Draugr
oneiriad
A/N: Vikings does not belong to me. I'm just playing
A/N 2: originally written just before s03e06 aired. Obviously, this is not how it happened on the show.
Too late.
Too late.
Too late. Too late. Too late.
The words are the beat of a sacrificial drum rising to a scream in his mind as Ragnar shoulders his way past the warriors in front of him and into the clearing.
He makes his way across the clearing, past the bodies of the small foraging party that litter the summer grass, red stains on green, and he stumbles along the way more than once, unable to tear his eyes away from the thing on the other side of the clearing, rising above the dead, like some twisted nithing pole…
Like nithing's work…
A raven takes wing as he draws close, abandoning the prize it had just barely managed to pull loose and the blue eyeball drops to swing against a pale cheek like some perversion of a tear.
Far, far too late.
They put his body in the ground.
Gently.
They wrap him in furs and put his weapons by his side. By his feet they place the head of a fine stallion they captured just the other day, black and sleek and fast as the wind, and they place the lanky dog that's been following Athelstan's around since he fed it a scrap of meat a few days after they had arrived in Francia.
Then - finally - Ragnar steps forward, lifts the head he's been cradling in his arms to press one last kiss to its forehead before carefully placing it in the grave above a pair of shoulders that he doesn't look at, doesn't dwell on the many cuts of an ill-aimed axe.
Doesn't dwell on how long it must have taken.
When he rises, there's a tiny cross dangling from his hand, and if there are disapproving glances at that, at him putting it around his own neck, then he does not care at all.
At a gesture they bring forth the Christian captive, a fat man in fine clothes, a hostage worth a fine ransom no doubt. The man is babbling, but his words go unheeded - who is there now to even understand them? - and they turn to screams and there's the stench of the man pissing himself even before Rollo brings the axe down.
Ragnar turns his back as they start to cover the grave with dirt, large stones ready to take the place of the ship he doesn't have to spare for the dead however much he wants to.
Somebody presses a brimming horn into his hands as he walks away.
Dawn brings a hungover king stumbling from his tent - and nearly tripping over the man sitting outside of it.
Ragnar opens his mouth, but whatever words he is about to speak freeze on his tongue.
The man is sitting, head bent forward and face hidden from sight - but Ragnar knows those leathers, would know the worn, blue tunic anywhere, and for a moment he thinks somebody's been grave-robbing, perhaps, except - except he knows that hair, that dark, slightly curly hair, he knows…
Somebody is making a noise like a wounded animal, a strangled, terrible noise, and Ragnar is very much afraid that it is himself.
And then the man looks up.
"You are dead."
At least Athelstan has the good grace to look embarrassed about it.
"Well - well, yes. I suppose I am."
"Have I gone mad?"
The ship feels solid underneath him and the sound of oars being pulled through the waters of the river is a steady thing - but Athelstan is crouched in front of him, like so many times before, and it's impossible.
"I don't think I am the right person to answer that question."
Some of the rowers are glancing at him, oddly, perhaps wondering why their king seems to be chatting with the empty air.
"How are you here? You should be in Valhalla, at Odin's great table - or in that Heaven the Christians go to."
Athelstan - Athelstan's ghost? - looks away and doesn't answer.
But Ragnar doesn't mind, not really. It's a puzzle and perhaps he has gone mad, but if he hasn't - surely it is no great thing for Odin to spare one of his einherjar for however many years Ragnar himself has left?
Surely the Valfather would do this for the man who calls himself his son?
"I missed you," he tells his friend and ignores the glances of the men.
The walls of Paris are impossibly tall, like cliff sides. Surely, the Romans must indeed have been giants to have built such walls as these.
They are also proving to be quite impregnable.
Even the wooden bridge, which ought to have been not too challenging, has proven difficult - he has had his men drag boats overland, fill them with firewood and oil and push them out into the current, fires lighted with burning arrows - but to no avail. The bridge did not burn.
Now he is sitting alone on a hill overlooking the city he's promised to take, trying to think of a new plan. He's trying to remember something he heard recently, of a queen conquering a city with an army of birds.
A chill in the air tells him that he's no longer alone.
