Warnings: Nothing too bad, mostly just angst and brief mentions of sex (Athelstan/Ragnar/Lagertha). Contains spoilers up to (and including) episode 6.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. The title comes from a Latin prayer for penance and faith.
Notes: I've been in the Vikings fandom less than 24 hours and I've already wrote something (that has to be some kind of record, not gonna lie). This is probably completely OOC for Athelstan, but I just wanted to write about him having an angsty religious crisis. I'm not sure if the Latin is accurate, I literally just googled "Latin prayers for faith". The translation is "Have Mercy On Me, A Sinner". 709 words.
He didn't know the exact moment when he lost his faith.
Athelstan stood at the edge of the vast cliff face on the exact spot where, weeks earlier, a wounded Ragnar Lothbrok had been standing before he had plunged into the depths of the raging river below. Athelstan looked out over the calm water but wasn't really seeing it; his mind was too preoccupied with other matters. Ever since he had been brought here from Northumbria as a captive, Athelstan had felt the absence of the Divine presence which had enclosed him in the safety of the monastery at Lindisfarne. Yet, despite the pain of the absence, his faith had remained strong. He had seen Hell on Earth, he had seen his brothers strung up and brutally murdered before his very eyes, and he had told himself that this was part of the Almighty's plan. The brothers were suffering to atone for the grievous sins of man, just as Christ had suffered on the cross.
Lord, why have you forsaken me?
As time passed, as he lived among the heathens who mocked him for his Christians ways, he found himself questioning his belief that had been so unshaken since he was a boy: how could it be so that God would allow such needless suffering? Why would the Lord choose His devoted servants to suffer when they had dedicated their lives to His worship? When these doubts first crossed his mind he had been ashamed, he had prayed until his knees ached for some kind of sign that God was still there, that He had a reason for putting him through this.
And the more he prayed, the more he became convinced that no-one was listening.
A breeze whipped up his hair over his face. The dark curls were growing long now. His tonsure had grown out and should a Christian monk approach him, they would not recognise him as one of their own. Athelstan hardly recognised himself as a servant of the Lord anymore. He didn't understand why God would allow such mindless suffering; he shook his head to remove the image etched on his eyelids of Earl Haraldson's slave-girl's throat being slit for the sake of a heathen burial ritual. If God existed, he was not present among these people and Athelstan's prayers were falling on deaf ears. He almost envied the heathens' unwavering faith in their own gods.
Athelstan toyed with the crucifix hanging from around his neck. His habit and bible had been lost when the Lothbrok farm had been burned – this was the only reminder of his previous life that he had left: the crucifix, and prayers that seemed meaningless to him now. The wooden pendant pressed against his chest used to bring him comfort. Now he seemed like a hypocrite to still be wearing it. He tore it off and held it in a clenched fist over the edge of the cliff.
When Lagertha and Ragnar had approached him once more to invite them into their bed, he had finally succumbed to the temptation that had been burning since even his first night in captivity. He had allowed Lagertha to guide his uneducated hand to the moist warmth between her legs, allowed Ragnar's mouth to trail all over him. As he had been lost in the throes of ecstasy there had been no rain of sulphur. He had not been turned into a pillar of salt for his transgressions. Giving in to the temptation of carnal sin had not reaped any great consequence.
The next morning he had knelt down to pray but no words had come to him. Who was there to listen? Perhaps that was the moment when he had realised that his faith was gone and would never return. He had grown content with his life here - Ragnar and his family did not treat him as a slave so much as friend and though he was still not entirely accustomed to life among these heathens, he had to admit that he was lucky that he had not met the same fate as most other slaves. He would never worship the heathen gods but he no longer believed himself a Christian.
He let the crucifix drop out of his hand.