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As the leaves continued to fall from the trees, the nights grew longer and the wind carried that muted, decaying smell that always came before the winter’s chilly, renewing breezes blustered in and scraped the land clean again, the village had begun the winter food preparations. The meat was being salted and smoked, vegetables pickled and dried, fruits preserved in honey, and grains stored. Kitchens in Kattegat were bustling.
Ragnar and Athelstan were sitting across from each other at the small wooden table in the King’s private quarters, having a snack and enjoying an unusual moment of unencumbered freedom away from diplomatic duties.
The two men were eating from a shared bowl of blackberries, stolen from the kitchen by a quickly devised stealth operation completed amid choked laughter. They were enjoying the last remnants of fresh fruit available before they were forced to switch to a more limited dry winter diet. They were entirely too pleased with themselves.
Athelstan watched Ragnar pop a juicy berry into his mouth using purple stained fingers. Noticing the observation, Ragnar offered a devious smirk, looking at the smaller man like they were sharing a confidential, top-secret joke. Athelstan shook his head indulgently and grinned back.
Suddenly, a high-pitched wail came screeching out of the attached bedroom, disrupting the lighthearted ambiance.
Athelstan slightly rotated on the banquet bench and tilted his head toward the other room, listening to the sounds wafting through the doorway. He could hear Ivar crying, what sounded like Ubbe and Hvitserk wrestling, and Aslaug’s strained, weary reprimands telling the boys to stop roughhousing.
Athelstan turned back around towards the man sitting in front of him. Ragnar pulled his bottom lip between his teeth and gave Athelstan an anxious look. Then he placed both hands on the wooden surface and leaned forward, his upper torso stretching across the top of the table, in order to peer through the opening into the bedroom.
Upon seeing Aslaug walk by the doorway, he jumped back into an upright, seated position, trying to get out of her line of sight. He had a guilty, but evasive expression on his face as his apprehensive eyes shifted over to catch Athelstan’s. He gave a tight little shake of his head that clearly said, “No way. Not going into that beehive.”
Athelstan lifted his eyebrows at the obvious circumvention. Ragnar just shrugged and went back to eating his treat, disregarding the commotion in the adjacent room.
Athelstan looked around the outer living area and wondered where Siggy or the nursemaids were that usually helped care for the children as the noise grew more clamorous.
Minutes later, the Queen Bee herself came buzzing out of the bedroom, carrying a whimpering Ivar, in an exasperated huff.
“What are you doing?” Aslaug accusingly directed at Ragnar, seemingly instantaneously irritated at merely the sight of him casually sitting at the table.
Ragnar, with wide, caught eyes and a dumbfounded expression, sat staring at her, with one hand full of blackberries frozen in mid-air halfway to his mouth. “Eating.” He cautioned.
“Can you please help me?!” Aslaug begged. Frustrated and annoyed.
The woman looked haggard and stressed, older than Athelstan had ever seen her. There were dark circles under her eyes, new wrinkles between her brows, and a fatigued slump to her shoulders.
Even still, Aslaug was a tall, thin, elegant looking woman. All long-legged grace, like a praying mantis. She looked like she would not mind biting the head off her oblivious and apparently deaf husband at the moment.
Ragnar gave a heavy sigh and dropped his head to his chest, then after making a show of theatrically raising it, acting like his head weighed twice its weight, looked at his wife and gave her a quick, placating, closed-mouth smile with no humor in it.
“Boys!” He barked, “Come here!”
Ubbe, Hvitserk, and Sigurd came tumbling in, clumsily climbing onto the benches and immediately reaching their hands into the bowl of blackberries on the table, munching away.
Ragnar pulled Sigurd onto his lap, making him giggle by offering him a berry only to pull it away when it was almost close enough to Sigurd’s mouth for him to bite it.
Ragnar was studiously ignoring his wife.
Taking pity on the overlooked, drained Queen standing behind him, Athelstan turned to her and said quietly, “We will watch them for a while. Get rest.”
Aslaug gave Athelstan a tight, exhausted smile and with what looked suspiciously like tears filling her desperate eyes, she turned and walked back into the bedroom, despondently rocking her fussing, disfigured baby in her arms.