"I have found a way into the city."
That night, as he leads three ships laden with warriors close to the city walls under the cover of darkness, he worries once more that he has indeed gone mad, that this is but a madman's fancy - until he finds the opening, dark and foreboding and covered in vines.
Exactly where Athelstan said it would be.
"I think it's a secret tunnel, meant to allow people to escape if somebody ever did manage to breach the walls. There's - it's barely a dock inside and then a path leading up through the ossuary underneath the cathedral."
As they walk through the darkness, the light of torches revealing walls covered in bones and grinning skulls, Ragnar finds himself grinning back.
Not the living, but the dead will conquer Paris.
Oh yes.
From the other side of the doors the sound of his celebrating warriors can still be heard, but Ragnar doesn't care. He turns from them, impatient - he has waited this long, waited until they were out of sight, alone.
He doesn't want to wait any longer.
Athelstan's skin is cool under his hands, but firm - for a moment he had worried that it would not be, worried that even though he is not mad, this would be too much to ask. Athelstan's hands are cool as they find their way under Ragnar's tunic, his lips are cool against Ragnar's, his tongue is cool against Ragnar's tongue.
He doesn't care. He's warm enough for both of them.
Beneath them the bed is soft.
Decadent.
Morning finds them still there, limbs tangled until Ragnar finally drags himself up, muttering curses against the cold stone floor under his naked feet. He bends and reaches for the nearest piece of clothing and finds himself holding the faded blue tunic he gave Athelstan so many years ago. A sudden mischievous impulse has him throwing the tunic at the naked man on the bed, before bending again, reaching for the tangled mess that is his own trousers, ignoring the damp smell that is so very faint that it almost isn't there at all.
"Why am I the only one who can see you? You are real, I can touch you, taste you. How is it possible?"
Athelstan looks away.
"They could see me, I think. If I let them."
"Then why don't you?"
"Because they would not see me like you do - and if they saw me, perhaps you would see me as they would."
"You are not making any sense, Priest," he laughs, pulling him forward to kiss his forehead. Athelstan glances up to meet his eyes and for a moment it is as if his eyes are impossibly dark, black, hollow - are they even there? - but Ragnar blinks and finds himself meeting Athelstan's worried blue gaze once more.
Paris is behind. His ships are laden with gold and silver and aboard Rollo's vessel is a Frankish princess, sailing with her new husband to the land that they can call theirs.
Ragnar is lounging, arms spread wide, and at his side Athelstan is curled up.
All is right with the world.
"He died near here."
Ragnar opens his eyes to regard Floki.
"What are you talking about?"
"Your Christian. Athelstan," and Floki points to where the river bends. "That's where we had made our camp that day."
Athelstan stirs against his side.
"What does it matter?" Ragnar asks, barely resisting wrapping an arm protectively around the man at his side.
Floki cocks his head.
"Don't you want to go see his grave? Perhaps make a sacrifice there? Tell him all about conquering Paris?"
"Go away, Floki," Ragnar growls, leaning back and closing his eyes.
Long moments stretch into silence until finally, finally he hears the other man moving away.
They do not make camp for many miles yet.
The ambush is waiting for them at Hedeby.
They were supposed to spend the night ashore, supposed to divide the loot between the fleets and nobles the next day, and then they'll each sail home to their own lands, leaving Kalf to his.
Erlendur's forces come upon them in the dark.
Ragnar finds himself cut off, the small group of warriors with him getting cut down one by one until he and Floki are the only ones left, fighting back to back, trying to take as many of their enemies with them to Valhalla as possible.
An arrow pierces Ragnar's leg, pain driving him to his knees, and he almost laughs, because he's been here before, forced to kneel as his doom comes closer, only this time it is Erlendur and not Haraldson who holds the blade that will take his life, and this time there's nowhere to run as the prince's men gather around them in a circle, torches held high to light the scene.
Except then Erlendur pales.
There is a smell of wet dirt, of sweet, cloying rot as something leaps into the circle of men, something holding twin axes and shouting words that are drowned by screams. Ragnar catches only glimpses of the thing's back - rags and flesh hanging on yellow bones, matted hair - as it bends over Erlendur and brings his screams to an end.
