Author's Note: Set during Sacrifice. Canon complaint, but with more of Athelstan's point of view and some aftermath. It drove me a little crazy that there was no fallout between him and Ragnar after, or if there was it was just kind of glossed over. Anyway, hope you like it. Reviews are always appreciated.
~Pleurez
There is something of Eden here.
It's carnal and sinful and steeped in violence, just as most things are among the Northmen. And yet the air is crisp and fresh and something in the way the pagans embrace life and pleasure seems so, very natural and free. Athelstan wonders if it isn't just a little reminiscent of the freedom Adam and Eve knew before succumbing to temptation. The customs are strange and uncomfortable to the priest, but somehow something still seems to speak to his soul. The pagans say their gods are here, moving among them and celebrating with them.
Maybe Athelstan's God is there, too, in his own way.
For the first time in quite some time, he is able to relax.
Ragnar calls to him and they walk together, sometimes in companionable silence and sometimes offering an explanation of their traditions. There is something of a shadow in the Viking's eyes but Athelstan doesn't notice. He has managed to remain remarkable guileless despite the hardships life has thrown his way. They come upon a series of pens, each holding a different kind of animal.
Athelstan looks over them and counts. "Nine… There are nine of each."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"It's our sacrifice to the gods. Nine of each kind."
The priest swallows and looks away. He'd seen sacrifices before. He never found the spilling of so much blood pleasant, even if it was simply the blood of an animal. Of course it was expected. That didn't make him like it anymore. Then, slowly, his eyes travel to an area marked aside but not yet populated by animals. "And that?"
Ragnar doesn't answer immediately. Dread settles in his gut as he waits.
"For the nine humans who have been chosen."
Oh. Oh! Their eyes meet, and for the first time Athelstan sees the regret in his master's face. As much as he wishes he didn't, he understands. He wants to protest but finds his mouth too dry and his tongue is like a lump of lead. Ragnar can see the fear in him. But all the Viking offers is a regretful smile and a pat on the shoulder that makes Athelstan flinch, and then he walks away.
All Athelstan can do is offer a feeble, "Please," as he retreats. If Ragnar hears, he doesn't give any indication.
Suddenly Eden is gone and the priest finds himself standing in a very different garden. He sinks to his knees, overwhelmed by the weight of what is to come.
Athelstan has sinned. He told Ragnar of England, facilitating his raids on the innocent. He'd been filled with anger and dared to doubt God after being taken captive. He'd knelt at the altar of these false, pagan gods. It isn't death that the priest fears, he finds. At least, not half so much as it is what will become of him after. Here, there is no one to hear his confession. No one to ease his doubts. He can on wonder whether God could find it in him to forgive his wicked and sinful soul and carry him to Heaven in solitude. Deep in his heart, he thinks he knows the answer, but he prays that he is wrong.
"Father, please. If You can find it in Your heart, let this cup pass from me."
There is no answer.
He doesn't know how much time has passed when he returns from his prayers. He tries to act unbothered. He smiles but it doesn't reach his eyes. He engages with the heathens although his heart is not in it. Perhaps… Perhaps he hopes against hope that if he behaves as one of them… If the come to see him as one of their own… Perhaps he might be spared.
"Athelstan!" Ragnar comes up beside him and wraps an arm around his shoulders. "Athelstan, there's someone I want you to meet." There's a glimmer of excitement in the Viking's eyes that has banished the somber shadows of the last time they spoke.
He wants to ask why. If he's to be killed at the end of their pilgrimage, why should he meet anyone? He doesn't, he knows there's no point. Ragnar is a man who takes what he wants. He recalls his master's invitation to Uppsala.
I would have taken you anyway
Suddenly, what he'd taken for an mere quip—a reminder of his place, gentle though it may have been—has taken on an entirely different meaning. Still, Athelstan knows the same applies here. He can follow Ragnar of his own accord or he can refuse. But either scenario ends the same, with Athelstan exactly where Ragnar wants him to be. So he gets to his feet.
He stays back in the presence of King Horik, mindful of a place. He is a slave and he is expendable. He had hoped someday that might change. Ragnar has shown him it will never come to pass. He is meek and silent, as he ought to be. At least, he is until the king addresses him.
"Are you still a Christian?"
Athelstan's mouth is once again terribly dry. Something like fear grips his heart. Blue eyes remain downcast, an action easily excusable as the submission of a dutiful slave. But in truth, Athelstan simply knows that he isn't a particularly convincing liar. "No." The word tastes bitter on his tongue and his fingers curl to grip the crucifix that hangs from his wrist, hidden beneath his sleeve. He lies, because perhaps a Christian sacrifice would be more pleasing to these pagans than a man who believes in their bloodthirsty deities.