Athelstan watched her go and with a concerned sigh turned back to the uproar happening around the table.
"Ragnar, we should take them outside. Let Aslaug have some quiet."
Ragnar squinted his eyes at Athelstan for a moment silently then turned to the boisterous, loud children and said, "Let's go play." Cheers erupted.
Ragnar stood up from the table, swinging little Sigurd up onto his hip, bouncing the little toddler in his arms while Sigurd laughed and hung on to Ragnar's tunic with tiny hands. Athelstan and the boys, excitedly pumping their fists, followed Ragnar out the door.
They walked out of the village center and to a meadow that gently slopped up to a hill that was on the outskirts of the city's edge. The area was empty and quiet with only a few buildings within sight. Athelstan settled down on a patch of soft grass slightly up the inclined slope and watched Ragnar and his sons dash about in the meadow below.
Along the way, Ubbe and Hvitserk had picked up their wooden toy swords so Ragnar proceeded to instruct the two young boys in sword fighting maneuvers, showing them how to deflect and dodge blows, moving in slow motion so they could follow his example and being gentle so that he did not hurt them. Their little faces beamed up at him adoringly, watching his every move.
Once Ragnar had been killed by his sons a dozen times over, dramatically clutching his chest and collapsing over onto the ground each time, he finally told them, "Your old man needs a break. I am going to sit with Athelstan. Practice on each other."
Ragnar leisurely jogged to Athelstan and unhurriedly settled down next to him, using Athelstan's shoulder to steady himself as he eased his body into a seated position on the ground.
The two men lounged in the fresh smelling grass. Athelstan let the serene, fun atmosphere encircle him and was grateful that Ragnar was getting to spend some time away from his constant, taxing obligations as King. Ragnar had begun to look tenser with each passing day. Kingship was wearing on him. Athelstan was more worried about the Norseman than he cared to admit.
Athelstan looked over at the larger man, the sun was hitting Ragnar's face in a way that made his skin glow and his beard look glossy, his face was carrying a slight smile while his bright blue eyes, squinting against the light, took in the entertainment downhill. Ragnar looked carefree and boyish. It was a nice change from the stressed frowns and wrinkled brows of late. This was good for him, reflected Athelstan.
The sun overhead shone brightly. The changing, falling leaves blasted the landscape with brilliant shades of red, yellow and brown, colors Athelstan remembered using to paint his holy drawings. He observed the dozens of thick white clouds floating by in the sky. Listened to a bird chirping, unseen, somewhere in the trees. Ragnar would know what bird that was, Athelstan thought, but did not ask the man lounging beside him.
The men watched the boys rambunctiously chase each other and play fight for a time. Ubbe and Hvitserk were performing their new sword fighting moves, darting to and fro, while little Sigurd did his best to keep up on his short, unsteady toddler's legs.
It was relaxing and peaceful; uneventful, save for an incident when Ubbe accidently whacked Hvitserk in the mouth with his wooden sword.
The little boy had come running over to Ragnar, covering his mouth with his hands and tears streaking from his eyes. Ragnar, having seen what happened, got up and caught the crying child. He then knelt down in front of his son. Hvitserk snuggled into Ragnar's arms, rubbing his little face against Ragnar's shoulder, seeking comfort. Ragnar patted the boy's back for a moment then pulled Hvitserk away from his hiding place in Ragnar's neck, forcing him to stand unobstructed so his father could inspect the wound.
Ragnar said calmly, "Lemme see," while holding his son's quivering chin in his big, dark hand, tilting it right and left, examining the swollen bottom lip.
"You are all right, little man. Makes you look tough." Ragnar tenderly wiped Hvitserk's wet cheeks with the sleeve of his shirt. Hvitserk looked up at him, sniffling, with big, blue, idolizing eyes that were surrounded by wet, spiky, blond eyelashes.
"Now go play with your brothers." Ragnar gently ordered, giving his son a little pat on the bottom to send him on his way. Obediently, Hvitserk wandered back to the meadow and picked up his abandoned toy.
