Hnefatafl
oneiriad
Disclaimer: Vikings does not belong to me. I'm just playing.
A/N: Written before ep05 and somewhat jossed by it already. Ah well...
There's a snoring Northman in Athelstan's usual sleeping spot.
Admittedly, this is not particularly surprising, as there are Northmen - snoring and otherwise - scattered all through the house, on the floor and on the benches.
But Athelstan is tired, swaying on his feet - a little drunk as well from the strong mead, yes, but mostly - mostly he's just tired. He was up well before dawn today, feeding the fires and cooking breakfast for Ragnar's guests to eat. At sunrise there was a brief reprieve as everyone had gathered outside to watch as Ragnar greeted the sun with the heart's blood of a fine cock, a beautiful horse and the fattest pig on the farm.
It had been a short reprieve. Afterwards he had barely had time to grab a handful of fresh snow to scrub away the pig's blood that Ragnar had sprinkled on his face in some heathen parody of a baptism before he was expected to assist the men as they butchered the animals. Their work done, the men had gathered the youngest children and headed towards the frozen river, bone skates and balls in their hands.
But for Athelstan, the work had just begun, as Lagertha and the women of the neighbouring farms had started their work, assisted by what slaves had been brought along for the visit by the guests from town - and by Athelstan. There was the fresh meat to be boiled, of course, and the rooster to be spitted, there's was blood pancakes to be fried, there was bread to be baked, cabbage to be picked, mead and ale to be poured into pitchers, tables and benches to be assembled - rough planks of wood on rickety feet.
When Lagertha and the free women wandered down to the river to watch the men at their games, still there was work for Athelstan, animals that had to be fed same as every day, while the other slaves - among them one of his brothers from Lindisfarne, Brother Anfeald, and while it had been a delight to see him again, the older man knew but a little Norse even after his long months of servitude, and so Athelstan found himself constantly having to translate for him - had to be told where the stores were, to ready plates for the tables full of salted eggs, dried fruit and berries, blocks of cheese and the best butter.
The feast had started and still there had been precious little rest to be had, as plates emptied and pitchers drained at a frankly alarming rate, and shouts for "more meat", "more mead" mixed with the toasts to the heathen gods. At one point Ragnar had dragged him down next to him, had poured mead for him in a horn and skewered a choice bit of pork dripping with fat, but soon enough he had been back to fetching and carrying and trying not to trip over the many dogs.
Now, finally, late at night, the house has settled down, and the only noise heard above the snores is the wind outside the solid walls - and finally, having fed the fires and checked the lamps one last time for night, Athelstan is free to seek his rest.
Except there's a snoring Northman in his usual spot.
For a moment he stands, swaying slightly, and contemplates the sleeping Rollo, lying as he does with Ragnar's great hound in his arms, then - sparing a glance to assure himself that the Gospel of St. John lies undisturbed in its usual place - he turns and starts making his way past sleeping men and towards the stables, where the other slaves have bedded down for the night, safe from the winter cold among the warm animals.
"Can't sleep?"
Athelstan stops, turns his head to where Ragnar sits at the table, no longer slumped as if asleep. Next to him is a board set with elaborately carved pieces, dark and bright wood among each other in some pattern which defies his comprehension. It is not until Ragnar speaks again, his voice somewhat slurred from the mead - "Do you play, priest?" - that he realizes he's been staring at it.
"No. No, I'm just - it's late, I should…"
"Join me," and what else is he to do but make his way to the place across from Ragnar and sit down, what else is he to do but what he is told? Ragnar smiles, sways as he rises to reach the pieces on the furthest side of the board, arranging them in what appears to be the start of the game.
"This is the king," he says, picking up the largest piece on the board. "These are his defenders, and these are the attacking army. They move…" and Athelstan blinks and tries to focus as Ragnar explains the rules, but simple as they are and however much he'd enjoy learning this game at some other time the hour is late and Athelstan is tired, too tired to pay proper attention. As they play, again and again Ragnar has to remind him of the rules, and in the end, surely nobody is surprised to find that Athelstan has lost.
"You don't seem to be trying."
