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The fires at Lindisfarne never did go out; when Athelstan closed his eyes, they still burned before him every night.
In dreams, the heat burned him as if he were thrown into it. Instead of watching the devastation of the only home he’d ever known from a distance, he saw it, felt it from the inside. He lay beside his unfortunate brothers, killed for nothing, a corpse laying piled atop men that he’d known all his life. Cast aside, forgotten, and not only by the northmen. God had turned his eye away from them too, punishment for sins that Athelstan still couldn’t name.
They must have sinned, though, even if he didn’t know how. They must have done something wrong. Athelstan lay atop Father Cuthbert’s bloody body, felt the wound in his chest where Rollo’s dagger had cut into him. He stared into unblinking eyes with his own dead stare and knew nothing except that this was the hell he deserved.
His body lay rotting at Lindisfarne, but at the same time it sat on the northmen’s ship, pressed against Cenwulf’s shivering form. Cold and hunger worked its cruel magic, draining life away piece by piece, and Athelstan felt it as surely as if it were he who was dying. Cenwulf weakened and weakened, and when he breathed no more they threw him over the side of the boat like garbage to be forgotten. He knew without asking that none of the northmen would remember his name.
Athelstan watched Cenwulf sink below the waves, and in a blink of an eye he instead stared up to the sky, at Auden and Dunstan hanging above him. Two more dead brothers taken by senseless cruelty. They dangled from ropes around their wrists, hung on display and left rotting for all to see in a final indignity, as if death itself were not punishment enough for whatever crime they’d dared commit.
Perhaps there had been no crime. No sin. Perhaps this was all meaningless, for no matter how he begged God to speak to him or pleaded for his forgiveness, only silence ever answered his prayers.
Ragnar’s firm hand took his chin, tipped his head back, brought a knife to his throat and cut, cut deep and slit it as he deserved - but even with his throat flayed open, still he breathed, still he lived, filling his lungs with air he had no right to, not when his brothers no longer drew breath.
Blood dripped from the wound, down his chest, pooled around him. More blood than could have ever come from him alone. Athelstan watched the puddle grow, and when he looked up Ragnar no longer stood in front of him. Only the dead and damned confronted him now.
Martyrs, every one of them. Killed for their faith and devotion, dying as he should have, suffering as he deserved to. Athelstan reached up to his throat again and felt the rope collar as it fell from his unmarred neck, clean once more of blood.
Their wide eyes stared down at him with accusations and brutal words they couldn’t utter past their swollen, rotting tongues, but Athelstan heard as clearly as if they were shouted.
Traitor.
“Priest?”
The voice came soft and careful, everything he didn’t deserve. That single word pulled him from the depths of his nightmare, and a small hand shaking his shoulder freed him fully from it. Athelstan woke with a sharp gasp, breathing in lungfuls of air so desperately it was as if they actually had been filled with burning smoke.
Gyda’s worried face hovered above him, her brow furrowed in a look of concern that didn’t fully belong on such a young face. Her hand lay on his arm still, tense and squeezing just a little too tightly without her seeming to realize. Athelstan could have shrugged it off but didn’t - anything that took him further from sleep and what lay beyond it was something to be grateful for.
He drew another shaking breath. Sitting up was a struggle, his body fighting against him every step, but he forced the matter anyway. Being on his back only made him feel more like he was still in the nightmare, only a burning corpse lying at Lindisfarne with the rest. Gyda asked him a question, and though he heard it, he couldn’t understand it. Words seemed beyond him, fading together into meaningless sounds.
It seemed Gyda wasn’t the only one he’d woken. Bjorn lay at the very edge of his bed, arms folded and chin propped on top of them while he glowered in Athelstan’s direction. The boy was as hard to read as ever; he could be as worried as Gyda or simply angry to be woken up, and Athelstan would never know the difference. He watched though, and Athelstan liked to think he cared, when he had his mind together enough to think at all.
Instead it swam in circles still, circles of fire and cold and constant, wordless noise that felt like a brand taken to the center of his head, burning everything out of him. One held breath and he felt the burn ease. Two and the sounds resolved themselves so sharply back into words that it felt like physical pain.
“-alright?” Gyda looked up at him with plaintive eyes, the rest of her question lost to the flurry of sound that had filled Athelstan’s head right up until that moment. Both of her hands clutched at the bed, blanket bunched up between her fingers. The prolonged silence seemed to only have increased her worry, and Athelstan tried to give her a reassuring smile. His face didn’t manage to resolve itself into anything, but he tried.
She was a sweet girl. It still sent Athelstan reeling to think sometimes; the north was said to be full of monsters after all, vicious men who wanted nothing more than gold and the death of good Christians. He’d never thought of them having children before this, and he’d thought even less of them having little girls who looked at him like he mattered.
