Disclaimer: I do not own Viking's, or the historical/legendary figures. Only the plot variations and or/original aspects are my own.

Fearless

Athelstan had returned to Kattegat, to him. Ragnar had not enjoyed the months with Athelstan's whereabouts unknown, presumed dead by most. He had not believed it to be so, and his beliefs were proven true in Wessex, were Athelstan rode forth on that mule of his, very much alive. He did not like that he was in the company of King Ecgbert, but he understood it. The monk was often conflicted, and it did surprise him that he was among his own people. Though, it did little to stop the need to have him at his side.

He had never felt such joy as he had when Athelstan had agreed to return to Kattegat with him, where he would know he was alive and well. Yet, he found that he feared for Athelstan's safety. He was a gentle soul, in no way a coward, but gentle at heart. Others were not so. He did not doubt his ability with a sword, only his ability to foresee a danger.

Athelstan's Christianity did not help the matter. There were always ears listening, mouths whispering, eyes glaring. Ragnar did not doubt that it was his own presence that stood between his Northman and Athelstan. On more than one occasion he had swept an arm around Athelstan's shoulders not only in friendship but in protection, using his body as a shield. Once in Wessex, when he knew archers had their bows at the ready while Athelstan returned to King Ecgbert, and another in his own home, shielding him from glaring eyes. He was beginning to worry that soon, a simple arm around the shoulder would not be enough. If his presence were not there, Athelstan would certainly be in danger.

Floki worried him the most; his oldest friend. He could see the jealousy in his eyes, the rage he was so consumed by. It controlled him. He feared leaving Floki alone as well, especially in the presence of the priest. He did not want to lose his friendship with Floki, nor that of Athelstan. Their losses would break him.

Perhaps one more than the other.

Athelstan himself worried him also. He had been acting strangely since he had been found in Wessex. More distant, pensive even; he was scarcely seen without bags under his eyes. Ragnar had not missed the scars on his palms, both on the palms and backs or his hands. He had taken one of them in his own hands not so long ago when Athelstan had just returned. He recalled the saddened look in Athelstan's eyes as he had run his fingers over the scars, confiding that he knew what troubled the monk.

He did know, or at least he understood the turmoil that his priest was feeling. He was not so certain of the scars. Athelstan had told him of Christ, and how he had been crucified; nailed to a cross. Had that happened to his Athelstan? Surely, he would have been killed for siding with his people when he was captured; and were it not an honour to be killed in such a way as your Idol. Then why had Athelstan been crucified, if he had been, as a torture and punishment? How did King Ecgbert play into it?

He would have to ask him later.

Now, he had another question to ask Athelstan.

He found the priest in his own long-house, deep in thought. Prayer, perhaps? His hair was pulled back from his face, in the typical Northman fashion, unlike how it had framed his face in Wessex. His clothes were northern again as well. Gone were the long robes he had worn, replaced with a stronger woollen tunic and breeches, belted at the waist.

"Athelstan?" he called softly, unsure if he was interrupting.

Athelstan turned at his name, and smiled softly when his eyes landed on him, "Ragnar, what is it?"

Ragnar took a moment to look at his friend before answering, allowing for his usual silence when asked a question. Athelstan was broader, no longer the skinny monk he had been when they had met. He was strong. "I wanted to ask you something."

Athelstan stood, dusting off his knees so he could stand before him, "of course."

He sighed, looking around for listening ears or watching eyes out of habit, "I want you to live in my long-house."

His friend raised an eyebrow, frowning slightly, "that was not a question, Ragnar."

He shrugged, not looking away from his friend, "It was meant to be, I am sorry."

"Why?"

He smiled, "why am I sorry or why do I want you to move in alongside me."

Athelstan gave him a look.

Shaking his head, he smiled, "sorry, sorry," he composed himself, turning serious again, "I am worried for you …not everyone is so willing to have you amongst them."

"And that requires me moving into your Earl-house?"

He shrugged, "well, yes. You would be safer, under my protection."

Raising an eyebrow, Athelstan moved to sit down, "am I not under your protection here? I can also defend myself, you know."

He sat down too, "you can, yes. But others can defend better, attack faster. They might not hesitate if they saw an opportunity.

Athelstan drew out a breath, "what would Aslaug think?"

"She would not mind."

"People would talk."

He smiled, "let them."

Ragnar woke from his sleep in a start, instinctively reaching for a weapon. He was often awakened by the cries of his sons, particularly Ivar, who was so often in pain. Normally, Aslaug would wake first. She was not awake. Instead, she slept soundly beside him, and so did their sons.

The cry had not come from them, and if he thought about it, it had sounded like them. It was not a child's cry. This cry held far too much pain.

