"Wake up, Athelstan, we'll be late from Lauds!" Athelstan woke up with a start to the ringing of bells. The piercing pain broke through the curtain of dream and the peaceful island of his childhood disappeared. The bells kept ringing, though. It had been many years, he realized, since he heard their voice calling loudly the faithful to prayer. He opened his eyes and looked around in the dark place. It was difficult to see, but he could make out the contours of people lying around. He took in the stench of sickness, death and poverty laced with faint aroma of herbs. He was at a hospice.
The memories came rushing back. After his capture, he had been dragged in front of the bishop who cried at him: "Confess your grievous sins, Apostate!" He had had no answer – how could he explain to the bishop his life among the Norsemen? How could he tell him about crying to God in vain for a sign or an answer? How could the bishop understand that while he started out as a slave, he found something precious he has not had for as long as he remembered: a sense of belonging, a friend, a family. He yearned to be fully one of them and he had to accept their truths, their gods.
Yet, as he was condemned to be beaten and crucified he could not help but feel that it was divine justice. He was already condemned by his own conscience. It was one thing to share the life of Ragnar - to sleep under his roof, eat at his table, work alongside his family, listen to the stories of mighty heroes, and another thing to kill Christians. His soul had been broken the moment he planted his axe in the chest of an innocent monk. He killed a frightened boy who only wanted to protect the word of God like he had done once, a long time ago.
Even though the pain of the flogging, of the nails, of hanging on the cross was as unbearable as anything he had experience before, it was not entirely unwelcome. It felt like cleansing a terrible wound with a fiery blade.
"You are awake." His reverie was broken by a monk leaning over him with a cup. "Here, drink." Athelstan took the cup and felt the water relieve his parched throat. "Thank you."
"My name is Brother Cylwith. You were in fever for days, and I thought you are dying, but God in his grace chose to spare you. I will change your bandages, now." Athelstan found it hard to meet Brother Cylwith's inquisitive gaze. God chose to spare him, yet again, like he spared him from the fever that took his family. He spared him at Lindisferne, while all his brothers suffered the holy death of a martyr. God spared him from being sacrificed for the Norse gods, even though he denied Christ three times. He was spared from the plague that took sweet and innocent Gyda. If it was God's will, he could not understand it. Every time his life was spared, he got further and further from God. He remembered Ragnar's words to him: "you are alive because I chose to spare your life." "Why did you spare my life?" "I do not know yet".
While the Norsemen believed in fate, Ragnar doubted it. Athelstan was also not sure if it was truly God's grace that delivered him from Lindisferne to Kattigat then to Wessex. It felt more like a trick of the Devil or Loki, the trickster.
"Take this infusion. It will help you sleep" Brother Cylwith offered him some bitter liquid. Athelstan drank it and drifted off.