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“Are you well?” The king settled his arm around Athelstan’s shoulders as they left the sanctuary. “You looked a little pale in there.”
Aethelwulf pushed past them, shooting a dark look at the former priest as he did.
Athelstan shivered. “I am all right, Sire,” he lied. “Only tired.”
The king scanned his face, which was still marked with wounds and bruises. “And in pain, if I am correct.”
Athelstan looked away, afraid to acknowledge the truth, lest his attempts to ignore said pain fail. He had seen in the past what too much reliance on opium could do to a person. As he did not want to suffer that fate, he had refused any further doses from the healer once he could walk again, preferring instead to partake of wine or ale as he could—not that they helped very much. Still, what troubled him most at the moment was not pain, but the way his head still reeled from the service.
The king gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Well, I am not surprised. It’s not been long since you were first able to rise from your sick bed. You’ve probably overtaxed yourself. Why not go back to your room and take some rest? I can do without your presence for the evening.” He smiled.
Athelstan returned the smile, though it hurt to do so. “Thank you, Sire. I shall.” Shifting his crutch under his arm, he bowed as best he could, then began the long hobble back to the dirt-encrusted storeroom where he had been given a place to sleep. In the past several days that he had been keeping company with the king—including, much to his shock, at court—he’d gotten the impression that the man might actually prefer that his new “pagan” friend dwell closer to his own chambers—much closer. He had not yet offered such a place, however, and Athelstan wasn’t going to ask. For one, the king seemed as yet to be his only friend in this place, and he didn’t wish to risk angering him with an incorrect assumption. For another, even though Athelstan ached for the comfort of closer contact, the king wasn’t the one from whom he wanted it.
On the painful walk to his meager home, Athelstan could not help a wave of nausea, as the residue of the Eucharist still coated his mouth. When he was a monk, he had welcomed the taste of the communion bread and wine. In his faith, they became the body and blood; he reveled in the presence of Christ inside him. Today, however, the bread was like foul paste and the wine was bitter and smelled of vinegar. His stomach turned the moment he entered the sanctuary, and did not stop until he left it; until he left the sight, the sound, and the smell of the vile man who had stood at the altar.
Since being able to leave the care of the healers, he had managed to avoid crossing paths with the hateful bishop who had crucified him. Their only contact was by proxy; the king had ordered that Athelstan be provided with clothing, since his own had been destroyed, so the bishop sent over a habit and all its trimmings—no layman’s clothes for the apostate. Yet of course there was no avoiding the bishop at Mass. And thanks to the king’s son, there was also no avoiding Mass.
However generous the king had been in ensuring that the man he rescued was properly cared for and shown respect, the prince clearly didn’t have the same benevolent feelings. Athelstan remembered Aethelwulf from his brief time in the Northmen’s camp as a hostage, but they’d had little direct contact. King Horik had made certain to keep them separate, allowing only Torstein, with his limited language ability, to communicate. Perhaps, Athelstan figured, Horik thought the two Christians would conspire if allowed to talk. In any case, the prince had seemed unimpressed by the Northmen, and his distaste for Athelstan was evident. Lest he risk angering Aethelwulf, and his father by proxy, Athelstan had no choice but to obey and once again, for the first time in many years, practice the rites of his past.
The rhythms of the service were still woven into his being so tightly that he knew them like his own name. His world had changed drastically since his last attendance at one, though, and now it seemed nearly barbaric, much the same as he once had found the rituals of the Northmen. In Lindisfarne, he had believed his faith to be in a God of peace and mercy. Here, under this bishop, the Almighty was an instrument of control and vengeance, and one far more terrible and frightening than any pagan sacrifice ever had been. That realization made both his head and stomach swim, and reality began to crack. For a fleeting moment as he received the corpus and sanguis, he wondered if his portion had been poisoned, his tormentor still wanting desperately to see the apostate dead. Yet his visions had begun before the bread touched his tongue; that alone could not take the blame. Without the flow of opium in his veins, there was but one option left: as broken as his body was, his mind was likely even more so. Healing it would be no easy task—perhaps not one a fallible mortal such as he could accomplish.
He finally made it to his room, fumbled with lighting a candle, and then sat heavily on the edge of the bed. He leaned his crutch against a table and rubbed at his eyes, even though it made the bruises ache to do so. For a moment, it seemed he saw perfectly clearly: the dirt floor; the shelves of baskets. On the table he saw the stack of books and the box in which lay his treasured arm ring: the one thing he still owned. A flicker of light against his cheek caught his eye. He turned. On the crucifix that the bishop had so kindly provided him, the Savior was illuminated in the golden light from the candle flame. For a moment, he braced himself, expecting what he saw to be followed with a hallucination of some sort. Strangely, however, his mind remained calm and clear; he saw only the carving, and the highlight upon it.
In the days since his torture, he had occasionally called upon the Allfather for help. His conscious habit of the past years had been to do so, even if the vision in his mind was less of a one-eyed old man and more of a blue-eyed young one. Today, however, neither image seemed to be right. He stared instead at the image of Jesus, longing for it to tell him something, and recalled one snippet of memory from his own time upon the cross: he had repeated the last words that Christ spoke. In manus tuas, Domine; he had delivered himself into the hands of God, and in return, he had been sent an Earthly king. He had been sent the man who saved his life, who had helped care for him as he recovered, and who seemed genuinely interested in his well-being.
Odin had not responded to him in all the time he had been here. Perhaps he did not travel to this part of Midgard at all, Athelstan supposed. Despite the actions of the vile bishop who pretended to speak for him, however, it seemed the God of his homeland might still be listening.
With one last glance at the box that contained his last link to his far-away adopted home, and the people there whom he loved, he dropped to his knees and began to pray.