A/N: written for Yuletide 2014 for izzybeth
There's a charnel stench in the air. The pyres have been burning these last several days, dark smoke filling the dark sky like clouds, but only today has the last dead warrior - one of Horik's men, his face cloven in half by an axe - been thrown onto the great pyre he has to share with his fellows. The king himself was sent off two days past - Ragnar had allowed him the use of a single ship and King Horik had been sent to Valhalla with his queen by his side and their daughters at their feet, but no sacrifices - neither man nor beast - nor grave goods had accompanied them on their journey. Once the fire was lit and the ship pushed out onto the dark waters of the fjord Ragnar had turned his back and left without a single word, and most of his people had followed him, including Athelstan himself. When he'd glanced back, he had seen Floki standing alone on the beach, staring out at the burning vessel.
There's a charnel stench in the air over Kattegat. It takes Athelstan back across the years, back to the plague year when they had lost Gyda, when the beach was dotted with pyres and the ashes of the dead had had to be left on the sand to be devoured by the greedy waves, for there were barely enough men and women to tend to the sick and to gather the wood for the pyres. He remembers Lagertha, her eyes dry as she'd ordered him away, as she sent him to help elsewhere, and he remembers looking back at her that day, when she had stood alone on the beach, keeping vigil by her only daughter's pyre.
"Hello, Priest."
He is dragged out of his memories and back into the present as Floki crouches down next to him, leaning forward to glance at his face.
Athelstan turns away.
"Go away, Floki. I am too tired for your games today."
"Now, now, Priest - is that any way to greet your good friend Floki?"
Perhaps it is because it has been several long days of hard work and he really is tired. Perhaps it is because it has been a long year - or perhaps, perhaps it is because, before this last year, he really had thought Floki a friend.
"My good friend Floki? My good friend who told me that wearing a dog turd would not make me a dog? Who told me that nobody wanted me here? That I should have stayed in Wessex?"
"You should have stayed in Wessex. If King Horik had won the battle, he would not have waited for the sun to set one more time before he would have had you tied to a post and shot full of arrows - and not a one of his men would have stepped forward to hasten your demise. You would have been safe in Wessex."
"Safe?" and Athelstan lifts his right hand, displays the round scar in the center of the palm. "Is that what I was in Wessex? Safe?" but the bitterness has left him as fast as it came and all he has left is his weariness.
Floki reaches out and takes his hand, tangling his long fingers with Athelstan's and squeezes tightly. Then, still holding Athelstan's hand, he stands, unfolding his long limbs and tugging at Athelstan's hand.
"Enough of the past - it will still be here tomorrow. Come along, Athelstan, on your feet. Ragnar sent me to fetch you."
"Ragnar sent you to fetch me?"
"That he did - and you don't wish to keep our new King waiting, now do you?"
Athelstan doesn't answer, but he allows the other man to pull him to his feet and lead him towards the outskirts of Kattegat, away from the houses and the pyres and the people heading home to their suppers. As they walk, it occurs to Athelstan that he cannot remember seeing Ragnar since that morning at breakfast - in fact, he can't remember seeing any of Ragnar's family or any of his friends since that morning. The townspeople, the common housecarls and shieldmaidens, those he has seen, has worked side by side with today - but no Lagertha, no Torstein, no Björn. Nobody.
Just Floki. Floki, who is leading him away from Kattegat and along the path into the darkening forest, muttering something about "should have made him wash first" under his breath.
Athelstan stops.
"Where are you taking me?"
"You will see. It is not far now."
"And if I won't go any further unless you tell me what this is all about?"
"About? I told you, Ragnar told me to fetch you, Priest. But perhaps I should leave you here and go tell our King that you wouldn't come?"
Athelstan doesn't answer, but when Floki tugs on his hand again, he follows. Perhaps because Floki is the only one of them carrying a torch.
In the distance there is a sound of running water and then they step out from beneath the trees and into the clearing near the waterfall, the clearing where Ragnar had kneeled across from him and recited the words of Pater Noster along with him. He would have known where he was sooner, except Floki seems to have lead him along a different path.
There are torches in the clearing, driven into the ground and burning brightly, chasing away the growing darkness - and there are people here, the very ones whose absence he had noticed as he and Floki left Kattegat, and at their approach they are turning to look at him, these people he would call his family, the people he chose, and they are all here - Lagertha, Björn, Aslaug, even Rollo climbing awkwardly to his feet and swaying slightly as he leans heavily on his cane, even Elisef, Leif's mother who has always had a kind word for him. And behind the people there is something else, something he cannot quite see, almost as if somebody has half-raised some form of tent or is it a banner?