Eyes close for a moment and he offers a silent prayer for forgiveness.
He feels his master's eyes on him. Perhaps Ragnar suspects If he does, he doesn't say anything, content to agree with his king that no one could possibly continue to doubt the truth of their faith while in this sacred place where the gods move unseen among them. Maybe their gods are real, but not gods at all. Rather, agents of the devil sent to lead an entire civilization of men astray.
And Athelstan, too. After all, had he not just denied his own God? He hadn't meant it but he still feels sick with guilt and sick with dread.
As he leaves the tent he prays again, "Please, Lord, take this cup from me." He doesn't think anyone hears, but it doesn't matter. The whispered words come in Latin.
He continues to engage, tries to be as the chameleon, shifting and changing to blend with its environment. He doesn't belong but he has no hope other than to try to convince them otherwise. Even that will not likely save him. They are convinced their gods have demanded payment in blood for their blessings and Athelstan, whether Christian or Pagan, will always be the least among them. He is aware of the futility of his efforts, and yet he has to try.
But for the moment he can take no more.
He retreats into the woods in search of quiet. If his life is to come to an end, he wants to spend at least a little time with alone with his God, if nothing else to beseech Him in all His mercy to forgive his wicked and sinful soul, and to welcome him into His Kingdom. Even that feels a waste of breath, but he clings to even the faintest hope that his soul might not be engulfed in the flames of Hell.
Athelstan is on his knees. He doesn't notice a pair of eyes watching.
"Father, let Thy will be done. If… If this serves You—that I should die here, among the Pagans… Your ways are greater than my own, and I submit myself to Your will. But I ask, Lord, that in Your infinite love and mercy, You might forgive my sins, numerous as they may be. I have sought to live for You, but I have failed. Grant that, if it pleases You, in dying for You my transgressions may be washed away with my blood. I want to be Yours, Lord. I beg that You will make it so, in whatever form is most pleasing in Your Sight."
He tries to make his peace with death, but the fear of it remains. The soul is willing, but the flesh is weak.
He doesn't know how long he spent in prayer, but it doesn't seem he was missed very much. Still, even if he's expendable and unnecessary, he isn't entirely unwelcome. He finds a bowl thrust out towards him in invitation. "Try one, priest! It's the food of the gods." He gives a hesitant smile, consistent with the shy and timid demeanor these people have become so accustomed to from him. He accepts the offer despite his skepticism. He hears the others snicker as his brow furrows at the strange taste. If he didn't care for the taste, he definitely doesn't care for what it does to him.
He's had ale, but not nearly enough to explain the way his vision blurs, or that his legs feel as clumsy and awkward as those of a newborn colt. He looks around the fire and knows there are faces, but they blend together in a strange mosaic and he can't say he recognizes much anyone. Maybe he could, if only the world would just stop moving so fast.
The heat of the flames is overwhelming. He tries to take a few steps back, but then he's on the ground. He hits the floor before he even realizes he's falling. It occurs to him after a moment that he ought to pick himself back up, except… Is that his hand? He isn't sure. If it is, it stubbornly refuses to do what he wants, no matter how hard he concentrates on pushing himself off the ground. He finds himself righted, but he doesn't immediately know how it happened.
Hazy eyes settle on a face he's able to recognize as belonging to Leif. Suddenly, he's aware of a pair of strong arms holding him up. He panics as he feels the man's grip begin to loosen. "If you let go, I'll fall again."
The other man's smile is warm. "Have faith, priest. Here, we are all in the gods' hands. They will hold you." He doesn't let go immediately, allowing Athelstan another moment to find his feet. Once he does, he stays close by and watches. Athelstan sways a little but manages to steady himself and remain upright. "See?" He gives the priest a friendly clap on the shoulder.
Reason shrouded by the fog of an addled mind, Athelstan might be deluded into thinking that these men—some among them, at least—have come to care for him as one of their own.
As much as he'd like to ignore it, he knows there's a part of him that wishes it was truly so. And not, as he might argue, solely out of a desire to save his own skin.
Leif is a violent man. He's followed Ragnar on raids to slaughter and enslave more innocent men than Athelstan could ever count. He imagines the waters of his homeland are still stained red with the blood of his brothers. Yet, in that moment, he doesn't see the barbarian. He sees only the gentle eyes of the man who'd cared enough to pick him up when he couldn't right himself and offered reassurance in the best way he knew. In that moment, he feels no anger or hatred or fear, but rather gratitude and… something else he can't identify. Or perhaps he can, but would rather not.
