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Uhtred thinks this may be the only reason he still lives. A ragged soul clinging to an old, battered body for a precious few hours, because even the eternal feast of Valhalla could not distract his spirit from the torment of leaving this final thing undone.
He doesn’t offer any kind of proper, private goodbye to Finan or Sihtric. They are dear to him — more than friends, more than brothers, more than anything Uhtred has words for — but they are warriors before all else, and death has been a constant presence at their sides for decades. Sihtric, he will see again one day, just as now hears Brida’s distant laughter and Ragnar’s booming voice. Finan, who has clung to his Christian faith with the same ferocity as Uhtred and his pagan ways, shall reunite with Hild, with his family, with the other Saxon men of their company.
Finan’s denial of his coming death makes Uhtred’s heart lurch just a little. Steadfast and stubborn to the very end…perhaps that is why they always got on so well. Sihtric’s stoic silence is a comfort, a show of support in its own strange way, while Eadgifu’s teary eyes tell him she stays quiet because she fears being the first to break. The only one Uhtred has any eyes for, however, sits at the head of the table with furrowed brow.
An apology should not be enough. Aethelstan has betrayed him, banished him, turned his back and closed his mind to Uhtred’s advice and presence and love.
It matters not. Uhtred forgave the young king even before he had the presence of mind to ask for such forgiveness himself. Nothing could ever atone for the lives taken in his vicious campaign, for the execution of enemies and innocents and loyal advisors alike, but Aethelstan will carry the weight of all he’s done for the rest of his life and Uhtred considers that punishment enough. He will live a life entrenched in guilt and shame, much of it deserved but for the one sin he should never have to be forgiven in the first place.
There is only one burden Uhtred can possibly lift from Aethelstan’s shoulders.
No…There are two concessions Uhtred can give him in order to ease some of that strain.
“I said that if you proved yourself to be the rightful king, I would swear Northumbria to you.”
Edmund lifts his at Uhtred’s words, the movement barely visible at the far edge of Uhtred’s blurring vision.
“Men have died fighting under the name of the English. To honor them, England should be formed.”
Uhtred never held any particular love for a united England. He had stood behind Alfred’s cause because it was a means to an end but now, several decades and two generations later, that campaign comes to an end. Aethelstan’s dark eyes are filled with gratitude and grief and something deeper Uhtred cannot parse out, and he knows the moment the words leave his mouth that he makes the right decision.
“But… I have one condition.” Aethelstan’s hand on his shoulder is more of a comfort than he would ever admit, his fingers tightening imperceptibly over the roughspun fabric of his tunic as he continues. “You must make an oath never to marry. No heirs, so your brother Edmund can take the throne unchallenged.”
It is, ostensibly, a pragmatic thing to ask of Aethelstan. The last thing a fledgling kingdom amalgamated from four warring nations needs is a conflict of succession upon its king’s death. The priests and royal advisors and lords could all nod their heads and murmur about the wisdom and foresight of such an oath — as long as that is all they murmur about. As decades pass and Aethelstan takes no wife nor sires any children, the oath he swears this night will stay the wagging tongues and gossip.
Both of Aethelstans’ hands now rest cupped in Uhtred’s, out of sight, shaking. The meaning of this oath is not lost on the boy. He is speechless, lower lip quivering ever so slightly before he can steel himself. “Thank you,” is all he seems able to say, the words so overloaded with emotion Uhtred cannot believe anybody could miss the double meaning in them. There is no way to undo half a lifetime under suffocating Christian teachings, just as there is no way to unmake the shame Ingilmundr had helped instill in Aethelstan for so long. The cruel whispers and scornful looks were an insidious force that had twisted Aethelstan inside out so thoroughly that Uhtred could feel the pain of it. His heart broke anew with every lash of the tongue.
He is a man of God and I am a sinner!
Who makes such vicious claims against me?
It cannot be endured.
And yet…
I care not for that, but for you.
A sparse handful of words. Little comfort, Uhtred suspects, but he will do what he can to unravel the horrible web of self hatred Aethelstan has become so entangled in.
Love is beautiful and horrible. It is creation and ruination and fear and joy and everything and nothing. Freyja may be the goddess of love and sex, yet she represents war and violence all the same because none can be found without the other. There can be no crime, no eternal damnation, for love in any of its forms — this, Uhtred knows with certainty.
Aethelstan must reach such acceptance on his own terms, if he ever will, but Uhtred gives what he can. He is a dying man who can no longer offer the protection of his sword; instead, he takes the last two things he has in this life, his love and his kingdom, and passes them on to the young king.
After all, he’ll have no use for either in Valhalla.