Then Ragnar himself is there, standing tall in front of him, eyes serious, and Floki lets go of his hand and steps back as the rest of them silently form a loose circle around him. In the flickering torchlight Athelstan notices their clothes - brightly coloured, trimmed with fine fur and silk - as if they were not standing in the middle of a twilight forest, but rather were attending thing or some festival in honour of the gods. Even the former slave girl standing next to Björn is wearing a fine blue dress. Is that what this is? Some rite as yet unknown to him? A sacrifice, perhaps?
"Hello, Athelstan."
Ragnar's voice is low, betraying nothing.
"Sire?"
For just a moment Ragnar's lips tremble as if about to quirk into a grin, or perhaps that is merely Athelstan's imagination, because when Ragnar speaks again, there is no trace of amusement to be found in his face or voice.
"It has been brought to my attention that you've been saying certain things as of late. Things that it is not proper for a former slave to say."
"Sire? I'm not sure what you mean?"
Is this a trial, then? But if so, why the secrecy of it? Why not drag him before Ragnar in the great hall? Why this?
"No? Rollo has told me of how you would visit him during his stay at King Ecbert's, how you would sit by his sickbed and talk with him in his waking moments. He has told me how you - during that time - claimed kinship with him. Is that not true, my brother?"
"It is," Rollo rumbles. "I asked him what I was to him and he said that I was his family."
"See?" and Ragnar turns back to Athelstan.
"I - I did say that, yes," Athelstan says, hesitantly. Surely - surely this cannot be it?
"So you admit to it, then? You do not wish to swear yourself free of it?"
"I - I'm not sure I understand?"
"Look around you, Athelstan. Twelve free men and women have gathered here tonight. If you wish, you can ask them to swear with you, to swear that you never claimed kinship with my brother - and, through him, with me. You do not wish to do that?"
Athelstan swallows, his throat dry as he looks from face to face - from Aslaug standing regal to Helga, to Torstein, to the law giver standing next to Rollo and Siggy - looks from face to face, all serious and dark, and yes, they are twelve all told, and he has to force himself not to cross himself at the thought of being the thirteenth, as Christ himself was those long, long years ago.
And then his eyes meet Lagertha's. She is standing tall, regal as the earl she is, but her eyes - in her eyes there is warmth and pride, a pride that he remembers seeing before, remembers how just a couple of weeks before King Horik's family had arrived in Kattegat she had sought him out, had sat by his side and spoken: "So, I see that Ragnar has made a warrior out of you?"
"Yes, my lady. He did. Him and Torstein, they trained me."
"And you have fought in the shield wall?"
"Yes, my lady. In Wessex."
"Hmmm. And would you fight me, Athelstan?"
"If you wish it, my lady?"
"I wish it."
During their first bout she had put him on his arse within moments. He had lasted longer the second and third time, and the fourth? The fourth he had somehow managed to trip her and put his axes down around her neck and she had laughed, delighted, and there had been such pride in her eyes in that moment, as if she took some personal pride in his skills - and then she had twisted and kicked, bringing him tumbling down and climbing on top of him, sword at his throat.
"Well, at least they don't seem to have given you any bad habits. But I can see that they still left plenty of work for me."
"Athelstan?"
Ragnar's voice drags him back - back to the nighttime clearing and his question.
"No."
"No?"
"No, Sire," and now his voice is steady, "I will not ask them to swear with me. Rollo speaks the truth. Those were my words."
"I see," and Ragnar nods to himself. "Well, that's once. Now, my wife, the Princess Aslaug, she tells me that upon our return from Wessex, you told her that you came back because you considered her - that you considered all of us - to be your family," and he glances at the woman by his side, who simply nods, once.
" Princess Aslaug speaks true," Athelstan says, unprompted. "Those were my words."
"And you hold to them? You do not wish to ask these men and women to swear with you?"
"No, Sire. I do not," and this time, Athelstan sees the absurdity of his question, of having his accuser - if accusation it be and judging by how Ragnar's serious expression is beginning to slip and give way for a grin, Athelstan no longer finds that remotely likely - of having his accuser stand as one of the twelve.
"That's twice, then. Twice you have claimed kinship with an earl. With a king. Now, a third time," and Ragnar steps closer, huge and he'd be imposing, except he's not, he's Ragnar, "do you, Athelstan, a foreigner and a former slave, dare to claim the bonds of kinship with the King of the Northmen and the Danes?"