"Sorry. I'm just tired. I should..."
"I don't think that's it," and Ragnar smiles as he pours mead into two cups, hands one to Athelstan and watches him until he raises it to his lips. "I think men play better when something's at stake. We should make a bet, you and I."
"I have nothing to bet," and he doesn't, all he has is the Gospel and the cross around his neck, and neither of those would make much of a stake, even if he was at all tempted.
"I think I can think of something," and Ragnar pours yet more mead for him. "I think we should play a game and if I win - if I win, you will stop hiding behind your god and come to our bed."
"No," but Ragnar seems quite satisfied with his own suggestion as he begins to put the pieces back where they were. "Ragnar Lothbrok, do not ask this of me. Please. I cannot make such a bet."
"Why not? Surely, if your chastity matters so much to your god, he'll help you win?"
"That's not -this is blasphemy. Ragnar, I am a monk. I have taken oaths in the name of God. I can't just go - betting myself on a wim."
"Ah, but we haven't even discussed what you will get, if you win."
"It doesn't matter," and Athelstan shakes his head, then shakes it some more, trying to clear it. "I won't win, I haven't ever played this game before. To do this would be," and he shakes his head again, searches for the right word, but finds himself at a loss for it.
"Three games, then. One for each night of the Jól. If I win, you stop your protestations, but if you win - if you win just once - then, when the ice melts and we set sail for the West, I shall take you along with me, and when we set our sails for home, it shall be your choice to come or to stay."
Athelstan's mouth goes dry. He swallows. He has taken oaths, he has sworn - but this is cruel. The thought of going home, back to Christian lands, back to where he's not a slave, to where people don't worship bloodthirsty gods and laugh at his prayers - oh, it is temptation. Ragnar has chosen well, and he can feel his eyes on him, waiting for an answer, and Athelstan is torn. He cannot bet himself as Ragnar wants him to, he cannot - he will lose and he will lose himself, how can he hope to win? But surely, if there is even the smallest chance, the smallest hope of him winning just one game, surely then it would not be a sin to accept Ragnar's bet. Surely it would be his Christian duty to, to risk this martyrdom if there's even the smallest chance...
Athelstan swallows again, then drains his cup to chase away that traitorous little voice inside of him whispering It's not martyrdom if you want it. Then he nods. Ragnar's smile grows wider.
The game does not take long. Athelstan moves his pieces, chasing after the king, but Ragnar's pieces keep getting in the way, and soon enough the game is done. Ragnar has won.
Ragnar stands, stretches - "Time for bed, I think," - and then he holds out a hand for Athelstan.
"That wasn't the bet."
"Was it not?"
Ragnar's hand never waivers and it is beginning to dawn on Athelstan that the bet can be interpreted this way. Ragnar has won this game and nobody said anything about Ragnar having to win thrice to earn his price. Ragnar has won and if he chooses to insist...
Athelstan rises, slowly. His hands curl into powerless fists at his side, uncurl and curl again, and part of him wants to bolt out the door.
Ragnar's hand drops.
"Or you can go sleep in the stable, if it matters so much to you."
It is as if a great weight has fallen from his shoulders and Athelstan turns away, starts picking his way across and around the men sleeping on the floor.
"But before you do that, slave, you've got one last task. There's an embroidered bag in the large chest next to you. Put the tafl board and the pieces in it and put it back in the chest. I doubt there'll be any more need for it this winter."
"But..." and Athelstan turns, wanting to protest, because no, no, they were to play two more games, him and Ragnar. He was to have two more chances to win his freedom. The words of protest die on his lips, as he sees Ragnar turning away, turning towards his bed.
"Ragnar Lothbrok, please."
Ragnar turns and looks back at Athelstan.
"What is the point of playing with a man who will not honour his bets?"
There are so many things Athelstan could say to that, would say to that, but in the end - in the end Ragnar is the master and Athelstan the slave and all of his words will matter little, he knows.
In the end he has a choice.
Whispering a prayer for forgiveness in his mind, wrapping his arms around himself, Athelstan starts walking - towards Ragnar, towards the bed and towards his own damnation. He turns his face away, doesn't want to see Ragnar's wolf's smile.