The night passes in a blur that Athelstan can barely remember come morning. There are bits and pieces here and there, but nothing much of substance.
He does recall being lifted up and he recalls something like friendship in Leif's eyes. He remembers that for just a little while, knowledge of his fate had slipped away and he dared to feel like he belonged.
Athelstan is angry. These men are still so strange to him. There is so much wrath and lust and greed in them, but there are also glimpses of kindness and loyalty and warmth. At a glance, there is everything to condemn about them. Yet living among them Athelstan also sees something to be admired. He doesn't know how to reconcile the two. Perhaps God might grant him clarity. But before he can retreat to pray he is pulled aside.
The priest is face to face with the Seer—a frightening and domineering presence to be sure. Already, his stomach has dropped and his heart is racing.
"Are you here of your own free will?"
Is he? He had come of his own volition, though he hadn't been told his true purpose on this pilgrimage. Still, he has stayed rather than trying to run. Does it matter? The truth is irrelevant, there is only one right answer. "Yes."
"And are you still a Christian?"
Yes. Yes, yes, yes. Everything in the priest screams at him to say it, and he means to. Yet the word that leaves his mouth is "No." He ought to proclaim his love for his God loudly and defiantly, ready to die a martyr for Christ. He wants to. But he isn't brave enough.
"Are you still a Christian?" The Seer presses harder.
"No!" The answer comes quicker this time and there's an edge to his voice that might be taken for conviction. But really it's the rising panic of a man who knows he's been caught in a lie, but has chosen to double down anyway.
"Say it again."
"No." This time, it's a whisper. His eyes drop and he feels ashamed. Thrice. Thrice he has denied his Lord, just as Peter had once done. He has to hope that his life will be spared because if he dies now he knows there can be no place for him in Heaven. Peter was forgiven. True. But Peter lived and went on to dedicate his life to spreading the Word of God. Had Peter been killed that night, would Christ still have welcomed him into the Kingdom? Or would even the man marked as a Saint have been denied?
"Do you know why you've been brought here?"
Yes. He does. But he finds he cannot speak the words—it makes it seem to painfully real. He stands in silence, unsure whether the Seer can sense the fear that holds his tongue, or if it will be taken for ignorance. Either way, he explains.
"Ragnar Lothbrock has brought you here as a sacrifice to our gods."
Athelstan's fingers search for his crucifix. Just as they curl around it the Seer catches his hand and turns it over. He stumbles from the force of a firm shove.
They are all summoned before the Seer. Athelstan doesn't understand what's to come. He suspects the others don't, either, but he can sense the tension in the air. He closes his eyes and silently pleads with his Lord for pardon he knows won't come.
"Ragnar Lothbrock." He gestures to the slave. "You have brought this man here to sacrifice, but his heart is impure. He does not accept our ways and clings to his false God." There is a pregnant pause. "He is unworthy. The gods do not accept this offering."
Athelstan is so shocked his eyes momentarily lift from the ground and his prayers cease.
"One among you must take his place, or risk incurring the wrath of the gods."
At first, the silence is deafening, but then someone behind him speaks. "I will claim this honor, if it pleases the gods." He doesn't see who has volunteered but he doesn't have to. He recognizes the voice—the very same who'd promised him that the gods would not allow him to fall. Athelstan will live, but Leif is to die. The priest's blood runs cold.
"It seems your God has come through for you, priest." He can't identify the emotion in Ragnar's tone. It's not anger, exactly, but it's also certainly not kind. Athelstan doesn't care. He spares a single glance at his master but says nothing.
It's true. His God has seen fit to save him despite having been given every reason to let him burn. Yet the weight is not lifted from his soul.
He doesn't sleep. He spends the night with his God. He gives his praise and thanks that his life has been spared, but he finds he can't rejoice in it. His salvation has come at a heavy price. He doesn't pray for Leif to be spared—he knows that is impossible. But he prays for God's mercy to fall on him. The Viking lives outside of Christ, but it isn't his fault. He has never been taught anything other than the worship of pagan gods. Perhaps it's wrong to pray for a man who has committed so much evil, but Athelstan prays anyway.
He doesn't want to watch, but he must. He knows there is no choice. And, too, part of him feels he owes it to Leif as a final show of respect. Still, he feels sicker and sicker as each sacrifice is brought to the alter. "Requiem aeternam luceat eis," he breathes. The hushed words are anemic and trembling. Finally, it's Leif's turn. He makes eye contact and Athelstan things he sees a smile, reminiscent of the one give to him by the fire the other night. But maybe it's his imagination.