It was Athelstan.

His cries continued, and Ragnar quickly judged that his friend was in no danger. He was no stranger to the horror of a night terror or bad memory. He knew them well. It pained him to hear such sounds coming from his friend, for it could only mean he had experienced great pain. Athelstan was strong, very strong. Even when he had first been captured, witnessing the death of his people around him, he had not had a night terror in those first nights.

As quietly as he could manage, he crept from his own bed, leaving his wife to her sleep. He made his way to the room he knew Athelstan slept in, divided from his own sleeping room. Carefully, he approached the bed.

His friend was curled into a ball; hands pressed to his chest protectively as he cried. He frowned at the sight, kneeling down beside the bed. He could see now that his friend was shaking as he had on that first longship to Kattegat, only this time it was not from the cold. He hated to see the tears that trailed down his friend's cheeks, and he so desperately wanted to destroy the people who had put them there. He didn't think Athelstan would approve of that, however.

Instead, he pushed back the hair that had fallen into Athelstan's face while he slept, gently wiping away the tears with his thumb. He kept his hand there, cupping his cheek as his thumb stroked Athelstan's cheek in hopes of easing him from whatever terror he was experiencing. "Athelstan," he whispered, and upon receiving no response he repeated the name more urgently, "Athelstan. Please wake, you are only dreaming. If you wake, your pain will leave you."

Athelstan did not wake for a moment; instead, he leant into his touch, eyes clenched shut in pain. Carefully, Ragnar took one of Athelstan's scarred hands in his own, holding it tightly.

Suddenly, Athelstan shot upwards, ripping away from his touch as he gasped for breath. Ragnar pursed his lips, watching his friend try to compose himself; unsure what to do now that he was awake.

After a moment, Athelstan drew in a deep breath, looking about his surroundings, hands once again held to his chest. Eventually, his eyes came to rest on him, "Ragnar?"

He nodded, "you cried out in your sleep, Athelstan," he explained softly, moving around to sit on the bed beside his friend, "you were having a night terror; you would not wake."

Athelstan swallowed, not seeming to be looking anywhere, "I am sorry I woke you."

He shook his head, pulling his friend into his arms, "do not apologise for such things." Athelstan nodded into his shoulder, embracing him back. He rubbed the nape of his friend's neck in hopes of comforting him. Soon he felt Athelstan relax against him, his breathing slowing. He decided not to pull away until his friend decided to himself.

That time did not seem to come, for Athelstan seemed quite content resting against him, not quite asleep and not quite awake. "Athelstan?" he whispered, running his hand through his friend's brown curls.

Athelstan, partially to his disappointment, pulled back from him, "Ragnar?"

"Will you tell me what you were dreaming about?"

Athelstan sighed, looking down at the hands clenched into fists upon his lap. He closed his eyes, as if returning to the nightmare once again.

Tentatively, Ragnar reached for his friend's hands, bringing them up so he could see them. Carefully, he uncurled each fist to reveal the scars on his palms. "Does it have something to do with these?"

Looking away, Athelstan nodded, "It does."

He gently ran his thumbs against the scars, feeling the damaged tissue, "will you tell me?" Athelstan nodded and moved to pull his hands away, but he held them in place, "no, let me ease the pain out of them." He had seen the way his friend winched in pain when he held a sword or even a goblet of wine.

Athelstan complied and took a deep breath. "After we were betrayed, the Saxons kept me alive; they knew I was a monk …they tortured me- "

Ragnar hissed, enraged. How dare they hurt such a person as Athelstan, who was so good and kind. He turned his friend's hands over, massaging the other side of the scars.

Athelstan sighed, closing his hands over Ragnar's as he continued, "…they placed me upon a cross, and nailed me to it as they did Christ," he paused, taking a shaky breath, "…I was crucified. King Ecgbert saved me from death."

Ragnar bowed his head this time, ashamed to have let his friend to such a fate, "I am sorry. I should have returned to Wessex earlier," he said, bringing his friends palms up to his lips. He kissed them tentatively.

Athelstan shook his head, "you could not have known."

"It should not have happened; you are most brave to have survived such a thing."

Athelstan smiled, unable to say much more; his still-red eyes meeting his.

He smiled back, guiding his friend down onto the bed with him, "come, we must sleep now. You must be tired." Athelstan nodded, falling alongside him easily, seemingly too tired to argue. Ragnar brought him closer, and pressed his forehead against his, "you are fearless, Athelstan; I will let no dreams haunt your sleep. I vow it." I love you. He left that unsaid, but he hoped to show it.

Athelstan smiled, adjusting so his head was pressed into Ragnar's chest, "I know."