The bed is not empty. Lagertha is in it, faintly snoring, arms full of Bjorn and Gyda, all three of them still dressed, and Athelstan hesitates, because surely, surely Ragnar cannot mean - not while the children...
"Get in."
He takes off his shoes before sliding down in the bed, shivering at the thought of what will surely follow, and then feels Ragnar sliding in next to him, pressing against his back. A leg pushes in between his own and an arm comes around his waist, tugging him back against a firm chest, and then...
"Go to sleep, priest."
Athelstan does.
On the second day of Jól Athelstan awakes surrounded by bodies. Ragnar is a warm presence at his back, and at some point during the night, Lagertha has moved closer, and Gyda has somehow managed to curl up halfway on top of him like a cat. It takes a little before it comes back to him how he ended up here, and even when it does, he finds himself too content to much care. Not right now. Later, probably, but for now - for now he is content.
Alas, soon enough he must rise - there are fires to feed, a day's work awaiting him. Getting out of bed is a challenge, as he doesn't want the others to wake, but he mostly manages, clambering over Ragnar and earning nothing more than an annoyed grumble as he makes his escape.
At least today holds less work than yesterday. Oh, there's still plenty of work, but there's also still plenty of food for the feast to continue and by now the other slaves have grown familiar with the house and even Brother Anfeald manages well enough. Athelstan wraps himself in a woollen shawl and heads outside with the buckets of slops for the pigs.
Outside a great battle has broken out. Snow balls and cries of challenge whirl through the air as men and women, old and young alike crouch behind shields and make daring dashes across open ground towards promising piles of untouched snow. Having emptied the buckets, Athelstan is co-opted by Bjorn and put to work alongside Gyda, making snow balls for the boy to throw.
Eventually several of the men seem to grow weary at just throwing balls at elusive foes and soon there are roars as men clash, wrestling each other to the ground. As Rollo throws his latest opponent against the shield that Athelstan and the children has been crouched behind, the monk decides it's about time to go inside, shepherding the children along with him, despite Bjorn's - admittedly not particularly vehement - protestations.
Inside there is hot broth to give warmth - and to be served, as others follow their example and come inside, seeking heat and mead and food. Soon enough, Athelstan is busy once more.
Ragnar is sitting at the table surrounded by his men, people taking turns playing against one another. In another corner, others have gathered as Rollo is telling a story - "and then, just as the axe fell, he pulled back with all his might, and the man who held his hair was pulled forward" - and if perhaps Athelstan doesn't quite find Rollo's tale suitable for the youngest part of his audience, well, it's not his place to say.
"Athelstan. Will you play with me? None of these sorry fools seem to have much head for the game today. Perhaps you'll give me more of a challenge."
Ragnar smiles at him, gestures for him to sit down and men shove at each other to make place for him - leading to Floki falling to the floor with an indignant squawk - and hands relieve him of the full pitchers he was carrying. Athelstan sees the grins as he sits, expectant but not malicious - clearly they expect this to be entertaining - but Ragnar's smile is soothing, making him relax somewhat, focus on the board and the pieces.
At least he is neither drunk nor weary beyond belief today. Perhaps he has a chance. And so Athelstan takes a deep breath and begins to play.
"No, not that piece." The game is three moves in, when Floki settles his head on Athelstan's shoulder, startling him almost enough to jump to his feet, except the man's lean body presses against him from behind and there's nowhere to go. "You move that piece and he's three moves away from winning already. You want that piece."
Athelstan sends Ragnar an imploring look, but the Northman just leans back and waits for Athelstan to move his next piece - and so the game proceeds, with Floki offering commentary and occasionally helpful advice from the frankly alarming position he has chosen. Occasionally he even reaches out and moves a piece himself. In the end, though, all of Floki's help only delays the inevitable. Soon enough Ragnar moves his king into the safety of a corner.
"That's twice."
Sometimes it seems to Athelstan as if the Northmen are not men at all, but wolves disguised in human flesh. Right now, Ragnar's smile does nothing to make him think otherwise. He finds himself grateful for the sound of Lagertha's voice, calling him back to his labours, allowing him to make good his escape.