“It sounded like you were crying,” Gyda continued after a moment, and her hands twisted again in the blanket.
“I was…” The words felt nearly impossible to push out, thick and heavy in the worst way. They faded away like ink smeared from the page before it had a chance to set, and Athelstan was left squinting at the smudges behind, unable to decipher what they might have once been.
Exhausted, he brought a hand up to smooth back sweat-damp hair, his fingers pausing over the shortest part of it. His tonsure had nearly grown in entirely, almost invisible now unless one already knew it had been there. Before long it would be gone, like it had never been.
He’d borne the tonsure longer than he could remember, an always present mark of his bond with God. That it could vanish so easily had never occurred to him before. Even now, it didn’t seem as if it could be real. He let his fingers tense and curl, nails scraping across his scalp, the sensation at the very edge of pain. They caught on the raised, nearly healed skin where he’d cut himself weeks ago trying to preserve this one small part of his old life. It felt like so much longer that he’d been here.
A few hairs pulled loose between his clenched fingers. The sting kept him present enough, at least, to force out, “It’s nothing.”
Not even a good lie. If he had more energy perhaps he’d be embarrassed, but, as it was, this was all he had in him. His hand dropped to his side, the strength drained out of it. Eyes on the ground, as if fearing what he would see in the darkness if he looked up again, Athelstan finally managed a full sentence. “You should go back to sleep. I’m sorry for waking you.”
Gyda made no move to listen, still knelt beside him with that anxious expression. Her hand crept across the blanket until it found his and she held on tightly. “I have nightmares too, sometimes.”
Hopefully not nightmares like these, Athelstan wanted to say, but instead he only let a smile briefly cross his face, lifting his head just enough to meet her eyes. Better than his last attempt, but the expression still felt empty. The darkness dulled its cutting edges, though, and that seemed to be enough to fool Gyda’s eyes.
She smiled back, genuine happiness that his false face didn’t warrant, and squeezed again at his hand. “Mother says if you have nightmares, you only need to remember them long enough to ask the gods if they’re important. If they aren’t, they are nothing to be afraid of and when you sleep next they won’t matter anymore.”
Gyda spoke with the confidence of a child; Athelstan may have felt that sort of confidence once, in his brothers and in God, but it felt out of reach now. Mere wisps of memory in the darkness. Memories were the only possessions he had left these days, and that made their absence all the more painful.
His false smile wavered, but stayed in place. “Thank you Gyda,” he said softly, in a voice that sounded far away even as it came from his own throat. “I’ll try to remember that.”
That part at least wasn’t a lie. He would remember it well enough, he only had no confidence that it would change anything. Better, though, for Gyda not to know that. It was no fault of hers that his thoughts were too dark for a child to ease. She could think her comforts had worked their magic and that she had brought him peace, and he could lie awake to avoid the ghosts that waited for him past the veil of sleep.
“Athelstan?” Gyda asked again, and he only realized when he saw her frown that his face must have finally fallen. Her hand moved from wrist to shoulder and immediately the sense memory hit him harder than a fist to the stomach.
In a moment he was back in the dream, seaspray on his face and fear rolling through every part of him. Cenwulf’s head lay unmoving on his shoulder, pale and cold. He felt the pressure lift, heard the splash of the water as the body was thrown in, it should have been him-
“Gyda.” The word snapped him free of the memory. Gyda whipped her head around so fast that Athelstan felt the breeze of her long hair past his face, and the tension that surprise had infused her with all drained out the instant she saw her father.
Ragnar leaned against the wall, his head tilted and stance relaxed as he watched the two of them. How long he’d been there, Athelstan couldn’t know - though knowing Ragnar’s curiosity it wouldn’t surprise him if he’d been listening in since the beginning. He pushed away from the wall and Gyda darted immediately to his side without needing to be called. His heavy hand came to rest on her hair.
Even in the darkness, Athelstan could imagine the smile on his face. Ragnar always wore one when looking at his young daughter, like she brought a light into his life when he needed it most, the gentle counterpart to Bjorn’s ferocity.
Pagans were said to be vicious and uncaring, untouched by God’s love and unable to show it to others. Vicious they were, Athelstan had seen that much, but that Ragnar loved his children more than life itself couldn’t be denied. Athelstan still didn’t know what to make of the man, or of his place here and, somehow, knowing he was no heartless beast just confused him more, but at least he knew Ragnar to be capable of kindness.
“The priest had a nightmare,” Gyda said as Ragnar knelt to put them eye to eye. “Bjorn heard him first, he said I should talk to him.”