Then it straightens and turns.
The nose is gone and there's something crawling where it ought to be. Where the eyes ought to be there are dark pits, and that one eyeball is dangling once more, as if it has slipped back out from where he had so carefully put it back.
"Priest?!"
Ragnar turns his head, staring up at Floki as if he'd forgotten that the other man was there. When he turns back, Athelstan is gone.
"How long has it been following you around?" Floki demands as he pulls a glowing hot knife from the fire.
"His name is Athelst…" and then Ragnar screams at the cleansing heat.
Floki growls.
"Athelstan was a living man. A stupid Christian. That was a draugr."
"No. He's not," and Ragnar raises his head at the faint chill whispering across his skin, smiling at Athelstan, blue-eyed and whole and looking oh so uncertain of his welcome. "He's an einherjar."
"Don't be an idiot, Ragnar. Odin doesn't let his warriors run around in Midgard. That thing is a draugr and you should have told me. It's going to be difficult to bind such a thing properly with his grave so far away."
It's not even a conscious act, holding the knife to Floki's throat, not really. The boatbuilder's eyes widen slightly, but the rest of him stays completely still.
"You will do no such thing."
When Ragnar pulls the knife back, it leaves behind a thin red line.
"He's right." Athelstan's voice is barely a whisper. "Odin doesn't let his einherjar run around in Midgard."
Ragnar runs his fingers through soft hair, tugs the other man forward until he rests against his chest.
Waits.
"He didn't want me. The women - the Valkyries - they said I was too Christian. They took the others, but there wasn't one for me."
"But what then of your Christ god? Surely…"
Athelstan laughs. It's a brittle sound.
"I'm an apostate, Ragnar. I have betrayed my vows, I have led heathens to plunder Christian holy places, I have killed Christians. How could I possibly go to Him?"
Ragnar presses a kiss against the top of Athelstan's head.
"And so you stayed with me?"
"Yes. You always - you always wanted me."
"Yes. I do."
Once they are back in Kattegat, he does not go to the room he shares with Aslaug. Instead, he finds his way to the cluttered room that has been Athelstan's and falls asleep on the narrow bed.
He finds himself returning there night after night. Sometimes Athelstan lies with him - though truth be told, the bed is too narrow for two to comfortably share, even if they are friendly. Sometimes Ragnar lies alone, watching Athelstan sitting with a book on his lap, stroking the pages.
He hears the whispers and mutterings - about the King who refuses to let anybody else near the dead Christian's room, about the King who no longer seeks his wife's bed.
He ignores them.
Floki seeks him out one night, invades the sanctuary of Athelstan's room to tell Ragnar that he's leaving, that he is taking his wife and child and returning to his house in the forest.
"I will still build your boats. But I cannot stay here. Not while…"
Ragnar's glare stops the other man's words.
Floki rises to leave, but stops at the door, speaks without looking back.
"He doesn't belong here. If that thing - if that really is your Athelstan, then it is a cruel thing to keep him here. The dead do not belong in the land of the living. If you are truly his friend, you will not keep him here."
Ragnar watches Athelstan.
As he always has.
He watches the other man wander through town, watches him by the docks, sitting at the outermost point and gazing into the water. He watches Athelstan watching him, leaning casually against one of the wooden pillars in his hall. He watches him watch the boys, growing like so many blond-haired weeds. He watches him kneeling by Ivar's bed.
He watches Athelstan look at people, wistfully, as if they are not right there in front of him - and in all the ways that matter they might as well not be.
He watches Athelstan grow pale. During the day he is sometimes almost translucent, the rays of the sun slicing through him like so many knives. He wakes at night to find Athelstan bent over his book, and when he raises his head his eyes are hollow pits for just a moment.
He watches Athelstan look oh so very tired.
"Come sleep with me," he'll say and Athelstan will come, sliding under furs and curling up against him, but no matter when Ragnar wakes, he will meet open eyes, watching him right back.
One beautiful autumn day he leads Athelstan through the forest blazing red, orange, gold, until they find themselves at the waterfall.
"Why can you not go to your Christ god?" he asks.