The rest of the day passes quickly enough, as the feast gets underway - food is served and there is singing and stories and at one point, to much laughter, Floki dances on the tables, kicking plates to the floor - to the undivided joy of the dogs - until Ragnar grabs him by the waist and wrestles him into submission. And then, like yesterday, eventually things grow quiet - except Athelstan cannot go to sleep yet. Ragnar is still sitting with a group of his men, and as long as they are awake, Athelstan is supposed to make sure the lamps and the fire are well fed.
He sinks into his corner, meaning to take out the Gospel and read a bit to help him stay awake, but his eyes are drawn to the light of the moon falling like silver through the open smoke hole in the roof. He'll take out the Gospel in a moment, he'll read like a good monk, he'll stay awake.
In a moment.
"Did we not settle this last night?"
Somewhere to Athelstan's left there's an offended bark and the sound of a dog jumping to the floor, but he pays it no heed, too disoriented as he blinks up at Ragnar from his place flat on his back in the bed.
"What?"
Athelstan almost says more, but people are still awake and moving about in the other end of the house and it will not pay to attract their attention. Ragnar throws a fur over him, and when he pushes it back down to allow himself to see, he finds himself almost wishing to pull it back up, to hide.
Next to the bed, apparently not caring that other people might easily see, Ragnar has begun undressing - his boots, his tunic, his trousers - until he stands covered in only his short undertunic, which really doesn't cover anything at all. Then he lifts the side of the fur and slides in next to Athelstan, who tries to scoot away, only for Ragnar's right arm to catch him around the waist, rolling him back until they lie like the night before, Athelstan's back pressed against Ragnar's front, his head resting in the crook of the other man's left arm.
"I swear, priest, sometimes you are as skittish as an unridden colt." Ragnar's words are low and amused, a warm huff of air tickling Athelstan's ear.
"Can you blame me?"
"Perhaps not," and Ragnar's hand slides in under Athelstan's tunic, a brand against his skin. "But I promise you, you will like it."
That's what I'm afraid of.
Ragnar's hand wanders, dances along his side, slides across his chest, and where it touches, it feels as if Athelstan's skin catches fire, and yet - and yet Ragnar doesn't seem particularly intent on actually doing anything more, as if Athelstan is in truth a skittish colt to be calmed, to be soothed.
Surely the realization ought to make him feel relief?
"Oh, the things we'll do to you, priest."
"So why don't you?"
The words are spoken before Athelstan even realizes it and he freezes as Ragnar's hand goes still against his skin, and then it is gone. Behind him, Ragnar is moving, and Athelstan wants to run and hide, wants to do something, anything, just not be here, in this bed, unable to decide which is worse - that Ragnar might accept his challenge or that he might not.
A touch makes him turn his head, looking up into Ragnar's eyes. The man has picked up the lamp that was standing next to the bed, letting the flickering light fall on Athelstan's face, as if he's searching for something and need the light to see. Athelstan wishes he knew what Ragnar is seeing, wishes he knew what he is searching for.
A slow smile spreads on Ragnar's face.
"Well. I had been meaning to wait until after Jól, when the house won't be full of drunken fools who might decide to trip and fall into my bed at any moment. But, if you are impatient, I suppose," and Ragnar blows out the lamp, leaving them and the bed in darkness, "if you can be quiet..."
The hands are back, both of them now, warm as they slide against his skin, down his chest, down his belly, until nimble fingers unlace his trousers and push them down, baring him to Ragnar's touch.
"If you can be very quiet..."
Ragnar's right hand is sliding between Athelstan's legs, teasing him, while his left arm comes up and settles around Athelstan's chest, pulling him back against Ragnar. Athelstan curls his fingers around Ragnar's wrist, clinging, his left hand scrabbling and burying itself in the furs, grabbing hold as best he can, as he parts his legs, letting Ragnar's hand wander as it pleases.
"Do you think you can do that for me, Athelstan?"