Athelstan smiled watching the scene; Ragnar was affectionate and loving with his children but there was no coddling. These boys would grow up to be warriors someday and it was Ragnar's responsibility to make sure they were ready. To teach and take care of them. It was the duty Ragnar took the most seriously, above anything else in his life.
Athelstan thought that despite Ragnar's failings as a husband, it was hard to deny that Ragnar was a good father. He would do anything to protect his children. Even brutally kill a king.
Ragnar, again stretched out on the sloping hill, leaning back on his arms, blade of grass sticking out of his mouth, took in his sons running and squealing in the distance. Sigurd was trying to grab at his older brothers as they sprinted passed him. Hvitserk, as resilient children will, had forgotten about his injury as soon as something more exciting came along to distract him.
Athelstan took it all in, eyes scanning the distance, and let out a little fretful breath.
Speaking of being a poor husband...
"How is Boneless? Aslaug seems more worried than usual." Athelstan quietly inquired, keeping his head facing towards the meadow, but his eyes cut to the man next to him, studying Ragnar's reaction.
Ragnar looked down at the question and spit out the chewed stalk of grass from between his lips.
"Yes. Well." He shrugged, his jaw clenched, voice was tight and closed off with a hint of barely contained irritation.
Athelstan could feel that Ragnar was upset about his youngest son and perceived the distance and building aversion growing between husband and wife. Athelstan understood how difficult the situation must be for the parents, having to nurse a screaming, deformed child every day. Listening to those pitiful wails of pain while knowing there was nothing that could be done for comfort would have put strain on even the most committed, healthiest of couples, to which Aslaug and Ragnar were not. The dirty, wild former farmer and the privileged, prideful princess were always a bit of an odd pair and they never quite fit together perfectly.
Athelstan felt sorry for Aslaug though. He saw how worried she was, consumed by hopelessness and helplessness for her child. She did not find much support or reassurance from her husband, either. Ragnar was so indifferent and reserved towards her now. Only speaking to her when necessary. When they were together the space between them was icy and formal.
Athelstan did not understand it completely, supposed it was not really his place to, but he recognized the resentment both felt towards the other. And it was only getting worse.
Athelstan suspected that as soon as the weather improved and the raiding season came, Ragnar would set sail as fast as he could in order to leave Aslaug behind, trying to escape their problems. And as a result, abandon his wife to raise his four young sons alone. Yet again. Aslaug probably knew it, too. It was impossible to ignore how restless and detached Ragnar had become. Lately, he sought the company of only Athelstan and his children. He purposefully isolated himself, pushing away those untrustworthy people that got too close. Ragnar seemed to believe that was almost everyone these days.
But Aslaug was a good mother. Her life completely revolved around her children. She would stay up day and night tending to Ivar, doing everything she could possibly think of to help soothe the distressed, uncomfortable baby. Some mornings, Athelstan would see her and be shaken at the worn out, disheveled image of the usually put together, beautiful Queen.
Athelstan thought Ragnar took Aslaug for granted.
At one point, Athelstan knew Ragnar had loved her, not in the same way he had loved Lagertha, but Ragnar had nonetheless had caring, compassionate feelings for the lonely, noble woman. Although, Ragnar had let slip once that Aslaug made him feel like a common, disobedient, inadequate boy at times.
Athelstan judged though, that after the two were married and began having children, Ragnar had, in some ways, enjoyed her serene, regal presence in his life. His relationship with Aslaug was not like the passion fueled, heated fighting, hair pulling, frantic loving, face slapping, fierce fucking, push and pull, turbulent whirlwind that his and Lagertha's had been.
Things between Ragnar and Aslaug were easier, less intense. Ragnar could come home from raiding or a political mission and not have to worry about doing battle with his own wife as soon as he walked through the door. Aslaug could be haughty and jealous, but for the most part she was usually relatively composed and quiet. It was a contrast from what he had known before and Ragnar seemed to be thankful for her dignified coolness.
For a time, anyway.
Maybe deep down Ragnar still did love her, she was the mother of his children, after all, but resentment, sullenness and his uneasy manner towards Ivar seemed to have gotten in the way.