Blood spills over the altar and it's over.
Mercifully, because Athelstan can't take another second. He feels the bile rising in his throat as he pushes himself through the crowd and away. He sinks to his knees in the dirt and retches. His eyes sting as though he ought to cry but he can't find the tears. He doesn't understand. From everything the priest has seen, these people love their gods. How is it possible? How can they hold demons who demand such atrocities so dear in their hearts?
He keeps to himself and says nothing until Ragnar summons him and says it's time to make the journey back.
Athelstan passes the trip in relative silence. If anyone speaks to him, he answers curtly without a single word more than is necessary. Most don't seem to care but he feels Ragnar's eyes on him more often than he'd like. His master doesn't chastise him for it or force him to engage with them, but that doesn't mean he isn't displeased. He is simply a man who knows that there's a time to run into battle and a time to wait. For now, he decides upon the latter.
The priest has been a dutiful and obedient slave. He sees that his chores are done and has never tried to escape. He may not be fully at peace with his life, but he has accepted it well enough to do what he must to survive. So it comes as a surprise when Ragnar finds there are tasks that have been neglected. Athelstan disappeared after breakfast and he's not seen him since.
For a moment, he wonders whether his priest has finally decided to run.
He hasn't.
He finds him the priest by the water, kneeling in the sand, his shirt folded beside him. He holds a knotted rope in his hand and his eyes are closed. Ragnar hears him speaking words he doesn't understand—no doubt a prayer to his God. He almost leaves the man in peace, but then he sees Athelstan whip the rope around to strike himself on the back.
The weapon is make-shift, but upon further inspection it seems his priest has been at it for some time. Long enough to have spilled his own blood upon the sand.
Ragnar approaches and catches his wrist as his arm is raised to strike himself again.
This startles Athelstan. He tugs, trying to pull himself free. It's more resistance than he's ever offered before. Working has made him stronger than he was and Ragnar can't help but feel a sense of pride in the change. He is still stronger and has no trouble keeping his grip. "What are you doing, priest?"
He is unprepared for the anger he sees burning in the priest's blue eyes.
"Let me go!" He tugs uselessly against his master. "I have sinned against God and this is my penance."
"You belong to me now, priest. If anyone is going to beat you, it will be me."
Athelstan stops his struggles. His jaw tightens and then he lifts his chin as if in challenge. He lets go of the rope. "Well, go on, then."
"No." The answer is simple and calm as Ragnar stoops down to pick up the rope and then cast it aside. "I have no wish to see your blood shed." He releases the priest's wrist. "Come back to the house. You're not to do this again."
Athelstan gets to his feet but remains stubbornly in place, staring after his master.
There is courage there. More than he'd possessed as the timid monk, cowering over a book and pleading with Ragnar to spare his life. The boy he'd taken across the sea is growing into a man.
"What do you care?" His voice is like flint. Ragnar turns back to face him, arching an eyebrow. "If you had your way, I'd be dead."
Ah, and there it is. The thorn that had been stuck in the slave's side.
"You're not dead."
He hears the angry puff of breath and sees the clenching of fists. He knows some part of Athelstan is trying to remember himself—to stay mindful of his place. He doubts the slave will succeed.
"I meant nothing to you then. So what difference does it make now? Surely you've riches enough to afford another slave."
"Is that what you think?" He's curious, like a well-fed cat watching a mouse. Interested, but lacking the motivation to strike.
Silence.
"The gods are angry with me, Athelstan. They have killed my child before he drew his first breath. The return of their blessings, I imagine, would demand a heavy sacrifice." He waits a moment to see if his priest will answer. He does not. "Tell me, priest. You're not a stupid man. Is it a sacrifice, truly, to surrender something that means nothing to you?"
Ever so slightly, the priest's expression softens. But only just. His eyes still burn and his jaw is still set. He understands. He doesn't care.
"You are mine, priest. And I would have grieved your loss. I would have taken no pleasure in seeing you dead, nor do I take pleasure now in seeing you hurt." It sounds like a poor excuse, and yet there is more vulnerability in those words than Ragnar has ever shown in the presence of his priest. He's not been cruel to him, but neither has he admitted aloud to caring for him. He doesn't care to allow the moment to linger for to long, ushering it away with a command. "Now come to the house. Lagertha will be wanting your help with dinner."
Athelstan moves to follow. "Whatever transgressions I have committed against my God," he says rightly, "the burden of repentance is my own to bear."
Ragnar ignores the accusation there. He has already said all he had to say on the matter.
Athelstan understands, but he doesn't forgive.