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Legs shaking from the strain, knees certainly bruised, he would not let himself falter. With his back straight and his head slightly bowed, he mouthed a prayer, his lips tracing the cold skin of his laced fingers. The rising sun spilled through narrow windows, speckles of dust glimmering high in the air. It seemed serene from the outside, the king embodying piety, as everyone said. A quiet morning, disturbed only by the occasional clinks of his guard’s mail. It would be peaceful even, if not for the tremble in his hands, the wrinkles formed along his shut eyes, and a bite stifling the quiver of his lip. The prayer was not just that, but an urgent orison, an admission of his spiritual inadequacy. The king battled again, tormented by his thoughts, in the abandoned chapel. Another failure in his dedication to God.
We loved only to be called Christians.
_
Yesterday, the news of Guthrum’s betrayal came, and how could he not blame himself for his blindness? The divine punishment comes closer, again he fails in his role as a guide. The holy Christian duty was placed upon him, and he can't fulfill it. Trusting a pagan was nothing but a pathetic surrender to the darkness. He liked to think that it was the price which has to be paid before the Danes open their eyes to the Holy Trinity. The pride has muddled his eyes, swaying him with the ideas of martyrdom, yet he was only a weak human, with carnal thoughts and desires. And worst of it all, he saw Uhtred as a guiding light. The admission which served only to exemplify his delusions.
He was not sure about Uhtred’s trust, he thinks he could as well one day wake up with the infamous Wasp Sting nestled tightly between his ribs. The warrior had one thing that worked like pagan magic on Alfred, leaving him enchanted. Honesty. This was the bane of him, and as king, Alfred knew others would punish him for these displays of absurd trust. Uhtred’s religious alliance was questionable, but even so Alfred prayed for the ease of his soul. With the man’s death, he now suffered the consequences of his own weakness. If wisdom was piety, he was neither.
-
Current politics tested everybody on the isles, and Alfred was not one to judge, as there was only one Judge to be listened to, but he was chosen to lead. There was a commotion in Exancaester, the battle of Cynwit has come to an end, but the news had not to reached Alfred so far. Someone, a man, with a banner of a black stag was leading a group of warriors towards him. Alfred sat above the crowd, and the man fell to his knees.
"My Lord," spilled from the young man’s lips, "the battle is over. Ubba has been slain, with my own hands." He proclaimed, looking up straight into his king's eyes. A challenge of authority, almost, and a spectacle of humbling obeisance.
"And who are you?"
"I am Odda, my Lord. Odda the Younger."
Solemn now, Alfred raised, as a dirty cloth decorated with a black raven fell to his feet, and tangled in it was Ubba's great war axe. The blade was lusterless, dried, brown blood speckled across it.
Council had to be called, prayers had to be said, and above all, a celebration to be held. His men needed the morale. But in the spin of all events, one thing caught his attention. A whisper, carried on by the hefty Wessex winds, tangled in the murmurs of a crowd that followed, one name prevailed: Uhtred. And as he prayed this noon, he whispered in repent, trying to quell his irrational hope, and his lips touched the Holy Cross.
-
He had to be hallucinating, whether from the lack of sleep and food, or due to divine intervention, but as he knelt to prayer with the Cynwit army on the next morning, heavy steps sounded loudly through the hall, and his pulse quickened. He tried to snap out of it, wanted to curse on himself, for what he was imagining was sinful. The dead is walking, retribution was to be spilled onto him first, over sense. His thoughts strayed, fantasizing, that this will serve to comfort him. An end to this misery, an end to the lacking Christian.
Loved only to be called Christian.
He remained impassive, and recalled the words of Lord's worship, even as forbidden excitement quickened his pulse. He wanted to surrender himself to God’s providence, which never stops putting him on trials. Maybe this was it, the thoughts of Wasp Sting meeting his flesh not so bizarre after all, and maybe this is how it should be. Even here, in the pit filled with warrior men, they stood no chance against him. And his steps were close now, loud and meaningful, and disturbed gasps tore out of the crowd. He bit his lip, intent on praying.
Do Thou make up the dissensions which divide us from each other?
If death was to fall upon him now, be it in the presence of the Almighty Father. He could hear it now, the priests around him, the guard on his back, all shuffling. And a blade was unsheathed, a single swift movement, a shriek of iron piercing the icy air. And everything stilled, be it the fear, or the anticipation, but the world came to a stop.
And as Thou art above all things, make us one by the unanimity of a good mind.
It might be divine foresight, writing history with a plan not known to sinners. The man who's dead came back to bring justice, to expose Alfred’s brittle faith, his mistakes, and his lies that cause men to die. Bells rang in his ears, and the tension was thick in the air, and so Alfred raised his head, turning slowly, to meet his savior and his doom, his temptation personified. And gray eyes met the blue, silent. A transient moment of something far beyond their reach, incorporeal, weaving between them.
Through the embrace of charity and the bonds of affection, we may be spiritually one, as well in ourselves as in each other.
A drop of cold sweat dripped down his forehead, the surrounding ambience fading. Like the eye of a storm, all was quiet now. A single ray of sun reflected of his sword, of Uhtred’s sword, for he was not mistaken. The dead Saxon was there, looking like a great king slayer, his posture loomed above the altar, basking in glory. An unholy sight, yet worthy of worship.
Through that peace of Thine which maketh all things peaceful.
He stood there, alive, victorious, frozen. He did not know the extent of the power he wielded, far beyond the sword he carried. And Alfred nodded, subtly, as what’s to come is not fate, but God’s plan, and he is ready for it to be fulfilled.
So the angel swung his sickle across the earth and gathered the grape harvest of the earth and threw it into the great winepress of the wrath of God.