"I told you why," and Athelstan tries to step away, but Ragnar doesn't let go of his hand.
"Yes. But you also told me that the Christ god likes to forgive things. The prayer you taught me - it was all about forgiveness. If you asked, don't you think he would forgive you?"
Athelstan doesn't answer, just looks down, refusing to meet Ragnar's eyes.
"Athelstan?"
"Are you sending me away?" and there's something wet in Athelstan's voice, and there's a smell of old rot, and Ragnar can feel bones against his fingers.
"No. No, never," and he drags Athelstan forward, wraps his arms around a thankfully firm body as the other clings tight. "But Athelstan - you are so very tired. Don't you want to rest?"
"I don't think I can."
"Let me help you, then," and Ragnar pushes at Athelstan's shoulders, leads him down until they are both kneeling. Then he takes the cross that he's been carrying around his neck and slips it back where it always belonged.
Athelstan swallows. Looks away.
"I don't remember the words. I don't - I should, but I don't, I…"
Ragnar stills him with a touch, folding his hands together, forces his lips into a smile, and begins.
"Our Father."
"Our Father," Athelstan repeats, sounding a bit uncertain. "Who art in Heaven."
The first words come easily, once prompted, but then Athelstan begins to shake.
"Thy will - thy will be done," he manages, then: "Ragnar, I'm not sure if I can do this."
"You are doing fine," he praises, slides his hands up Athelstan's arms and back down, tries to sooth. "On Earth as it is in Heaven."
Athelstan follows, repeats, forcing out the words one by one.
"…forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive…"
Then he starts to bleed. He parts his hands to reveal trickles of a red so dark it's nearly black and when Ragnar glances up, he can see blood flowing from tiny wounds on Athelstan's forehead.
"Go on," he forces himself to say. "As we forgive those who trespass against us."
And Athelstan does try, he does, as he trembles and bleeds and stumbles through words .
"But deliver," and he can make it no further.
"Ragnar, please, it hurts. I cannot do this. Ragnar, please. Take it back. I can't."
Ragnar grits his teeth, breathes in to repeat the words one more time, except…
"Ragnar, please don't do this. Please don't send me away."
Perhaps - perhaps, if Ragnar had been a stronger man. But he finds that he is not.
"No. Never," and he gathers Athelstan into his arms, wraps himself about the trembling, sobbing wreck that is his Athelstan and shushes him until the blood stops flowing and the trembling settles. Then he takes back the cross.
"I'm sorry."
Ragnar watches as Athelstan grows paler still. Sometimes it seems as if the other man will forget himself and there will be a smell of rot until Ragnar reaches out to stroke his hair. Sometimes he will turn to find hollows gazing at him, blinking back into blue as Athelstan notices Ragnar's frown.
One night he wakes to the sight of a skeleton dressed in rags bent over the book, matted hair dangling around an empty skull. He makes a noise and Athelstan looks up at him, empty eye sockets gazing at him and he can see the concern, see the worried frown that's almost there, except not.
Sometimes, he regrets his own weakness.
It's a bright spring day, crisp and cold, when the news of the settlers in Wessex finally reaches him.
They gather on the shores of Wessex - Ragnar, Lagertha and Rollo.
Around them, their warriors are restless, muttering darkly of blood, of revenge, of betrayal most foul. Even the Frankish soldiers Rollo has brought seem unsettled.
Sailing up the rivers another force joins them - somewhere, Kwenthrith has acquired chainmail and weapons, and she smiles almost shyly at Lagertha.
As they approach King Ecbert's royal villa, Athelstan vanishes for a while. When he returns, he's translucent and skeletal and wraps himself around Ragnar, enveloping him in the smell of the grave.
"There's a child. Judith - I. And they killed her. And there's a child. A girl. I'm…"
Ragnar thinks of a girl with Athelstan's eyes and Athelstan's dark curls. Then he seeks out Floki. Carefully repeats everything Athelstan manages to tell him about Wessex, about secret dungeons and old paths.
The next day, as the sun burns hot in the sky, armies crash and blood is shed. Sometimes, Ragnar catches Athelstan staring longingly at the sky.
Nobody wins that day.
