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It has been several days since she and the children last found him struggling with a knife to his scalp, blood trailing down his face, dripping off his nose, helped along by tears. She had left him to continue on his own; a bit of hair does not change his ability to help with the farm, and so she sees no reason not to allow him this small comfort, this last thing he has of his old life in a strange place. When he finished, he had perhaps removed more skin than hair, but he had seemed satisfied. But she can not watch him fumble through another attempt himself.
So when she finds him once again contemplating the knife, one hand absently rubbing the short hairs on top of his head, she intervenes. When she holds her hand out for the blade, he looks up at her, eyes wide, caught, before quickly looking away.
She grabs him by the arm, pulls him over to the table, and gestures to the ground beside the bench. "Sit."
He does so wordlessly, and she turns to fetch the water he was using. He does not watch her, but she knows he is tracking her as she moves around the room, collecting a cloth and a smaller knife more suited to the task.
She hitches up her skirt and swings one leg over his shoulders so she can sit on the bench behind him with him trapped between her knees. This is how she would plait Gyda's hair before she could sit still on her own, a gentle squeeze keeping her in place. This is how she still plaits Ragnar's hair because the man will never learn to sit still, but he is easily distracted by a leg draped over his shoulder. She's not sure yet which tactic will work best on the priest. Her bare legs are pressed to his shoulders, and she knows this is the closest to a woman he has ever been. She smiles to herself knowing that he can feel the heat of her skin through the thin of his shirt.
Her fingers brush gently across the soft, short hairs at the crown of his head where the cuts from last time are still healing. Then she drops her hand to curve around his throat and leans in to speak in his ear as she tilts his head to a better angle. "Be still. You would not want the blade to slip."
She feels him swallow beneath her palm, but he does not move or speak. Releasing her grip, she sets to work, bringing the blade to his skin and cutting through the short hair.
"You said that this is what marks you as a priest among your people?" she asks.
"Yes," he says quietly.
"Do you believe you are a priest still? Even here? Without your temple, without anyone who believes in such things?"
"I believe I am as long as I remain faithful to God and to my vows."
"Ahh, yes. Your vows never to touch a woman? What would your god say now?" she asks, pausing in her work to slide her leg up his arm, catching his sleeve so that her bare skin drags against his for just a moment. She feels him tense, and she grins. He would be lovely to take apart, and perhaps she and Ragnar will try again sometime. They could teach him so much of love and all his god would deny him. For now, she will settle for making him blush.
"How can you love a god who would not allow you to pick up a sword to defend him? Who would see your home burned and your people killed? You would remain faithful to a god who would make you give up pleasure and love for suffering and loneliness?"
He would. It is why he is here, now, before her renewing this strange expression of his devotion to his god. It is why he sits at night with his book, murmuring prayers to himself rather than joining she and Ragnar in their bed. It is why he clutches at the pendant around his neck, bringing it to his lips, and keeping it as dear as any lover.
She wets a rag and wipes away the last loose hairs still clinging to his scalp, and she does not question him further after receiving only silence in answer.
"There," she says, squeezing his shoulder. "You are a priest still."
He immediately slips out from between her legs and scrambles to his feet. His fingers find the circle of skin at the top of his head, and he gives a small sigh and a slight smile. "Thank you."
"And this?" she asks, reaching up and catching his chin and running her thumb along the bristles there. She thinks it suits him, actually. Makes him seem less boyish. But last time, he did away with this as well.
His smile turns forced and polite, and that is an expression she has come to know well. "Thank you, but I can manage on my own, now."
"Are you certain? I have a steady hand," she says as she offers him the knife, "but you have not stopped trembling since you arrived here."
He looks away, but does not pull back from her touch.
"Sit," she says again, standing from the bench and giving him a gentle push toward it. He goes. She's still not sure if it's because he is willing or because he feels he must obey her. Without a sword in her hand, she is not feared by most men, and she often uses their underestimation of her abilities to her advantage. However, this priest is not like most men she knows.
She has less practice with this than she does with the contours of a skull. She has seen to Ragnor and Bjorn's heads for many years. But she moves carefully, pressing the blade to Athelstan's cheek and slowly dragging it down, cleaning the hairs from the edge with her rag before starting the process again. He lets her move his head as necessary, tilting his chin up so she can get the light dusting of hair across his throat. He watches her with those large eyes, like a beast that knows its time for slaughter is fast approaching.
"Do I frighten you?" she asks.
"I am frightened of anyone holding a blade to my throat."
She smiles at him. "That's wise of you."
Cleaning the blade a final time, she sets it aside on the table and looks back at him. "And now?"
"Your husband has made it clear many times that he will kill me if he sees fit." He swallows and glances toward the knife on the table. "I don't doubt that you are capable of the same."
"My husband has given you your freedom. If you are concerned for your safety, you may leave when you wish."
But they both know that he has nowhere to go. That to leave their farm and their custody would only end in death or worse at the hands of another. Athelstan does not trust them, for which she cannot fault him. But here, on his own, he is no threat, and his death would barely be worth the energy it would take to swing the blade, especially while he is well enough to help on the farm.
"You will be looked after, here," she assures him. "Well fed, clothed, a roof over your head, a warm fire. But you will work for it. Just as my husband and I do. Just as my children do. Slave or not, we will treat you fairly. And there will be no killing without cause."
"Such as?"
"If you steal from us," she says. "Or if you harm my children."
His brow wrinkles. "You stole from me. You killed my brothers. By your logic, I have the right--"
"If you believe you can kill me, you are welcome to try," she says, gesturing towards the knife.
"I don't wish to kill anyone!"
"Then you will not live long," she says, picking up the knife herself and returning it to its place. "Someone is always ready to make even the smallest demonstration to the gods of their valor. Perhaps even by killing a tiny priest for sport."
She takes the water to empty it outside and leaves the priest to consider her words. He will have several choices to make in the coming days. Which parts of himself he will keep, and which he will compromise. There is no place for a man such as him here, but if he's as smart as Ragnar seems to believe, in time he will make himself fit. A Saxon remade by Northmen. A priest living the life of warriors.
"Lagertha."
Athelstan looks back at her over his shoulder when she pauses in the doorway. "I would never hurt your children," he says. "Not ever."
Lagertha nods. "Then you could have a good life here, priest. If you choose it."
If he's as smart as Ragnar believes, he will realize that if he wants any kind of life at all, there is no choice. Not anymore.