Ragnar did not know.
He had slept uneasily. He blamed that on his wife however, and Ivan's crying. Good sleep was hard to get. Ragnar tried not to think of his uneasiness. He had had a gut wrenching feeling through the night, curling his stomach into knots. He spent the night tossing back and forth in his bed. He stared blankly ahead, hoping his eyes would droop down on their own. He tried forcing his eyes shut, but to no prevail.
It had come as a relief when the messenger entered.
"King Ragnar!"
The man was short of breath; he had clearly hurried to bring the message. Ragnar had jumped out of bed as soon as he heard his name called. His wife nor sons moved. He entered the Great Hall alone and the young man, Finnr, was waiting for him by the throne. He was very distressed, his eyes wild. The main door was left wide open, ice-cold wind whipping through. Ragnar shivered, his skin crawling.
"What is it Finnr?" he asked, nearing the man. Ragnar was worried. He didn't know why.
"My lord," the man said, trying to keep his voice at bay. He was shaking slightly. "There… There has been a murder this night."
Ragnar's body turned ridged. His jaw clenched, his brow furrowed.
"Who?"
"I- I do not know his name Sire," Finnr replied, bowing his head, desperate to avoid Ragnar's piercing eyes.
"WHO?" Ragnar bellowed and grabbed the man's arms, shaking him violently. Finnr cried out in shock, wrenching himself out of Ragnar's iron grip. He rubbed his arms sorely, yet refused to look at Ragnar.
"I-I'm sorry, Ragnar."
Ragnar grabbed him again, raising his hand to hit the young man, who flinched, desperately trying to pry himself away from his King.
"Please, please sire, I can take you there, please don't hurt me, please…" he cried, curling himself away.
Ragnar let go as if Finnrs skin had burnt him, suddenly aware of his own actions. He nodded. The gut wrenching feeling grew into a pit. Ragnar felt tired, as if all his wounds and injuries all came back at once and yet his blood was pumping so quickly he was hearing it in his ears, rushing past, making him light headed.
Finnr wasted no time leaving the Great Hall, rushing out into the cold. Ragnar stumbled after Finnr. The cold didn't grasp him. The sounds of the waking town didn't reach him. They slipped past everyone, a few people startled at seeing their leader outside at this time, a few calling after him. He did not take any notice. Everything was a blur, rushing past Ragnar. He doesn't know how long it took before they arrived. Suddenly- too soon- they were standing in front of his house.
"This is Athelstan's house," Ragnar said quietly. He grasped at Finnrs sleeve, stopping the young man from entering. "You have taken me to the wrong place."
Finnr turned around and opened his mouth to answer, but there was no sound. He looked away from Ragnar's eyes again. The blue eyes were cold and harsh yet desperate.
"Take me to another home," Ragnar whispered hoarsely, grabbing Finnr tighter, pulling him away from the door. "Do you hear me? Take me elsewhere."
"Ragnar-" he began.
"NO!" Ragnar shouted, pushing the man away. He heaved a deep breath.
The foul smell seeped through his nose. Ragnar knew that smell. He knew that smell far, far too well.
"No," he whispered, all warmth draining from his face. The pit engulfed him, swallowed him from the inside.
"Tell me you're wrong. Tell me we're at the wrong house. TELL ME!" he howled, clawing at his own head, dragging his nails painfully across his scalp.
Finnr stepped towards the door hesitantly, unsure if Ragnar would grip him again. When he didn't respond, the young man quietly opened it.
It was reeking of blood.
The smell has never troubled Ragnar before. In fact, he used to relish it. He used to live for that smell, heaving it in with his every breath. Now, he wanted to claw it away, he wanted to throw up, he wanted to run away, he wanted to drown himself just to get rid of that smell. Finnr stepped inside and disappeared from his view. Ragnar steeled himself.
But if he thought the smell was horrible, nothing on Earth nor the heavens could prepare him for the sight he was to lay eyes on.
Ragnar walked inside, his legs heavy like lead, desperately willing him not to enter. His heart was crushing him.
