Author's Note: Takes place after Sacrifice. Just more exploring Athelstan and how he copes, or doesn't cope, with everything that's happened. Have I mentioned it really bothers me that he just seems to shake things off and rebound instantly in the show? Just a disclaimer, this is intended to be entirely platonic. I do not personally ship Gyda and Athelstan. Anyway, hope you like it! Reviews are much appreciated.
~Pleurez
Of late, her priest is very different.
Athelstan had never fully embraced his new life. How could he have? He was quiet and gentle and kind. All fine virtues in their own right, but none of them particularly well suited to their world. However, he'd managed to carve out a little niche for himself to occupy. Not quite one of them, but neither completely foreign. It's a place he no longer cares for.
He used to look at her father with… Gyda didn't know if she'd call it friendship, exactly. But hope…? Maybe that was it. There was something tentative, but still warm in his eyes, and every now and again coupled with a shy smile. And of course for her, he always had that special smile of his, genuine and so bright it seemed to light up his whole face. It's been more than a week since their pilgrimage to Uppsala and she has not seen either the glimmer in his eye or the smile on his lips since.
If he's noticed anything, her father hasn't said. He doesn't say all that much to the priest at all when he's not ordering him about. Maybe he thinks it best—that if he gives Athelstan a little space, he might stop his sulking and come back to his senses. But he's not just sulking. At least, Gyda doesn't think so. She's become something of a shadow. She doesn't follow him, exactly, but rather showing up here and there. Sometimes she just talks while he works, other times she'll take his hand in hers and ask him to come help her with another task.
Sometimes she thinks he tries to smile. There's a little crinkle in the corners of his eyes, but his mouth remains still. Whatever light remains in him isn't strong enough to cut through the shadows within. He's still kind and patient, but he's not himself.
Gyda had been relieved when the gods rejected her father's offering of the priest as a sacrifice. Now she can't help but wonder if she hasn't truly lost him all the same. She wants to ask him about it. Sometimes talking about the source of the problem helps. The right words elude her and she doesn't know what to say, so she talks about anything and everything else that comes to mind. Maybe it's at least enough to show him that he's not alone.
They sit down for dinner and Athelstan joins them. Gyda claims the seat beside him and scoots just a little closer. He picks at the food on his plate, pushing it around without eating. This isn't new. Since their return, he's not finished a plate of food once. Usually, it's left untouched. He never manages more than a few bites. Her mother says nothing, but she can see the pointed glance that shifts from the plate up to Athelstan's face.
His eyes are on the table. If he notices, he pretends not to.
Her father is less subtle. He's been patient enough so far, but tonight the well has run dry. "It's not there to be played with," he snaps, gesturing towards the plate.
Athelstan is silent. He stops pushing his food around, but he makes no move to eat.
Her father gives a frustrated huff. "For fuck's sake, priest!" Lagertha places a hand on her husband's arm, as if to calm him, but he isn't having any of it. "No! We're done coddling him. Enough is enough!"
Gyda wants to intervene but she's never been good at standing up to her father. Shouting isn't going to be helpful, but telling her father so isn't going to change anything. She says nothing, but her hand reaches out to take hold of one of the priest's, now folded in his lap, and gives it a reassuring squeeze.
Athelstan's plate is shoved closer to him. "Eat."
Blue eyes lift from the table for just a moment. "I'm not hungry."
"You're lying."
It's become a battle of wills now. Her father and the priest are as different as night and day. Where her father is brash and loud and manages to own whatever room he enters, Athelstan is meek and quiet, preferring to fade into the background rather than be in the middle of the action. But in their stubbornness, the two men are very much the same. The priest says nothing, but she can see the determination in his face.
"I told you to eat."
He reaches out across the table and delivers a powerful slap to the face. Gyda flinches at the sound.
This time, when the priest looks up he holds her father's gaze. But he still makes no move to obey the order given. Ragnar strikes twice more, which finally pulls a cry of, "Father!" from Gyda's lips. Meanwhile Athelstan looks almost… smug? As if he's won. She doesn't understand it, but her father sees it, too. He does understand, Gyda is sure of it.
His lips thin and his eyes narrow just a fraction before flicking to the cross around Athelstan's neck. "Eat, priest. If I find you've left anything on your plate, I'll take what's mine and see it sold."
Athelstan's back stiffens. Gyda feels his fingers curl into a first beneath her hand. "You can't—"
"I can and I will. Now eat." There is no room for argument and no question whether her father means exactly what says.
At last, Athelstan obeys. He does so slowly. They've all finished eating. Her mother and Bjorn have left the table and moved onto other things. Her father watches, and Gyda sits beside the priest in concern. But finally, he finishes and stands to clear everything away and clean up. Neither Athelstan nor her father speak, but Ragnar looks quite pleased with himself. He thinks that's the end of it.
He doesn't notice Athelstan slip outside, nor does he hear the priest proceed to vomit.
Gyda does, but she says nothing. Maybe she should. The priest looks so small and frail, and she knows her father's right that he needs to start eating more. But he won't go about it the right way. She wishes she knew the right thing to do. She's heard Athelstan talk about fasting before in his stories of England. Maybe that's what he's doing now, but she can't help but feel that this isn't right. It can't possibly be meant to be so utterly destructive.
When Athelstan comes back inside, she finds him in prayer. Maybe she ought to have left him in peace, but instead she sits beside him and listens to the cadence of the strange words he speaks. She may not understand the language, but the meaning of his prayers is clear. There is something raw and pained in his voice, and the utter brokenness of his entire bearing transcends spoken tongues.