Ragnar rarely spoke about the problems he had with his wife or his feelings about his son, whom Ragnar acted as though he was almost frightened of. But then, Ragnar was like that. He did not wish to discuss his pain. He kept it close, tied up under his rib cage.
Athelstan could count on one hand the number of times Ragnar had spoken of his daughter Gyda since her death. It was like he was afraid to release his massive grief into the open; so he trapped it in, wanting to keep it private and hidden where no eyes but his own could behold it. Almost as if it were a shrine that no one was allowed to place candles before except him. Ragnar preferred to mourn in silence.
Athelstan sighed sadly.
It was not Athelstan's way to push, but he knew that if he did not speak to Ragnar about what was going on with the troubled man then no one else would. Most were afraid to bring up the taboo subject or interfere with the King's personal life.
"Aslaug loves you and the boys. She is always taking care of them. You should show her more appreciation." Athelstan softly implored, speaking gently and without judgment. Athelstan was not so much worried about overstepping boundaries, he and Ragnar did not really have many of those between them, but he knew this was a sensitive topic and did not wish to put Ragnar in a rotten mood.
“Telling me how to deal with my wife, now? What would you know about what it is like between a man and his wife? Huh?" Ragnar sneered. He sat up and looked at Athelstan with an aggravated scowl, eyebrows raised and lips frowning.
Athelstan let out a little frustrated puff of air and discreetly rolled his eyes. So much for not putting Ragnar in a foul mood. Ragnar could be obnoxiously exasperating sometimes.
"I am not trying to fight with you, Ragnar." Athelstan calmly said, turning to look straight at the cantankerous man, with forthrightness.
Ragnar stared back at Athelstan a moment then suddenly backed down, his face smoothing and the provoked spark in his eyes flaming out. "I'm sorry. I am an ass." Ragnar evenly admitted.
"Sometimes, yes." Athelstan nodded at him, seriously.
Not at all offended, the Norseman put on a dramatic, woeful expression. "Forgive me." He playfully begged with an over-exaggerated pout. Ragnar reached over and jiggled Athelstan's leg. Athelstan could not help cracking a smile. Ragnar's face instantly broke into a grin, knowing he had won over the Englishman.
Athelstan slapped Ragnar's hand away, acting vexed. Ragnar just chuckled and settled back down beside the small man.
Noting the King's improved humor, Athelstan cautioned truthfully, "I just think that sometimes you punish people for your own pain."
Ragnar stared at Athelstan openly for a long moment, the wheels in his mind turning thoughtfully, considering the words. Then his somber eyes dropped to the ground and he began absentmindedly pulling up the grass before him and tossing it into the air to be blown away by the subtle breeze.
Finally Ragnar, still glued to the sight of the grass between his fingers, offered, "I love my son…but sometimes I can barely look at him.”
Athelstan swallowed hard. He was surprised by the rare disclosure. It was the most Ragnar had ever provided on the subject. He stayed silent, patiently waiting to hear if Ragnar had more to divulge.
“The gods are punishing Aslaug and I. We must have angered them. To hurt my child...like that.” Ragnar looked up and watched his healthy sons playing a few feet away; he shook his head, like he was at a loss for words on how to express such pain.
A moment later he continued, voice sounding taut and full of sorrow, “I can not forgive myself. I failed him.” He cleared his throat and dropped his eyes.
Athelstan sympathetically gazed at the melancholy man beside him so full of self-chastisement and guilt. He felt honored that Ragnar had discussed his feelings with Athelstan, knowing that there was no one else that was bestowed the privilege.
“You are not to blame, my friend. Ivar was created by the gods the way he was meant to be.” Athelstan reassured, quietly putting all the care and encouragement he could within his words, hoping they could dissolve some of Ragnar's pent up shame and grief. Athelstan regretted he could not think of more comforting things to say.
Instead, he simply asked, “Are you all right? Truly?”
"What do you mean?" Ragnar was distractedly tossing a pebble between his hands, his forehead creased.
“You seem very unhappy these days." Athelstan stated honestly.
