Work Text:
“I want you to come back.” The words echoed in his mind all through the return journey to Ecbert’s compound. So, too, did the feeling of Ragnar clutching his thigh, on his face a look of humble desperation that Athelstan had seen only rarely in the several years he had known the man.
Many long months he had waited, trying to fit in and live a useful, fulfilling life among his fellow Saxons while still dreaming of the wind-scoured hills of Kattegat. That place beckoned to him, and yet now that it had come to it, he had a moment of uncertainty.
His torn faith was part of the feeling, he acknowledged. Never had he felt more at peace than when he knew a personal connection to God, and that connection had nearly been severed while living in a land that was only marginally aware of Christianity. As he had told Ragnar, he wasn’t wholly Christian, but he wasn’t wholly invested in the Aesir, either. Being Christian at all while living in Kattegat would be risky. Still, he considered, it would be less risky than trying to keep the pagan part of his faith while living here. At least the Northmen, save a few, only reviled him, at worst. Here, the pressure to be entirely, obviously, piously Christian was smothering. Whatever his relationship with God, his relationships with some of the Lord’s earthly representatives were poisoned with violent hatred. Of those he knew here, only Ecbert, and perhaps the terrifying, if beautiful, Princess Kwenthrith, had any love at all for his pagan side. Even Floki’s ongoing vicious needling was nothing compared to the constant risk of being executed for apostasy, Ecbert’s protection of him notwithstanding.
Ecbert himself was also part of the hesitation, however. The king was somewhat possessive and controlling of him, that much was true, but he had also tapped into a part of Athelstan that had long been dormant while he was living with people more earthy and unrefined. He wondered at times whether Ecbert’s support of his work, or even his act of stopping the crucifixion, was driven only by a desire to use his pet pagan to realize his dreams of ruling a larger chunk of England. After all, Ragnar had also initially used his knowledge primarily to better plan his raids. Still, as with Ragnar, there was also genuine affection in Ecbert’s eyes and touch much of the time, and a genuine appreciation of the artistic work his pet was doing. In Athelstan, the king had found a kindred spirit—an island of understanding among those who could not see beyond the Scriptures to the world around them. Athelstan disliked the idea of leaving this man, who had on balance been kind and generous to him, to sit in his vault of pagan treasures all alone; it seemed almost cruel to abandon him. Ragnar, he knew, loved and cherished him at least as much, and surely far more, but he had other purposes and other joys. Should Athelstan leave his life, he would likely be bereft, but he would recover eventually. Ecbert he wasn’t so certain about. He loved his son, no doubt, and surely looked forward to the grandchildren that would soon be coming, but he had no true companions; none with whom he could be fully honest. Athelstan was humble enough not to overestimate his position in the man’s life, but he acknowledged that it was likely he was the only person the king could actually call a friend. Although Athelstan had to admit that he loved Ragnar more, he still felt a duty to this man, too.
Ecbert had been right: He and Ragnar making peace did help Athelstan come to some level of peace in himself, but it also made things harder. He could not be in two places at once. He had to choose, and he had to do it soon, before the ships sailed at dawn.
He rode into the courtyard and dismounted, letting the grooms take his horse. As he turned to leave, he was nearly bowled over by a couple of children—sons of the farrier—who were chasing each other around.
The eldest of the two, a skinny blond boy of perhaps six years, got to his feet and stared up. “Father!” he cried. “Please forgive me. Have I hurt you?” He looked petrified, which was understandable. Few of the haughty clergy around here would forgive such a slight.
Athelstan smiled and patted the boy’s head. “Not at all. Go on.” He gestured for the boys to resume their play, and so they did. As he watched them race away, a pang clutched at his heart. He remembered seeing Bjorn at the camp: a grown, handsome man where once there had been only a cantankerous boy. He had missed several years of the youth of a child he once loved, and now he was missing even more. It had been more than a year since last he saw Ubbe and Hvitserk. Aslaug was nearly ready to give birth when they left; he had not met Ragnar’s new son. And it had been so long since Ragnar had returned home that it was entirely possible she was with child yet again. These were not his children, not in so many words, yet he loved them as much as he imagined he could love his own, should that ever come to pass.
No; it was not only his love for the boys’ father that made him long for Kattegat. It was the love for the boys themselves, and many others. He had been delighted to see at the camp not only Bjorn, but Lagertha, whose friendship he deeply missed. She was an earl in her own right, now, and commanded her own company. He itched with the need to talk to her about how all that had come to pass in the years since she had divorced Ragnar. He longed to see Ragnar’s new wife, too. Although he had never been as close to Aslaug as he had been to Lagertha, they had nonetheless developed an affection over the years. He was grateful that she entrusted to him the care of not only her husband, but her children. And there were many others still: Torstein, Siggy, Helga; even Floki, as much as his jibes did hurt at times.
Here, there was but one person he truly cared for. Across the sea, there was very nearly an entire town.
The guards at the gate didn’t even seem to notice him leaving. His morning walks through the surrounding woods were now a common enough thing that they merely nodded as he strode away into the misty dawn. They did not look closely; had they done so, they would have seen that the man of the cloth no longer wore all the adornments of his faith.
***
The sun was only barely above the sea when they finished breaking camp. It had been difficult work, what with having to tend to Rollo and work around others’ less-severe injuries, but it went swiftly nonetheless—too swiftly, Ragnar thought. Many of the boats had already launched. Only his and one other remained.
Lagertha noticed the look on his face. “I am sorry, Ragnar. I, too believed he would come back, but it seems he has chosen to stay here.”