“Did he?” A grumbling sound from Bjorn’s bed was Ragnar’s only answer, as if the boy were offended to be revealed as caring about Athelstan at all. Ragnar chuckled. “Well, you’ve done as he asked, and you’ve done well. Go to sleep now. I’ll take care of our priest from here.”
Athelstan almost protested, but as so often seemed to happen when faced with the thought of talking back to Ragnar, those bright eyes turned to him and the words died before they even reached his tongue. His mind spun in anxious silence as Ragnar approached him, kneeling down as he’d done for Gyda, like Athelstan was a child to be made comfortable.
Still, for all his attempts at comfort, Athelstan found himself tensing at Ragnar’s proximity. He had no reason to expect harm, Ragnar had not once hurt him since bringing him here. But his dead brothers’ eyes haunted him still. Even if it hadn’t been Ragnar that struck the final blows that took their lives, if he had never come to their monastery they would all still be alive, and that thought lingered longer than it was welcome.
Ragnar didn’t push or speak, waiting for him to collect himself, but he did watch. Those eyes locked onto his face, and Athelstan forced himself not to let his own dart down, as much as his instincts screamed at him to. Ragnar seemed to like when Athelstan looked him in the eye, as if they were equals. Predictably, as soon as their eyes met, a smile twitched at the corner of Ragnar’s mouth.
“I’m sorry,” Athelstan muttered after a moment, once he found his voice again. “I asked them to go to bed before they woke you.”
“I was awake already,” Ragnar said easily. “And before you apologize for that as well, it wasn’t because of you.”
He watched Athelstan like the rest of the room didn’t exist. Maybe more like the rest of the world didn’t exist. Nothing ever did, once he got his focus turned onto it. Athelstan had seen it many times, aimed at Lagertha, at Floki… at him. No matter how many times Ragnar leveled him with that stare, though, he never knew how to react to it. Not at the best of times, and especially not on nights like this.
The smile didn’t quite fall from Ragnar’s face as the silence dragged on between them, but Athelstan could see it waver. “You always look at me as if you fear I’ll eat you alive,” Ragnar muttered. Elbows settling on the edge of the bed, Ragnar shifted from kneeling to sitting on the floor, taking weight off of his knees. “Never relaxing… What is it that frightens you so much?”
Always with the difficult questions at the worst of times. Athelstan’s eyes fell to the blankets, and the way his hands grasped at them, still tense from his nightmares. “…I don’t know for certain,” he admitted. After all, what didn’t frighten him in this strange new world? “I suppose that you could be angry with me. I don’t know your customs yet, and what I have seen I don’t understand. It seems better to be cautious than risk punishment.”
For a moment, Ragnar was silent again, and Athelstan watched him out of the corner of his eye. Calm, almost amused, still staring at him with that unwavering gaze. “Have I ever punished you before?”
“No, but…”
But that was what made Athelstan so nervous. Ragnar had never set any rules to follow, given any orders, hardly even seemed interested in putting him to any sort of work, outside of helping the family with their chores. He held complete power and seemed to have no interest in using it; but intentions didn’t change what he could do. “It would be your right to do so, if you wished. You know that.”
Ragnar waved ahand dismissively. “Perhaps it would be, but I don’t wish. I never will.” He seemed to think that settled the matter. For all that he was a farmer, he spoke like a king, certain of himself and his words and confident that they would be enough to soothe Athelstan’s fears.
They would have to be. Athelstan had precious little else to hang onto.
He expected to be left alone then, to sleep or to lie awake in the darkness with the second being much more likely, but Ragnar made no attempt to move. If anything, he settled in more comfortably, leaning his full weight onto the side of Athelstan’s bed and folding his arms on top of it.
“What were you dreaming about?” he asked, and Athelstan sat silent in the wake of it, unsure how to answer.
The truth felt personal. Far too personal, and far too close to an accusation. One step past speaking of his brothers was speaking of why they were no longer here, why they haunted him every night. Ragnar claimed he wouldn’t punish him, and Athelstan had little choice but to believe him, but that didn’t mean he wanted to provoke him unnecessarily.
Still, his hand rose without his permission, went to his throat where the red imprint remained of the rope that had so recently served as his lead, pulling him like a dog following at its master’s feet. The sting of raw skin had faded, but it would take days more for the mark to completely vanish.
He only truly realized the motion when Ragnar sighed to see it. Athelstan’s hand froze in place just before he slowly lowered it back to his lap. “I’m sorry,” he muttered before he could think of anything else to say, though he couldn’t even be sure what he was apologizing for.
“No need to be.” Ragnar’s tone was sharper now, not angry but certainly not the relaxed voice he’d sported only a moment before. “You could do to stop apologizing, you know. I told you, you’re not going to be punished.
