from it. Had he anything left to give, he would have surrendered it all for a sip of water.

It calls to mind Ragnar’s eyes.

Bright and clear, and as blue as the most pristine lake. It hurts to know he will never look upon those eyes again.

A drink of water may have eased his physical suffering, but how much more might one, final glance of those eyes have soothed him? Where one would relieve his parched throat, the other promised a healing balm for the soul to ease him more gently into death. And yet even as he craves it with all of his being, he gives thanks that the Viking’s tender gaze is far away.

It would destroy Ragnar to see him this way. It pains Athelstan, but he knows it is a mercy that the Viking’s final memory of him will be of the confident man watching his ship leave, prepared to serve him and protect his interests abroad until they would meet again. It is better this way, for both of their sakes.

Read the full fic here

[angesradieux]

First Blood 2

Chapter two is up! In Wessex, Athelstan must consider his faith and what it means to him without Ragnar by his side. He remains torn.

Athelstan is wide-eyed and pale as he approaches the altar for Communion. He watches the priest in a silent plea. He wants to believe that he is worthy—that he can return to Christ. There is neither pardon nor reassurance, in fact the priest seems to hesitate, his eyes narrowed in displeasure and expression pinched as he regards the man he recognizes as an apostate. He neither outwardly condemns nor turns Athelstan away, but the lines of disapproval on his face are enough.

He limps away from the altar and, when he is certain no eyes remain upon him, discards the sacred bread. He should have known better than to presume to Commune with the Lord.

The Saxon remains there on his knees long after the final benediction has been offered, pleading with God for forgiveness he fears may never come. Away from the gentle care of Leofwin and his brothers, the true gravity of his sins takes hold of him. He is in the Devil’s grasp and knows neither how to free himself nor to whom he can turn for help.

The robes Ecbert has given him become oppressive and he longs for the tunics he’d worn among the Northmen. They would suit him better than the garb of a holy man—clothing he no longer has any right to claim. The delicate chain of the crucifix feels as heavy and chafing as Ragnar’s rope had once been about his neck. Yet, it pleases the king to see him wear all the trappings of a devoted man of Christ, and so he cannot shed them no matter how they make his skin crawl.

He hobbles through a life that is not his own—a vision, perhaps, of what might have been had the Northmen never come to Lindisfarne, of who he could have been. It’s cruel, because part of him

aches

for it. He craves the closeness with Christ and the surety of the Lord he had once known all those years ago and a part of him wishes with everything in him that he had never been forced to shed the cowl of a monk. But for better or for worse, Ragnar had taken him and Athelstan has changed. The man he once was belonged to God, but he isn’t sure he knows how to reconcile the man he is now with the Lord he once knew.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/28631574/chapters/70506504#workskin

[angesradieux]

Kyrie Eleison

Summary: Overcome with guilt over his participation in Ragnar's raid on England and a deep sense of unworthiness, Athelstan engages in a penitential fast. He is lost and comes to believe that it is only through suffering that the Lord might find him and bring him back into the fold.

“Do you still fast?”

“Yes, my lord.” He gives as much of a smile as he can manage and explains, “There is still much spiritual work to be done.”

Ecbert frowns. “Surely, though, you must allow yourself something?”

“Christ will sustain me.”

“You’ll join me for dinner,” his king decides. “At the very least, take some broth. As your king, I simply must insist.”

There is no point in arguing. Athelstan simply bows his head. “If that is your wish, then of course I will oblige.” His tone is strained, but if Ecbert notices, he doesn’t care.

The king claps him on the shoulder. “It’s settled, then.”

At the very least, he honors Athelstan’s wishes enough to see he’s served something simple. He finds before him a bowl of soup and a hunk of bread, in contrast to much more kingly fare upon the table. Still, he can’t help but think it seems far too much. And, too, he feels the weight of Aethelwulf’s stare. The king and the prince both watch, each issuing their own unspoken command. One has issued a pardon and welcome him into the fold, the other looks on in condemnation It’s the latter who sees Athelstan for what he truly is.

He cannot obey both, and so he must obey the king.

Athelstan eats.

The humble meal is warm and flavorful, but he does not enjoy it. It sits heavily in his stomach and the bread is as ash on his tongue. Relief from the hunger that has been his companion for more than a week is not truly a relief at all.

As soon as he has satisfied his obligation of polite conversation, he flees outside, where he sinks to his knees and retches, bringing up everything he’s consumed. He remains there, sitting in the dirt, panting. Athelstan is exhausted. He contemplates whether he wouldn’t be better off spending the night outdoors rather than making the painful walk to his quarters, but he makes a half-hearted reach for his cane. As he does, he sees a cloven hoof.