His room was untouched; everything was left in its place. Athelstan was splayed across the floor, blood pooling from his neck. His eyes were wide open, his hands curling together. He was wearing nothing but a small cloth around his waist. The lights by his little alter with the makeshift cross were burnt out.
"Get out," Ragnar uttered, his eyes fixed upon the horrid sight before him. Finnr didn't question him and closed the door upon leaving.
A sob escaped the Vikings lips. He walked towards the body, stopping right next to him. The priest's blue eyes, which used to shine with warmth were empty, lost, staring into the void. Ragnar's knees finally gave in and he fell, crumbled, before Athelstan.
"No, no, no no, Athelstan, please, no, you were to stay with me, stay, please-"
Ragnar dragged himself closer and cradled the man, dragging him into his arms, brushing his hair away from his face. The small man's blood was smeared all over the Northman. Ragnar held his head softly, his hands all crimson red. He caressed the priests pale face gently, leaving a small trace of blood across his cheek.
"Don't leave me," he whispered, barely. His voice shook. He gripped into the dark curls, maybe a bit too harsh. "You promised not to leave me Athelstan."
He stared into the empty eyes. They didn't stare back.
Ragnar sobbed again, the motion trembling through his entire being. He shook the priest, as if to wake him. The head bobbed back and forth lifelessly. Athelstan's body was cold and pale and dead.
Ragnar cradled him closer, pulling his arms around the body, practically burying his face in the priest's neck. He cried out his name in the quiet room. He rocked back and forth, shaking, only hearing his own muffled sobs.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please, please come back, I need you," he gripped tighter, "I love you."
He held his breath. A bird was whistling outside.
There was no reply. There never would be again.
Ragnar leaned back and looked at the pale face. Gently, he placed his fingers upon Athelstan's eyelids and shut them. Now, he looked as if he was sleeping. He placed a soft kiss on his forehead, lingering long enough to notice his lips cooling from the pale skin. A tear rolled down his cheek and dropped onto Athelstan's face. For a moment, one could be fooled to think the priest had been crying too. But Ragnar was no fool.
Athelstan was gone.
He laid the priest's head gently on the floor. He sniveled and dried his face off in his sleeve.
How pathetic he was. Weeping over a Christian. Why did he even mean so much to Ragnar? Why did it ache so, now that he was no longer here?
Anger welled up through Ragnar. Anger at himself for becoming so attached to the man. Anger at Athelstan for leaving him. Anger at the murderer.
Fury at the Gods, for permitting all of this to have happened.
"You're no better than his God," Ragnar whispered, staring at the corpse. His eyes watered with tears again and Ragnar couldn't take it.
He yelled out in anguish, frustration, anger; it was almost like a wild scream. He grabbed the chair next to him and threw it, with all the might he had. It shattered against the wall. He flung everything off the table, broke the candles, destroyed the cross. Even after he had ruined all the items in the little house, there was too much fury left. It was agonizing, unbearable, the pure frustration at seeing the small, lifeless body at his feet.
He started punching the wall, crying out, not in pain of the flesh but of the soul.
"Why," his fist connected with the wall, "did" again, "you" his skin broke, "leave" blood was left on the wall, "me-" splinters were left in Ragnar's hand, his knuckles sore.
He wept again, leaning his frame against the wall. What was he to do? It was too late. Nothing, nothing could give him Athelstan back. Ragnar looked upon the havoc he had created and immediately regretted his actions. Now, any trace Athelstan had left was ruined too. He looked at his bruised knuckles, unsure if the blood was his or the priests.
"What am I to do, Athelstan?" he asked softly. "I cannot do this on my own. I cannot-"
He shut his eyes, exhaustion washing over him. Aching bones and a tired soul. Tears slipped silently down his face.
Alone.
Ragnar felt incredibly alone.
His loneliness engulfed him, swallowed him. He realized he would never see Athelstan smile nor hear his voice again.
His heart was a hollow place now that Athelstan was no longer in the same world as he.
The bird stopped singing.