Athelstan only nodded in reply, bitting at his tongue to silence the apologies that still tried to slip off of it on instinct. Contrition was a habit, and one that was not so easily broken after years in a monastery. His mind closed around the shift in Ragnar’s voice as a distraction, the tension that had grown in it. Was it because he’d avoided the question?
Tension showing on his face now, Ragnar straightened his back up, no longer half laying on the bed alongside him. He watched Athelstan like a man lost for words. The look didn’t suit him; even with the short time that he’d been here, Athelstan knew Ragnar to be a man never short on something to say, some way to form the conversation to what he wanted like water poured into a pot, conforming no matter how twisted its shape.
“I didn’t intend for them to be killed,” Ragnar said finally. He meant it too, his voice firm and steady, no hesitance or trickery to be found. “They were slaves, yes, but no matter what you think of us, slaves don’t get killed just because we can.”
“But they did it anyway,” Athelstan replied before he could stop himself. “They killed them and… and left them there.”
“They did. But they shouldn’t have.” Ragnar looked away from him, face troubled and eyes narrowed as if he were glaring at something through the darkness. “It is my fault, likely. I humiliated Haraldson with my success, even with all the treasures he stole from us. He took it out on what he could. They were simply there, I’m sure.”
It would have been better to say nothing, Athelstan knew that in a second. Ragnar’s words sunk into him, pierced through his skin and clawed relentlessly at his heart. Haraldson had only taken his anger out on who he could. Who was in reach. His brothers, who had survived a massacre and a bitter journey, were killed for nothing more than being the easiest thing in view.
Martyrs died for a reason, for their faith. They stood in the face of those who would see God desecrated and declared their love of Him, and they died for it. A purpose, a glorious death to be honored and remembered. Could they be martyrs, though, if their deaths were truly so pointless?
He thought again of their hanging bodies, the dignity the northmen had stripped away from them when there was so little left to take, and tears surged to his eyes against his will. He’d done well to keep them away in front of the family, only breaking once he was certain he was alone, but now it seemed that the dam had finally been torn down. They streaked freely down his cheeks, no matter how hard he tried to push them back.
Breathing hurt. Athelstan sucked air in short gasps, held his breath to subdue any sound of sobbing that might slip out. Bad enough to be breaking in front of Ragnar alone, he wouldn’t dare risk waking the children back up, or Lagertha, and add to his audience.
Beside him, Ragnar sat silent, and Athelstan could almost have forgotten he was there but for the hand that reached out to gently stroke down his back. From head to spine once, then twice. It felt good, despite his lingering fear of the man, felt as if he could trust it when Ragnar said he wouldn’t hurt him.
It felt too good, even. Better than he deserved. His throat clenched up and he pulled away from it with a shuddering sob, curling himself up as tight as he could.
The hand was gone but the sting of the kindness still remained. Cruelty would have been easier to bear; it was what his brothers received, after all, and the lack of it reminded him that he was the only one deemed worthy of life. For what reason he couldn’t even know, and Ragnar had done nothing to make it clearer.
He heard the man shift beside him, then stand. For a moment, he thought he was finally being left alone with his tears, but within the minute Ragnar returned and once more knelt beside him. Hands touched him only long enough to press a cup into his grasp.
“Drink,” Ragnar’s voice came calm and careful. “You have had much to keep you awake tonight, this will help you sleep it off.”
Tentatively, sobs still struggling out of his throat, Athelstan raised the cup with his shaking hands. Ale. He was growing weary of the ale here, stronger than anything they’d ever had at Lindisfarne, but it felt good to have something to ease his raw throat all the same. Slow sips pulled him back from the edge of tears again, taught him once more how to breath.
Ragnar’s hand laid again on his back and this time Athelstan was too tired to pull away from it, no matter how much icy guilt the touch sent through him. Unaware of the conflict his touch brought, Ragnar carefully rubbed at his upper back, his hands calloused from weapon and plow. The motion continued until Athelstan’s breath steadied beneath it, then paused.
“Go back to sleep.” Ragnar stood, and took his comfort with him. “If you have anymore nightmares, I’ll still be here.”
Athelstan could curse himself for believing him. No matter the pain he deserved, it seemed Ragnar had no intention of offering it, only drink and food and curious prodding at his life before. The life that the northmen had taken away from him.
The empty cup fell to the floor and he curled up on his side in the darkness. His lips moved of their own accord, voice weak and raspy, unfamiliar to him. “I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of Heaven and earth-“
The words fell from his lips into the night, a quiet rain that no one could hear but him. Perhaps not even the God he prayed to. “-and in Jesus Christ, His only Son Our Lord…”
God forgive him.