A creature of shadows stands above him, silhouette an unholy hybrid of human and goat. Blazing eyes burn him to the depth of his soul.

 You’ve broken your penitential fast.

“No,” he gasps.

 Is His flesh not enough?

“I… I did only as I was commanded. I—”

 It would sustain you, if He wished it. But He has abandoned you.

“Please!”

 You will burn, apostate.

He clutches his head and shuts his eyes, trying to block out the demon’s voice. He raises frantic repetitions of, “Christe eleison” to a God who will not deign to listen. He looks a madman, muttering and cowering away from nothing. His voice raises, painful and keening, calling out to no one and his breaths come in shallow and irregular bursts that leave him as dizzy and starved for air as he had felt when hoisted up upon the cross. Is he going to die? He thinks he must, and the demon has come to drag his soul down to Hell.

Read the full fic here

[angesradieux]

New Friends?

Snippet from chapter two of First Blood. Without Ragnar at his side, Athelstan struggles with himself in Wessex. Along the way, he has acquired a new protector. Not yet complete, but should be posted soon!

The days that follow pass in a fever dream.

 Someone cares for him. Gentle hands bring with them fresh waves of pain as they peel bandages away to clean and re-wrap gaping wounds. Sometimes, they encourage him to take some water or broth, or he thinks he feels a damp cloth wiping sweat from his brow. If he’s seen the face of his caretaker, he can’t recall. He isn’t even sure if it’s real or simply a phantom conjured by an addled mind. He never speaks, he isn’t sure he can. He lays still, drifting in and out of consciousness.

 When he finally wakes in any meaningful way, he’s in a cell, much like the one he’d occupied at Lindisfarne. Is this Heaven? It would make sense, he thinks, for Heaven to look like a monastery. But that be the case, why does he still hurt? Surely in Paradise, there would be no suffering… He doesn’t understand. His brow knits in confusion as weary eyes try to take in more of his surroundings.

 It comes as a shock to see the king seated beside his bed. He is dreaming, he must be. All the same, he tries to sit up, but a hand comes to rest against his chest. He flinches.

 “Rest,” the king commands. Gentle, grey eyes and a kind smile belie his reputation as a ruthless opponent on the field of battle. “You’re safe.”

 He should know better than to believe it. And yet those eyes… The blueish grey of them reminds him so much of another pair of eyes which he knows to be so, very kind and yet utterly ruthless by turns. Eyes that had made him safe and protected, once upon a time. There is something familiar in the king that compels Athelstan to trust him, foolish though it may be. “Safe,” he sighs, relaxing back into the bed.

 “Yes.” Satisfied that Athelstan will remain where he is, King Ecbert removes his hand and sits back. “You’re weak, and I thought it best to leave you in the capable hands of your brothers in Christ.”

 At that, Athelstan can’t help but give a derisive snort. Christians. His brothers… The men who’d nailed him to that cross had thought of themselves as good Christians.

 The king chooses not to comment. Instead, he continues, “But, when you are strong enough, I will have you brought to stay in my villa. There, you shall be under my protection and none will dare harm you.”

 “Why?” Who is he, that the king of Wessex should care whether he lives or dies?

 “You arrived on our shores with the Northmen. And yet, you speak our language, and I am told you claim not to be one of them.” He shrugs his shoulders. “Perhaps they were simply the words of a man desperate to save his own life, but I do not believe it is so.” His eyes are calculating, and with that thoughtful glint they are just that much more familiar to Athelstan. It stirs an ache in the depths of his soul that he’s not sure he understands. “You have a story I think deserves to be told. I should like to hear it.”

 However, when Athelstan draws a breath to speak, he shakes his head. “Not now. For now, just rest. When you are stronger, we will talk more. For now, I simply wanted to tell you that you are safe.”

 It occurs to Athelstan that he ought to be tired of sleeping. He still doesn’t know how long he has been unconscious. And yet, with at least some knowledge of where he is and the reassurance that he is safe from harm, he finds his eyes once again grow heavy and he can rest easy. He is alive. He is alive and he is in Wessex and he is safe. He doesn’t yet know King Ecbert’s true intentions towards him or what the Saxons will think of his presence among them, but for now he doesn’t care. For now, what little he does know is enough.

Read chapter one here

[angesradieux]

First Blood

The first chapter is finished!

Summary: Ragnar takes Athelstan to Wessex for his first raid. His axe christened with the blood of his countrymen, Athelstan must reflect on what his friendship with Ragnar has forced him to become and whether he can allow it to continue. Ragnar gifts his priest an arm ring, marking him among his trusted men, on equal footing with any other. With it he asks Athelstan to make a choice, but he isn't sure he wants to hear the answer. Two-shot.