Ragnar's lips are warm, his tongue wet against the edge of Athelstan's ear, his hand warm and firm around his cock before sliding lower, sliding between his buttocks and rubbing gently there. For a moment they leave and he almost wriggles away, almost protests - but then they are back, slick as they slide back to where they were, rubbing and circling and then pressing.
"Do you think you can be quiet while I fuck you?"
Athelstan lets his head fall back against Ragnar's shoulder, breathing in tiny gasps as Ragnar's finger slides into him. Closes his eyes and tightens his grip at the sensation of first one, then two slick fingers sliding in and out of him, stretching and twisting and then...
Athelstan moans.
"Guess not."
The fingers are gone, leaving him cold and alone in this world as Ragnar moves away from him, and for the second time this night his tongue runs away with him as he swears at Ragnar, calling him a name he has heard Rollo use. Then he yelps as Ragnar's hand makes a brief and stinging return to his buttocks.
"Now, is that any way to speak to your master?"
Athelstan rolls over to glare affronted at Ragnar as he pulls his trousers back up, but Ragnar just laughs, slides a hand behind Athelstan's neck and tugs him forward.
"After Jól, Athelstan." It sounds like a promise. "Now shove over. You won't be best pleased if Lagertha decides she has to climb over your skinny body when she feels it's time for bed."
Soon, Ragnar is asleep behind him. Athelstan lies awake yet awhile, his blood taking its time before cooling.
On the third day of Jól Athelstan lets chores be chores and absconds with the hnefatafl board. Somehow he manages to persuade Bjorn, who has apparently been playing against his father for the last few years, to be his opponent, though after having beaten Athelstan soundly in four games, Bjorn tires of the sport and goes in search of better entertainment, leaving Athelstan alone on the stable floor.
For a while longer he tries, playing against himself, but it is hopeless. He is hopeless. Eventually, he gives up.
He returns the board to its usual place, sneaking inside with it while the noise from the frozen river tells of people having gathered down there, cheering loudly at some game underway. He puts the pieces in their places and turns to leave - and sees Ragnar, standing in the corner, blue eyes following him, and it sends a shiver down Athelstan's spine. Then he bolts.
He's hiding in the pig sty when Ragnar leaves the house, and if the man's gaze rests a moment longer in that direction, then at least it doesn't linger any longer. Soon enough, Ragnar is headed down towards the river, and Athelstan is alone.
First he feeds the animals, feeling guilty at having let them go hungry this morn. Then he goes inside, takes out the Gospel and starts to read, tries to find some answer there, but fails. He prays. He thinks of seeking out Brother Anfeald, of asking the older monk's advice, or at least confessing his sins to him, seeking absolution.
In the end, he doesn't. In the end, Athelstan finds himself unable to explain, to put into words his folly, his presumption at having put his longing for England above his oaths. Finds himself scared to go, scared to confess, because what if he finds himself confessing to wanting to lose? And yet - and yet he must win, because if he doesn't, if he doesn't win his freedom, how then can he ever be forgiven this trespass, this sin, this martyrdom?
A martyr doesn't crave his fate.
The day passes. If he thought about it, Athelstan might wonder why nobody comes for him, why he is never collected and chided and put to work. But people return to the house, laughing and dusting off snow, and the women and the slaves start preparing the feast of the third day, and nobody disturbs Athelstan as he sits and prays for advice.
Then a shadow falls on him.
"I believe we have a game to play."
"Yes."
Ragnar leads them to the table and they sit down across from one another. It feels as if people ought to be watching, but nobody does - Floki is doing tricks in the other end of the house and there is laughter coming from there. He and Ragnar are alone.
Ragnar picks up two pieces, hides them in his hands and lets Athelstan make his pick - then opens his right hand to reveal a dark defender. Then they start to play.
Athelstan finds himself thinking of Ragnar's pieces as hounds, baying as they bound across the board in hot pursuit of the stag, chasing it here and there, turning it around just as it saw an escape, circling it, toying with it and then...
Then it is over, and Athelstan finds that he cannot tear his eyes away from the board.
In the upper right corner, at the very edge of the board, stands the king. His stag. Safe.
"Oh."