Chapter Text
Not long after he had arrived at Ragnar's household, a pair of trousers had appeared on his bed. He had been hesitant about abandoning his habit after already having so many of the things he cared for and understood ripped away. But as he spent more time helping on the farm, spending long days in the summer sun, he allowed himself to be swayed by practicality.
Now, as summer wanes, it becomes clear that he'll need more than just the thin shirt to get through the coming months. He worries about mentioning it to Ragnar, despite the relative friendliness that has met most of his requests so far. He is still a slave, after all, until Ragnar tells him otherwise. And while knowledge is free, clothes are not, and perhaps asking for them crosses a line.
In the end, Lagertha saves him the trouble.
She calls him inside as he and Bjorn are finishing with the animals for the evening, and he ignores Bjorn's insistence that he must have done something wrong and now will pay the price.
"Try this on," Lagertha says, throwing an old tunic at him. "It's old, but still good. And you won't last much longer in only what you have."
The tunic is big. It clearly must have been Ragnar's at some point. The shoulders hang off his slighter frame, but Lagertha cinches a belt around him and adjusts and smooths until she is satisfied, all with the practiced efficiency of a mother with two children rapidly growing out of their clothes with each passing season.
"Good?" she asks him, still fixing the collar.
He nods.
"There's a cloak as well. It's worn but still warm. And--"
She turns back to the chest she pulled the tunic from and shoves a pair of boots into his chest. "Try these."
They're also too big. He doesn't say, but she's there again, touching, pressing, checking. She frowns and looks up at him. "They'll do for now. Next time we are in Kattegat we will find something better. You'll need something proper before winter."
"Thank you. Truly, this is--"
She stands, tries to smooth a stubborn wrinkle from the tunic again. "We would not let you freeze," she promises.
Ragnar smiles when he sees him and ruffles his hair where Athelstan's finally let it grow in. "You don't look like our priest anymore."
Athelstan ducks away and tries to hide the rush of disappointment that fills him by smoothing down his hair. The life he left gets further away each passing day, and he can't help thinking he should miss it more. He thinks that he shouldn't like that he is their priest because Ragnar and Lagertha are tangible and there in a way that his God has not been for some time now, and he'd rather that than be on his own.
He thinks it shouldn't be a comfort when Lagertha hooks her chin over Ragnar's shoulder, smiles at Athelstan, and says, "He may not look it, but he still is."