"No, Sire. I do not," and Ragnar's expression seems to freeze as Athelstan hurries on. "As you say, I am but a foreigner, a former slave, a Christian. What claim could one such as I possibly have on a king? But the man who took me - his captive, his slave - into his home and allowed me to share it, who taught me, who gave me this," and he raises his arm to indicate the ring on his wrist as he steps forward, slowly, closing what little distance remains between them, "who gave me my freedom and a life to go with it - that man I would be proud to call kin."
He stops right in front of Ragnar, glances up at the other man, feeling almost shy.
"If he will have me."
"If he will have you," and Ragnar's grin is all bared teeth, "now there's a question. For as you say, you have been a slave, a mere thrall - if this man is all that you say he is, why should he want you? What manner of man are you now?"
"Why don't you ask them?" and Athelstan gestures towards the circle. "These are the people you wanted me to ask to swear with me, before my king and every god who might have cared to listen. Surely they must be the people you think knows me best. Have them tell you what manner of man I am."
For a moment, Athelstan worries that he's gone too far, but then Ragnar laughs. "Yes. All of you, my friends, tell me - tell me about this man. Who will speak for him?"
"I will speak for him," and Torstein steps forward. "I will tell you. This man may be a foreigner and he may have been a slave once, but he is a warrior now. I have fought with him, side by side in the press of the shield wall, and he was not the least among us."
"A warrior," Ragnar laughs as Torstein steps back into his spot in the circle. "It is a fine thing, to be a warrior. But warriors I have aplenty - many ships worth. If I were to claim them all as kin, I'd need a bigger house. But it is a start. Somebody, tell me more of this man. Who will speak for him?"
"I will speak for him," and Athelstan turns to see Floki stepping forward from his spot directly behind him. "I will speak of his loyalty - his loyalty to you, Ragnar Lothbrok. For I have seen this man - for I have seen Athelstan - follow you into battle and more than that. I know that he was offered a place of honour in Wessex and yet he came back here, and why, if not out of loyalty to you?"
"Loyalty. Loyalty is good - but any dog can be loyal. Surely you are not calling Athelstan a dog? Tell me more? Who will speak for this man? Anybody?"
"I will speak for Athelstan," and Björn steps forward, letting go of Thorunn's hand. "I will remind you - for perhaps you have forgotten or perhaps you never knew - that you owe him your life. Before you were king, before you were earl - when you were just a farmer, injured and falling into the fjord, that it was Athelstan who did not hesitate to jump in after you and drag you out."
Björn steps back. Athelstan watches Ragnar, watches him staring at him, momentarily lost for words, and he wonders if Björn was right, if Ragnar never actually knew that Athelstan had been the one to save him from drowning. It had been such a confused time, and Ragnar had spent the first several days at Floki's house fever-ridden. By the time he had recovered his senses, the cold Athelstan had earned for his trouble was merely a fading cough - and by then they all soon had other matters to worry about.
He can't remember if Ragnar was ever told.
"That - is a very fine thing. But as you say, it was a long time ago. In any case, I had already spared his life, and so nothing is owed," and Ragnar starts turning in the circle. "What else is there to tell about Athelstan? Earl Ingstad, what can you tell me?"
Lagertha steps forward, glaring at Ragnar.
"I will tell you this, King Lothbrok: that unless you stop dawdling and get on with it, I have half a mind to take him for my own, and then where would you be?"
Ragnar laughs again, but he also steps close and wraps an arm possessively around Athelstan's shoulders.
"Well," and he leans conspiratorially close, mock-whispering. "I suppose we best do as the lady says."
"It is a wise man who listens to Earl Ingstad," Athelstan agrees, as Ragnar turns him around and leads him forward, as the circle opens and widens into a semicircle behind them. As the people part, Athelstan finally gets a good look at what he took to be some form of tent or banner.
Someone has cut into the grass, has somehow carefully lifted a length of the turf from the ground and draped it over a spear that has been rammed into the thus-bared soil, leaving each end still attached to the ground. It is a most curious sight, and behind it - through it - Athelstan can just barely make out the form of the Seer, standing at the very edge of the reach of the torches.
Ragnar stops, turns them to face one another and allows his arm to slide off Athelstan's shoulders, leaving them cold in the crisp evening air.
"Will you walk with me, Athelstan? Will you walk with me under the ring of the earth? Will you swear the blood oath of foster-brothers' with me, so that all - gods and men - may know that you are mine?"