He's told her about his God before. She knows Athelstan loves Him more than his own life. She thinks his God must not be real, because what God could possibly ignore such cries of one so devoted to them? If He is real, Gyda finds she doesn't like Him very much at all.
She's nothing like a god, but she's there and the gods are silent. She leans against him ever so gently and feels a pang of sadness over how frail and thin he's become. She fears if she leans too much even she, small as she is, might be enough to knock him over. His prayers stop and he opens his eyes. He looks so, very tired. He still can't find it in his heart to smile, but Gyda thinks she at least feels him relax just a little as the quiet lilt of his prayers resumes. He no longer seems so stiff and brittle that he might snap in half as easily as an old, dried out twig.
Nestled against him, Gyda offers a prayer of her own, because surely two prayers must be stronger than one. She asks Eir to come to him and heal whatever has broken inside him.
Somewhere along the way before the words die completely, she feels a too-thin arm around her shoulders. She wraps him in a fierce hug, as if trying to physically hold the priest together lest he crumble to shattered pieces where he sits.
They have much more space now that her father is Earl. The priest has a room of his own now rather than just little corner. Gyda knows he must be glad for the privacy it offers but it makes her worry. She's tried to ignore it—she doesn't want to be overbearing the way her father is, but tonight she can't stand it anymore. She gets out of bed and pads down the hall. The sounds are soft, quiet enough to stay confined to the room the priest occupies, but Gyda has had enough nightmares of her own to recognize one in progress.
"Priest?" She speaks softly, trying to rouse him first with words. He doesn't respond. "Priest?" A little louder this time. But it isn't until she finally reaches out to nudge his shoulder that his eyes snap open and he sits up with a start. His eyes are wide and frenzied, as if still in the throws of his dream. She offers a final, very gentle "Priest."
"Gyda."
The panic melts from his face, but his expression is still taut and strained. Without an invitation, she climbs into his bed. "I couldn't sleep." Athelstan is far more apt to give care than receive it. "And Father's been so busy lately I didn't want to wake him." She scoots a little closer, looking up at him with the most hopeful eyes she can muster. "Can I sit with you awhile? Please?" He nods and she smiles wide enough for the two of them. She begins to recite a story.
The adrenaline from his dream is fading and she sees his eyelids growing heavy. "You can lay back down if you're tired. I don't mind." She coaxes him into sinking back down into the bed before continuing her tale. His eyes begin to close and she feels him drifting off again. As his breathing grows deeper and slower, she dares to reach out and pets his hair, the way her mother sometimes stroked her to soothe her back to sleep.
"Father means well," she murmurs, although she's sure he won't hear her. "I think he's worried about you. I'm worried, too." Gyda lays down beside him. "I don't like to see you like this. I miss you."
By the time she wakes in the morning, Athelstan is already up and she is alone in his bed.
Her father is awake, too. She hears them arguing.
"Where is it, Priest?"
"Lost."
"Horse shit!"
She finds them staring each other down beside a pot over the fire. The crucifix is gone from its place around the priest's neck.
"If you don't fetch it right now, I swear by all the gods I—"
"You'll do what?" The usually sweet voice is scathing and cold in a way Gyda's never heard it before. The grim set of his jaw and the defiant tilt of his chin seem in direct defiance to the tiredness she sees in his eyes.
They're both so focused on each other that they haven't yet noticed they're no longer alone.
She follows Athelstan's gaze to her father's hands, balled into fists.
"I'll find it."
"You think so?" The disdainful curl of his lip can only be meant to goad her father, as if Athelstan wants him to strike
"Good morning, Priest." She intervenes, alerting them to her presence before either one of them does something truly stupid. She appeals to Athelstan first. She loves her father and knows he's protective of his family in all the ways he thinks count. But he sees no need to shield either her or her brother from the reality of the world and would think nothing of putting a slave in his place in front of them. But Athelstan? He thinks differently, she knows.
And she sees it in the way he schools his expression into something more neutral. He won't tell her father where he's hidden the cross and her father won't let it go. They'll be back at it later, she's sure. Still, perhaps she can keep things somewhat civil until their tempers have at least had some time to cool. She takes hold of Athelstan's hand and gives it a gentle tug, wordlessly encouraging him to come have breakfast.
He surrenders.
He must be chafing beneath the oppressive weight of her father's eyes as he eats. Her own eyes meet his, and she lifts her chin a little as she stares her father down. It's her best impression of her mother, silently warning him to leave well enough alone. Gyda is small and quiet most of the time, but when she wants to she can look quite fearsome in her own right.
Athelstan finishes half of his breakfast. It's more than he's eaten in awhile and for now Gyda thinks it's enough. If her father disagrees, at least he doesn't say so.
She follows her priest outside as he sees to his chores.
Finally, she musters the courage to broach the subject that's been hanging above all their heads like an axe poised to drop. "I miss Leif." He stops his work, blue eyes as dark and stormy as an angry sea. She knows he's about to apologize, so she speaks again, cutting him off before the words can take shape. "But I would miss you more."
Their eyes meet, leaving no room to doubt the sincerity of her words.
"Let me help you." She takes his hands in hers and guides them to a different position as he works to mend a fishing net. She'll let him pretend to think she's talking about his chores, if he likes.
The corners of his lips tug upward just a little. "Thank you, Gyda."
Shadows hang about him still, but there's more of the priest Gyda has come to know in him then than there has been in quite some time.