Ragnar tried to ignore the tight pain in his chest, blowing it off as battle bruises and sore muscles. “I have not given up hope, yet. We still have a while before we absolutely must leave. He may yet come in that time.”
Lagertha patted his arm. “Perhaps you are right. Still, we must be honest with ourselves: He was taken from here against his will. Being back on his own soil may have made him remember that, and forget all else that mattered to him since then. The king seemed to have some affection for him. Perhaps Athelstan has decided to remain for him.”
Ragnar looked away; he did not want her to see his welling eyes. “I know. Believe me: I know.”
“This is the last one,” Torstein said, hefting a small, plain wooden chest. “Once it and Rollo are loaded up, we’re ready when you are.”
“No! Not that one.” Ragnar took it from him and set it back down on the ground. “Not yet.”
Torstein shrugged. “Suit yourself. I’m off for a piss before we go.” He wandered off into the trees.
Just as he was returning, a shout came from the western path. “Father! Come see!”
“Bjorn? What is it?” Ragnar hobbled up to where his son stood. Rounding the corner and coming up the path was a small, black-clad figure.
As he saw the nearly deserted camp, the figure broke into a run. “Wait!” he called. “Wait for me!”
Ragnar tried to ignore the pain in his injured leg, and started rushing up the path. Lagertha and Torstein hurried after him. Bjorn, unencumbered, dashed ahead, and quickly made up the remaining distance. He scooped Athelstan into his arms. “I knew you’d come back!” He laughed.
Athelstan grunted, and wriggled out of the exuberant lad’s grip. “Thank you for your faith in me,” he said, beaming. They continued down the path, Bjorn’s arm around his shoulders.
“Welcome, friend!” Torstein reached them and ruffled Athelstan’s neatly combed hair. “It’s good to see you again.”
“And you, Torstein.” He nodded at Lagertha, who fell in step with her son and smiled serenely. “My lady. I am so pleased to see you with this company. It seems you have done well for yourself in the time that you have been gone.”
“There are many stories to tell about that,” she said, nodding. “But for now, I am just glad that I will finally get to see more of you again. I have missed you very deeply.”
“And I, you.” He favored her with a warm, broad smile.
As Ragnar finally reached them, the mob parted. Ragnar almost felt frozen in place as he simply stared into Athelstan’s eyes. With so much longing, so much pain, and so much uncertainty all these months, he almost couldn’t believe that Athelstan was truly there. He couldn’t believe that the man he so loved was finally coming home with him, and this time of his own will, not due to a rope around his neck. Finally, words found him. “Thank you,” he said quietly.
Athelstan nodded; no more words were needed.
“Have you come to us as a priest again?” Torstein nodded at Athelstan’s garb.
Athlestan smiled sheepishly. “Not exactly, no. I just didn’t have anything else to wear. My other clothes were . . . well, I just don’t have them anymore.”
“I had wondered if that might be the case,” Ragnar said. “In the hope that you would return with us, I brought you some things.” He turned and strode toward the chest that Torstein had carried. Crouching down, he opened it and reached in. “I’m afraid many of your things back home were stolen or destroyed when Jarl Borg’s forces occupied the town. However, there were a few I recovered, and I also found a couple of other items that should fit.” He drew out a thick overtunic, a pair of breeches, worn boots, a belt and finally, at the bottom and wrapped carefully in a blanket, the blue, embroidered tunic he had given to Athelstan many years before.
Athelstan’s eyes went wide. “You found it!” He took the garment from Ragnar and held it out, his eyes traveling over its folds.
“I didn’t find it myself, but I am glad it was found all the same.”
“As am I. Thank you. If you’ll give me just a moment, I’ll be ready to go.” Taking the chest, he scurried off into the trees.
Torstein chuckled. “Still has the Christian modesty, I see—Ow!” He rubbed his arm where Ragnar elbowed him.
Ignoring the knowing chuckles that echoed behind him, Ragnar limped over to the grove where Athelstan had gone. As a flash of skin came into view, he called over, “Need any help? I can—“ He stopped short as he realized what he was seeing. Across Athelstan’s torso were a series of long, thin scars. They were faded, now—only a hint of pink remained on the larger ones—but it was clear how they had come to be.
Athelstan stared at him, knowing what Ragnar was looking at, but he said nothing.
Ragnar, too, remained silent. There would be time someday for Athelstan to choose to tell him all that had happened. Today, he wished only to talk of pleasant things. “Here. Let me help.” He took the tunic from Athelstan and gathered it at the neck. Athelstan raised his arms, and Ragnar drew the tunic over his head. He then helped him on with breeches, boots and the overtunic, and fastened his belt at the back.
Athelstan bent to retrieve his priest garb and folded it neatly. He stared at it for a moment, an almost longing expression on his face.
"Is something wrong?" Ragnar asked.
Athelstan shook his head. "It just doesn't feel right for me to leave this behind. These are holy vestments. They should be taken care of somehow."
Ragnar nodded at the chest that had held the garb that Athelstan now wore. "You could pack it in this and leave it by the path. It would remain safe until someone found it." He paused, and frowned in worry. "Unless you want to bring it with you, of course. You are welcome to do that."
Athelstan smiled. “No. I do not wish to keep it. Keeping it in this chest will do. Thank you.” He lay the folded clothing in the chest and closed the lid. After one last pat on the top of the box, he straightened up.
"So that is done," Ragnar said carefully, “but have you decided to keep the . . . other things about being a priest?”
Athelstan sighed and smiled. He lay a scarred hand on Ragnar’s face and tilted his head up. “No.”