He sits by the fire to join the celebration over their victory, but his heart isn’t in it. His eyes rarely ever leave the line of trees and he wonders why it’s taking Athelstan so long to find his way back. He’s about to go looking for him when he finally sees the Saxon emerge. His shoulders are hunched and his steps are slow and heavy.

 As he settles himself in as secluded a spot as he can manage, Ragnar regrets the way he’d resented the ease in the man’s bearing when they’d first come ashore.

 Perhaps he should wait. But he won’t for fear his resolve will not last. He tries not to see the grimace or the way the other man seems to sag with resignation as he approaches, much the same way he chooses not to notice the redness of his eyes.

 “What is it, Ragnar?” He sounds exhausted, his voice flat and devoid of its usual spark.

 “It’s later.”

 Athelstan sighs, but gestures for Ragnar to go on.

 Taking the seat beside him, he picks up where he’d begun earlier. “After Earl Haraldson’s funeral, I offered to free you, and you refused. Do you remember why?”

 The priest can’t keep the annoyance from his tone. “Because it was just part of a game, and it didn’t actually change anything. Because I mean nothing to you.”

 Ragnar flinches. “Because it meant nothing to me, you said,” he corrects quietly. He heaves a sigh of his own. He ought to just brush it off and move on, but he can’t. “Is that truly what you think? That you mean nothing to me?”

 He shakes his head. “No. I’m tired. I misspoke.”

 Athelstan is a terrible liar.

 Once again, he removes a ring from his arm, and very gently, he takes the priest’s hand and slides it onto his wrist. “This means something. You are your own man, Athelstan, on equal footing with everyone else here.” He swallows thickly. “When our business here is concluded, I would like for you to leave with us. But this time, if you make the voyage from England to Kattegat, it is to be of your own accord, as a free man.”

 Athelstan jerks his hand away and takes off the arm ring. He’s not sure what he expected, but he’s unprepared for the anger in his priest’s eyes as he lifts them from the ground. “Why are you doing this? Why now, Ragnar?” He gives a bitter laugh. “Is it because you know I can’t? I’ve killed their soldiers. It isn’t really a choice at all, is it?”

 “It is,” Ragnar insists. “It is only an offer, Athelstan. That is all it is. And I am not asking you to choose right now. Just… Wear it for now, and if you decide you don’t want it…” He pauses, offering a somewhat sad smile. “I will take it back, and I’m sure we can make you look a very convincing runaway slave and a little information will buy you safe passage. Whatever you wish, it will be honored. I swear it on my own arm ring.”

 The priest scrutinizes the ring in his hand. Slowly, he places it on his wrist. “Thank you, Ragnar.”

 It pains the Northman that he can’t tell whether the thanks is sincere. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

 “I know.”

 Athelstan allows Ragnar to drape an arm around his shoulders and they sit together in silence. It isn’t the easy, companionable silence they often shared beside the fire in the evenings, but rather a heavy and somber weight that settles over their shoulders. Something between them is still broken.

Read the full fic here

[angesradieux]

First Raid

Summary: Athelstan accompanies Ragnar on his first raid. The gravity of what that means hits when he kills a man for the first time. He begins to question what his friendship with Ragnar means and whether it can continue

“You saved my life today.” The admission doesn’t come easily to the Northman who has never liked to acknowledge his own vulnerability. “Do you regret it?” It comes as an unpleasant surprise that rather than gentle teasing, the question is quite sincere.

 “No,” his priest answers immediately. “I…” He exhales heavily and still will not look at Ragnar. “It’s just…” He stops, trying to gather his thoughts. He has never been one to speak without first figuring out what, exactly, it is he wants to say. “You have no idea what it meant,” he says slowly. “Just to be here. To see the home I thought I’d lost forever.”

 Ragnar scowls. He wants to tell his priest that he has a new home now, but he manages to bite his tongue. For now, anyway. He sits and waits for Athelstan to continue.

 “Now I’ve realized.” Finally, he turns back to Ragnar, meeting his eyes. “You’ve brought me back as her enemy.” The accusation there is undeniable. The Northman feels himself bristling against it, but for now he still manages to hold his tongue—perhaps through the intervention of the gods. “He was just trying to defend his home, and I killed him for it. For you. And I… I regret it, but at the same time I don’t.”

 Cautiously, Ragnar rests a hand on the priest’s shoulder, his frown deepening as Athelstan immediately ducks away from him. “You did what was necessary.”