Ragnar's head swung over to stare at Athelstan a moment, looking taken by surprise, then slowly moved to stare straight ahead. Eventually he reticently acknowledged, “I am just tired. Of everyone. Of all of it." The Norseman exhaled noisily and threw the pebble as hard as he could from his reclined position, it pinged off the dirt in the distance.
"All of what?"
"This! I never wanted this." Ragnar waved his hand around irritably. "But now that I have it, I must do what is best for our people. I must find a way to provide for them. We need to farm in England. Grow food. Before we all starve."
The last year had been rough, the rains had not come and the sparse, arid land had produced very few crops. The village and surrounding farms had barely lasted through the last winter on their insufficient supplies. It weighed on Ragnar greatly.
"You are a good ruler, Ragnar. Everyone sees that you are doing your best." Athelstan put his hand on Ragnar's muscular shoulder and squeezed it encouragingly.
"Ha. Now that I have a title, they all just see what I can do for them." Ragnar spouted in an acrimonious, doubtful tone. He butted his shoulder into Athelstan's hand, indicating he wanted the comforting touch to continue.
Athelstan argued, "That is not true. Not of all. Lagertha was with you before you ever came into power."
Ragnar cocked an eyebrow and scoffed, "Yes. And for how long after?"
Not waiting for a response, Ragnar went on bitterly, "She left me.”
Athelstan removed his hand from the larger man's shoulder and sardonically jested, "Ahh…and you had nothing to do with her decision to leave?"
Ragnar snorted without humor and gave a little sarcastic roll of his eyes, tossing the blade of grass he had been twisting between his fingers down into the dirt.
“She is so bloody hard-headed." Ragnar shook his head sharply, but he had the beginnings of a smirk on his lips and an approving glint in his eyes.
Athelstan could not disagree with that point. Lagertha was the most stubborn, dynamic, bull of a woman he had ever met.
After a brief silence, Ragnar pointedly declared, "I am ready to leave. When we go to Wessex to establish the farms, will you come with us?"
Wessex. The site of his crucifixion. The place of being kept as a valuable pet in a gilded cage by a duplicitous king. Athelstan had tried to not consciously think about those things since his return home with Ragnar. They haunted his dreams enough. Athelstan shuttered and his breath caught in his chest; he was knocked momentarily speechless by the unwelcome memories.
Ragnar hesitated at Athelstan’s silence. He looked at Athelstan perceptively, then continued, softly beseeching, "I would like you to go with me." At this Ragnar's eyes shifted down to reflexively look at the scars featured on Athelstan's hands. He paused briefly, and spoke in a quiet, uncertain voice, "If you feel able." His demeanor suddenly timid and anxious.
Athelstan stared at Ragnar, the King looked as if he were a supplicant beggar pleading for his life.
Athelstan gave a guarded sighed and tried to squash the edgy apprehension that had inflated within his mind. "I will go. I want to help."
"Good." Ragnar’s brow relaxed and he released the nervous breath he had been holding.
“And you? What of you, Athelstan?” Ragnar requested quietly, the look in his icy eyes penetrating and concerned.
Athelstan’s eyes cast down and watched his own fingers idly stroke through the blades of grass. He spotted the scars on his hands, they looked pink and abhorrent on his pale skin; they were a continual reminder of his sins and clashing spirituality. Heretic. Apostate.
Athelstan reflected briefly on his continued confliction of faith, on his uncertainty of his place in this world, on his feeling that authentic, satisfied tranquility may always elude him. On how it felt like he was forever searching for something that was impossible to find, like looking for a single drop of water in an enormous ocean. Abstract and always out of reach.
Then he thought on the connection that had been burning between he and Ragnar over all these years. It was getting deeper, louder, stronger and more persistent. No matter how often or hard Athelstan would punch down the scary, confusing, stimulating feelings they always came back. And with more drumming force, brighter blinding light, and extra hard thudding each time. It was an unavoidable pulsing that was becoming impossible to ignore. Athelstan felt it spinning and beating between them as they sat next to each other and it made something low in his belly brace and clamp together.
Athelstan said simply, “I like being here with you. Here is good.”
