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After the battle, and after they capture him, they lead him into King Ecbert's throne room, guarded but not bound. Evidently, without a weapon to hand, they don't consider him much of a threat – and if Ragnar's teasing is any indication, he's not. He takes a knee before the throne when prompted.
“They say you speak our language,” the king begins. “Why is that?”
“I am a Saxon, your majesty,” Athelstan answers. “I am from Northumbria.”
The collective eyebrows of everyone in the room seem to rise in unison.
“If you are a Saxon, what are you doing fighting alongside the Northmen raiding our lands?”
“I was taken as a slave from Lindisfarne, when it was raided several years ago. I have been with them ever since.”
The king seems even more surprised. “You are a monk?”
Athelstan hesitates. He knows that after seven years he doesn't look particularly monkish; if anything, he looks like a raider. Which he is. “I was before I was taken. There is little room for a monk in the north.”
“I understand,” Ecbert says. “You are home now, and there is room for you in our monastery. My guards will take you there and keep you safe.”
“Thank you, sire,” Athelstan tells him, but as he walks out of the keep, he finds himself wishing for a longhall on a far shore.
The monks at the nearby monastery call him “brother”, which irks him, and they take his tunic and breeches – gifts from Ragnar – and give him a brown robe, which feels wrong against his skin. The brothers are gentle with him, speaking in quiet voices and smiling pleasantly whenever they see him. His chores are few and simple, and he remembers all the words of the various prayers. It's easy and calm, and Athelstan finds himself hating it.
“What are the northlands like?” one of the young brothers asks him over breakfast, four mornings after he arrives.
“Cold,” he says. “Beautiful.”
“Don't bother Brother Athelstan,” chides one of the older monks. “He has been through a terrible ordeal these past years.”
“I don't mind,” Athelstan says. It's not hard to talk about Kattegat, considering how it occupies his mind as he does his quiet chores around the abbey.
“Still, Brother Wulfric should learn respect, and not to speak so to his elders.”
After that, none of the brothers ask him about the north or the people who live there, content to carry on within the walls of the monastery and fold him back into their ranks.
Athelstan is only there for nine days, though it feels like months, when the Northmen come over the hill, banging their axes on their shields. “Ragnar!”
He runs for the gates, pushing the monks out of the way. Years of hard work and sparring back in Kattegat have made him strong, and they move easily under his hands. It helps that they're running in the opposite direction.
By the time he makes it across the courtyard, he can hear Ragnar's men hard at work removing the gates from their hinges with loud bangs. The rest of the monks are inside, praying loudly, leaving Athelstan alone, waiting for the gate to fall. After a few more hits from the hammer it does, coming down to rest at Athelstan's left side.
“Ragnar!” he says.
“Priest? Is that you?”
“Yes!”
The rest of the party streams through the gates, and soon he's surrounded by his friends and shipmates, all of them teasing him about his robe and ruffling his hair, everyone's little brother once more.
“Well, you're home, priest,” Ragnar says, after everyone's dispersed a little. “Should we leave you be, back to singing pretty songs to your god?”
“This isn't home.”
“So you don't mind if we take their gold?” he asks, smirking.
“Not at all.”
“Someone get him an axe!” he shouts to the others, and soon someone's pressing one into his hands. “It's good to have you back, Athelstan.”
“Thanks for coming back.”
“We wouldn't miss the opportunity to both rescue you and take whatever's in this temple.” He grins. “Are you ready?”
Athelstan raises his axe. “Always.”