 A bitter scoff is enough to tell him that Athelstan doesn’t care for his explanation.

 “I’ve lost myself, Ragnar. I don’t know who I am anymore, and I… I just need to think.” He blinks against the wetness in his eyes—he’s always resisted crying in front of Ragnar if he could help it.

 Ragnar takes a ring from his arm and turns it over in his hands, scrutinizing it. His brow knits together and a long moment passes in silence as he thinks. “Do you remember what you said to me when I offered you freedom after Earl Haraldson’s funeral?”

 Athelstan leans forward and presses the heel of his hand against his forehead, closing his eyes. “Ragnar, please.”

 “You refused,” he continues. “Do you remember why?”

 “It’s a wonder you do,” Athelstan retorts. “You never seem to hear me I speak.”

 “Athelstan—”

 “Please, Ragnar!” He draws in a shuddering breath. “Please. Whatever this is, we’ll talk later. But I just… I can’t do it right now. Please.”

 Ragnar takes a breath, prepared to argue. Instead, he sighs, “Alright. Later.”

 He returns the ring to his arm and stands to leave. He doesn’t go far—there may still be Saxon soldiers in the area, and he doesn’t think it wise to leave Athelstan on his own. But he retreats at least far enough to give his friend the illusion of privacy. He pretends not to hear the sounds of Athelstan retching or the anguished prayers punctuated by muffled sobs.

Full fic coming soon!

In the mean time, check out some of my other Vikings fics here

[angesradieux]

Storm-tossed

Summary: Athelstan is scared of rainstorms. It takes Ragnar some time to notice, and longer to understand why. When he does, he tries to help, but he’s never had a way with words.

The rain doesn’t let up.

 In the morning, he hears it strike the earth in its relentless staccato.

 He sits at the table with Ragnar and his family for breakfast, but he doesn’t eat. He tries but finds the sight of the meal turns his stomach. No one bothers to remark upon it. It hadn’t taken long for Ragnar to realize that the Saxon’s appetite isn’t anywhere near as hearty as his own, so it doesn’t seem particularly out of character.

 What does raise an eyebrow is the way he balks over being sent to feed the animals. Thus far, his slave had been diligent and obedient. He doesn’t protest immediately, but Ragnar sees him stop abruptly at the door. He rears back a little like a spooked horse and dares to glance back at his master, a small crease in his brow.

 The Northman’s eyes are amused and a smile plays about his lips as he cajoles, “Come, now, priest. It’s only water. It’ll not hurt you. And the work must be done, whether it is wet or dry outside.” Ragnar, too, will venture out and get wet. It’s just the way of the world. There’s no anger or malice in his bearing as he stands, but the mere sound of furniture scraping against the floor is enough to make the Saxon bolt.

 The salty odor of brackish water from the nearby fjord and the sensation of water on his face sends a shiver down his spine. His breath catches as suddenly the memory of sitting on a boat, hands bound and habit soaked from the spray of salt water as his brothers shivered and died beside him is all too vivid.

 He keeps his head down as he works, trying to decide which is worse—to remain outside in the rain, or be forced to face his master. He ends up lingering longer than necessary as an excuse to keep his distance from the Northman. He hopes the bleating of the sheep might silence the cacophony of desperate prayers spoken by the broken voices of men Athelstan will never again see in this life.

 It doesn’t.

 The ground feels unsteady, as if it’s rocking the way the boat had as it had been tossed about by the waves. He reaches out to brace against the first thing he can. His hand lands on a sheep, but the momentary stability it offers is soon disrupted as the animal moves, leaving Athelstan once again adrift.

 When he returns to the house, he’s shivering.

 Lagertha offers him one of Ragnar’s tunics. It’s not cold out, but once he’s changed out of his wet clothes, she calls him to sit by the fire to warm himself. Except the fire isn’t going to do much anything to ease the tremors. Still, he doesn’t have it in him to argue and besides, he finds Lagertha’s company more tolerable than that of his master. She is terrifying. But, it’s not her face that he sees flecked with the blood of his brothers, with eyes burning like the devil’s, standing in the ruins of the monastery when he goes to sleep at night.

 That doesn’t stop him from flinching when a hand lights on his shoulder.

 His heart thumps in his chest and he braces for… Well, he doesn’t know what, really. All he knows is that he can’t trust these people.

 She chuckles. “It’s alright, Priest. No one here is going to harm you.”

 He wants to say that they already have but his sense of self-preservation holds his tongue. Athelstan simply gets up and finds something to occupy himself—there is always work to be done, anyway.

Read the full fic here