"Ragnar," and Athelstan finds himself whispering as he leans close, "what you are to me - I. It is not as a brother I think of you."
Ragnar looks at him fondly and Athelstan can feel himself blush.
"Nor I you, Priest. It's but a word - and if you do not want this, if you do not wish to be my foster-brother, then - then that is your choice. But I want you to be."
"Why?"
"Because I want you to be mine. Slave, friend, oath-sworn brother - those are all just words. I want you to be mine and I want all the world to know it. I don't want - in Wessex, King Ecbert might have kept you from me, might have kept you, and I would have had no right to stop him. Or Horik might have killed you and as you are just a man of my hird, I could have been forced to settle for a wergild. I do not want that. I want you to be mine - mine to claim and if need be mine to avenge. I want you to choose to be mine."
"And you. Would you be mine as well?"
"Of course," and Ragnar reaches out and grasps his hand, squeezes it, then raises his voice to allow the assembled to hear. "Will you walk with me, Athelstan?"
"Yes," he replies, straightening, his voice somehow steady even though his heart is hammering in his chest like Thor on his anvil. "I will walk with you, Ragnar Lothbrok. I always will."
They have to let go of each other to walk under the raised grass, crouching as they pass on either side of the spear, wood black with age and marked with runes so faded with time that Athelstan would need days to even attempt to decipher them - time he doesn't have right now nor truly an interest in trying.
He straightens and turns towards Ragnar - and blinks in surprise at the sight of the other man pulling his tunic off.
"Take off your tunic," Ragnar whispers and for a moment Athelstan finds himself worrying about what this particular pagan rite actually entails, but once he's handed his tunic off to Floki, Ragnar shows no sign of divesting himself of any more clothes, and so Athelstan follows suit. The kiss of the nighttime air makes the tiny hairs on his arms and his chest rise.
The Seer steps forward, then, a knife in each hand, holding them out to them, handles first. Ragnar accepts one and Athelstan the other, glancing at it. It is a fine knife, gleaming sharp and with a golden animal shape - perhaps a wolf - inlaid on the blade itself.
The Seer's talking now, but Athelstan's not paying attention. He catches the occasional word or two - "reborn together" and "Loki" and "Odin" - but right now his entire world is Ragnar, Ragnar who is kneeling down before him, Ragnar who is bringing the gleaming edge of his knife to the inside of his forearm, Ragnar who is bleeding - bleeding on the exposed soil under the grass, tiny red drops falling on the dark earth.
"And you," and Athelstan hurriedly falls to his knees and brings his own knife to his skin, mimicking Ragnar's actions. He holds his arm under the grass, watches as their blood is swallowed by the hungry earth.
Then Ragnar shuffles closer, slides his bleeding forearm under Athelstan's and pulls back until his balled fist is resting against his own chest, above his heart, and once again Athelstan does his best to do likewise, until they rest, skin to skin, blood to blood, forehead leaning against forehead. Perhaps it is his imagination - or perhaps it is the night playing tricks on him - but Athelstan almost fancies that they are kneeling in the very spot where just a few days past he taught Ragnar the Christian prayer.
The Seer's still talking, chanting, and there are words, oaths, terrible oaths, of loyalty everlasting and vengeance eternal, that Ragnar guides him through. Pagan oaths. His brothers at Lindisfarne would have been horrified to hear him swear in the names of Tyr, of Freyr, of Frigg.
And then it is done.
As Ragnar's helping him back on his feet, Athelstan can't keep from crossing himself, quickly, half expecting someone to raise a protest at his presumption. No one does. And Ragnar's smiling at him, helping him put his blue tunic back on.
"Now you are mine, Priest. Now nobody can take you from me," and he wraps his arm around him, not even bothering with his own tunic.
"But - but what if… What if I am the one to leave?"
"Weary of me so soon?" and Ragnar's voice is light, but his hand tightens almost painfully around Athelstan's shoulder.
"No. No, of course not, but - I did once. I left. I stayed behind in Wessex. I thought it was for the best, but - what if I do something like that again?" He reaches out, slowly, not quite sure if this is allowed now, and wraps his arm around Ragnar's waist. His naked skin is warm under his hand.
"Silly Priest," and Ragnar kisses his forehead. "Do not worry so. Do not worry me so. Wherever you go, I will follow." Then he laughs. "After all, I can hardly have my oath-sworn brother running off on adventures without me, now can I?"
"Of course not," and Athelstan leans into Ragnar, feeling his warmth seeping into him, into every tiny icy nook and cranny he didn't even know he had.