Ragnar gave him a piercing, searching look. As Athelstan’s words registered, Ragnar’s eyelids slowly closed and his face broke into a small, contented smile. He was the picture of powerful, thankful relief. Like Ragnar had just been told he had escaped a death sentence, an eternity in Hel.
Athelstan felt lightheaded at the understanding of what Ragnar's reaction meant.
The moment was interrupted by Sigurd running up the hill brandishing a stick, all flushed cheeks and shining eyes. When he reached the men he threw down his stick absently and gracelessly climbed into Athelstan’s lap, situating himself in the hollow of Athelstan’s crossed legs, without a word.
Athelstan cuddled the little, chubby body close, burying his nose in Sigurd’s messy, silky hair; it smelled like porridge and sunshine. When the two elder boys sprinted by the seated group, shrieking and carrying their wooden swords, Sigurd pointed his tiny finger at his oldest brother running passed and yelled, "Ubbe!", looking up at Athelstan with an excited grin and then back at his brother and quickly back up at Athelstan again, as though wanting confirmation and for Athelstan to see also what his young, fresh mind found so delightful. Athelstan grinned at the toddler, taken by the idea that Sigurd was seeing the world with innocent, brand new eyes.
"Yes. Look at Ubbe and Hvitserk. Are they little warriors?” Athelstan obligingly acknowledged, chuckling.
Sigurd enthusiastically nodded his head and then leaned farther back into Athelstan’s chest, cuddling close. Athelstan squeezed the little boy and looked down into the angelic face. Sigurd was rubbing his eyes and slowly blinking.
Athelstan smiled seeing the sleepy gesture and adjusted Sigurd’s play-rumpled tunic.
Ragnar also was watching his son, embraced in Athelstan's lap, fondly. He leaned over into Sigurd's face and cooed, "Are you tired, little piggy?"
The small boy lethargically shook his head. Ragnar smiled at the obviously dishonest response and planted kisses all over his child’s plump, darling face. Sigurd squawked happily and smacked at Ragnar’s cheek.
Athelstan looked on amused. Ragnar turned into such a goof around his babies, watching him play with them was like watching puppies romp around together. Athelstan found it preciously charming.
The Norseman sat back and noticed Athelstan regarding him with a dreamy look in his eyes and an enchanted, closed-mouth smile.
"What? You want some, too?" Ragnar playfully grabbed Athelstan’s head between his large hands and pulled him forword slightly. He proceeded to splatter sloppy kisses across the smaller man’s forehead and cheeks.
Athelstan's stomach did an unwarranted cartwheel and his cheeks went flaming.
Ragnar pulled back and laughed raucously, his guffaws ringing out pleasant and cheerful in the afternoon air, at the dark haired man’s blushing, bashful smile. Athelstan could barely meet Ragnar’s eyes but he could not stop himself from grinning at the Norseman's antics.
A few minutes later, after their laughter tapered off and they had settled into comfortable silence while continuing to keep their sights on the boys, Ragnar looked over at Athelstan and quietly spoke his name, "Athelstan?”
Athelstan turned to acknowledge him, noting that Ragnar had been waiting for Athelstan to look at him before continuing.
“Yes?”
“You make me very happy. My children make me happy. That is enough. That is all I need." Ragnar breathed in a soft, placid voice while staring directly into Athelstan’s face with a serious, intense expression, like the words held profound meaning and he wanted Athelstan’s full attention on him as he said them. Honest and vulnerable.
Something in Athelstan’s chest, behind his lungs, detonated. Crushingly tender.
Athelstan tilted his head and smiled sweetly at the earnest man before him, touched by the sincere confession. Oh, what this man did to him.
Athelstan slowly reached over and gave Ragnar's beard a gentle tug. "You make me happy, too, Ragnar.” He affirmed gently, nearly soundless.
Ragnar grinned alluringly, showing off a set of white teeth. He looked outrageously pleased at hearing Athelstan’s words.
A few seconds later, Ragnar cast his gaze to the sky. "It is going to rain soon." He murmured absentmindedly.
Athelstan stared up at the blue, calm, quiet sky. It did not look like wet weather was on its way to him. Athelstan shook his head in amazement.