When they return to camp come nightfall, a dark haired toddler is sleeping in Floki's arms. Ragnar gingerly leans down to take the child, then smiles at the presence by his side.
"What is her name?"
"Æthelswith."
"That is a fine name."
The next day three boats leave the fortified camp at the riverbank to sail back down towards the sea. Aboard one is Björn and Thorunn, a dark-haired girl child in their care.
The fighting drags out. From Northumbria King Aella arrives with soldiers to lend King Ecbert aid.
As harvest approaches, Rollo leaves - gathering his men and sailing across the waters to his own lands, making promises to return come spring. Those staying behind build fortified winter camps by the river, sending out parties to forage for food for the coming winter.
It is while leading one such party, having gathered a small herd of cattle and now busily driving them back to the camp, that Ragnar falls afoul of larger group of Saxon soldiers. They kill his men with arrows and with swords, but for some reason they capture him alive.
He expects to be taken before King Ecbert, but instead they turn north. As they ride, miles vanishing behind them, he feels a chill presence against his back, hears a voice begging forgiveness in his ear.
"I can't feel the ropes, Ragnar. I'm sorry, I can't cut them, I can't…"
Ragnar finds himself wishing he could break free from the ropes leashing him to the saddle, less because he desires escape and more because he needs, oh how he needs to wrap his arms around his Priest, to remind him of the solidity of flesh and blood.
It's snowing when they finally reach King Aella's keep.
They drag him before the king, sitting on his throne in his great hall. They force him to his knees in front of him.
"Welcome, Ragnar Lothbrok. Long have I longed for this day."
Ragnar has no doubt that it is a fine speech, full of grand words, full of claims of just vengeance - for a brother and a daughter both dead - but he finds that he can't be bothered to actually listen.
They drag him outside as the sun slides beneath the horizon, back into the courtyard. His feet leave tracks in the snow as he lets the soldiers do the work.
In a corner of the courtyard they sweep away the fine layer of snow before removing the wooden covers from a pit. He doesn't struggle as the soldiers take away his leather armor, merely pulls back his lips to smile a wolf's smile at the gloating king, making the man's triumphant smile momentarily slip.
"Push him in," Aella shouts and the soldiers obey.
The landing is surprisingly soft.
He rolls over, feels something move sluggishly beneath him.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, oh Ragnar, I am so, so sorry."
Then somebody throws a torch down to him and he can see his death.
The serpents are slow to stir in the cold, sluggish in the winter, but the burning torch has them moving and two more follow from above, one landing close by his arm, close enough to sting.
Not that it matters.
He forces himself to sit up, ignoring the agitated serpents, ignoring the jeering from above. They aren't important.
"Athelstan. Athelstan, look at me," and he does, his oh so fierce Priest, and oh, but he is beautiful tonight, so like himself it almost steals Ragnar's words.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. Listen to me. Do you remember the promise I made you? Wherever you go, I will follow?" and Athelstan nods, eyes bright with tears and Ragnar wants to curse the rope that binds his arms behind his back, but that's not important right now, and neither is the serpent sliding up his trouser leg, seeking the warmth there.
"Good. Now, listen to me, Athelstan. Tonight, it's your turn to follow me again. We've fought well. Tonight, we will dine in Odin's great hall."
"Ragnar - I can't. He doesn't want me, I'm not…"
"Listen," and it's a pained hiss as fangs sink into his flesh. "Listen to me. Tonight, you will follow me. Before the moon has set, we will be drinking ale in Valhalla."
Arms wrap around him as Athelstan buries his face in Ragnar's tunic.
"Don't leave me," Athelstan mumbles, and Ragnar hisses, the pain of the serpent's venom like fire in his veins.
"I won't," he manages, giving up trying to convince Athelstan of the truth of his claims. "I never will."
He lies back, his strength fading fast now, and somehow manages to hush the man huddled against his chest in between hissing and groaning in pain. A serpent rises above his face, gently swaying before it strikes, fangs sinking into his throat.
That's when he sees them, high above, terrible shadows against the moon.
That's when he starts to laugh, joyous, impossible laughter, startling the Saxons above them, but they don't matter, they don't matter at all.
Because there are two.