Athelstan was fascinated by how in tune Ragnar and most of the other Northmen in this untamed country were with nature. Ragnar had the ability to hunt animal tracks, tell the changing weather by smell, navigate his surroundings using the stars, tell what day it was by the phases of the moon, know if it was going to be a hard winter by the time the first snow fell, identify what plants were poisonous and determine which type of wood to burn to make a fire last longer. Athelstan had no doubt that Ragnar would be able to live in the forest alone with nothing but an ax, if it ever came down to it.
Athelstan, who on the other hand, had grown up in a monastery on an island with no use for knowledge of how to live in the wild, was baffled by the nearly otherworldly skills for survival Ragnar had.
Years ago, Ragnar had made a little game of trying to teach Athelstan the basic tools he would need in order to survive outdoors, showing him how to find water, trap small game, and where to forage for food. The Norseman would smile at Athelstan with pride every time Athelstan managed to accomplish a skill, no matter how small. Due to Ragnar's training, Athelstan knew enough by this point to get by, but he was no expert, not like Ragnar.
Ragnar reached over and shooed away a fly hovering near Athelstan’s shoulder and then stood up lazily. Athelstan clamored to stand up beside him while balancing a sleeping toddler in his arms.
“Sons! Come on.” Ragnar called out to his scampering little ones in the meadow. They came trotting over to their father, giggly and lively.
Ragnar said clearly, "Time for me to take my beautiful boys back inside." But he was not looking at the two little rambunctious children scurrying about at his feet, he was looking right at Athelstan, his eyes dark, head tilted and a charismatic smirk on his lips.
Athelstan smiled back softly then looked down, unable to keep the eye contact. His stomach was fluttering at having Ragnar standing so close and looking at him so adoringly.
Ragnar took Sigurd out of Athelstan's arms and held the boy within his own. The King kissed the child's groggy head and then looked over to kindheartedly smile at Athelstan.
"Come on." Ragnar whispered tenderly and put his hand on the small of Athelstan’s back, guiding the smaller man a few steps forward in the direction toward town.
The entire walk back to the hall, Athelstan marveled over the mysterious Norseman. Athelstan had never known anything like the hurricane that was Ragnar Lothbrok; the man who had chaotically swept into his life, destroyed everything he knew, and then gently, with helpful hands and playful jabs, built him back up into something stronger and more real.
Athelstan felt his feet connect to the ground in this land like he never had before. Solid. Linked. It felt like a sturdy, taut rope ran down his spine and was tying him to the forbidding mountains, soggy dirt, and wet sand of this country. This powerful, natural place where gods walked along the earth. It felt like home. Ragnar made it feel like home. That rope tied Athelstan to more than just land.
Even still though, he found himself at times, stopping to look up at the vast, aloof sky hoping to hear from a God he was not sure he even believed in anymore, but was too afraid to cast out completely. Perhaps he should be praying to St. Jude, the Patron of Hopeless Causes, Athelstan ruminated forlornly, blowing out a cynical breath.
Even after all these years, sometimes he still felt torn in two opposing directions.
The ground below. The sky above.
As the group came to the hall, Athelstan paused at the threshold, watching the others enter before him, and then looked up at the silent sky as dark, ominous clouds suddenly came into view over the mountains, wind picking up and tossing his hair against his cheeks. A storm was coming.
He slowly shifted his probing gaze to look down at the dirt under his own feet. He took a deep breath and imagined sucking strength from the hard, sturdy ground beneath him. Then gazing upwards, took another breath, pulling in the celestial air from the sky above him, and imagined filtering in harmony down into his lungs and belly, filling them to maximum capacity.
He slowly released his twofold, convoluted breath.
Athelstan shook his head lightly and sent a silent prayer to all the gods, both the corporeal ones of this place and the intangible one from his former home, asking for peace and fortitude. He had a disconcerting feeling he was going to need it.
For soon, they would go back to Wessex.
Feeling that invisible, binding rope tug him forward, he took a step through the doorway and followed Hurricane Ragnar and the cacophony of sound emerging from the interior of the hall.
Athelstan wished he comprehended the vagaries of his adrift soul.