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The water called to him every night.
It had been weeks since the return of Ragnar. The inclusion of a new wife had turned every waking moment into torturous strain. Ragnar’s usual capriciousness made it no easier. One moment he was seeking Lagertha’s forgiveness. In the next he would be sullen, lashing out at whoever was near. Then he would be amorous and loving, trying to coerce either or both of his wives to bed. And when this did not work he would take to his cups, cursing winter under his breath.
He rarely spoke to Athelstan anymore, and then only when necessary.
Lagertha had taken on a fierce coldness. It was if she were a storm in woman form and if you stood too close, the icy wind would take you, as well. She did her duties, was still fair and practical, but she never thawed. She never smiled. Only her son could prompt the slightest warmth and he did his best to show how much that meant to him.
Bjorn took to sparring with another boy, called Eylir, one of the few who’d survived the pestilence. His father and brother did not. He was younger, fair haired like Bjorn, though soft spoken in a way that reminded one more of Gyda. Bjorn gave him as much attention as he could, for the boy had no men left in his family. This kept him from the hall during the day. Athelstan thought this a wise choice, but Ragnar was angry that his son chose to estrange himself. It made the evenings that much more difficult.
For all her part in this, Aslaug seemed to be gracious and kind. Her easy forgiveness of Lagertha’s coldness and Bjorn’s anger was matched by her sternness with Ragnar. She would not allow his touch, nor would she seek his bed until he sought Lagertha’s pardon in earnest. When he would begin to rail and rant at her, and appear as if he sought violence, she would say to him, “Your son, Ragnar.” He would falter and leave, kicking aside obstacles and cursing all women. She sent Athelstan reassuring smiles, patted his hand on occasion, and they felt like both encouragement and apology.
Athelstan thinks he might like her, if he could feel anything at all.
The water always called at night, after supper was cleared and the residents of the all retired. To drink by the fire, as Ragnar did with his men. Or sit in quiet commiseration, in which he found Lagertha and Siggy. Aslaug was chipping away at Bjorn’s anger with stories of her mother and father. And Athelstan was left alone.
It didn’t even occur to him to mind.
There was peace in the water. It offered silence without reproach, acceptance without guilt. He would sit on the moorings, hugging his knees to his chest, and watch the moon dance on its surface. He would wonder what it looked like from beneath. Would he see a shimmering veil, pulled against the world above? Or show him his face, as if looking at a polished stone? He thought it might be black and empty as a night without stars, and that it might be comforting to feel. An unfaltering embrace, left not to whim or wit.
He would stay there until the sounds of life faded, when he could hear the gentle lap against the pilings that sounded like laughter. Even as winter fell upon the village in earnest, he would sit until his hands and feet and face hurt from the cold. Snow came often and it piled on and around him, yet the water’s call held sway. It wiped clear his thoughts and kept his heart empty.
This night was cold but clear and there were more voices at the fire. He thought he heard a laugh that sounded like Bjorn’s, perhaps even a word or two in Lagertha’s voice. They were agreeable instead of distant. It seemed the firelight grew a bit brighter, the air a bit warmer.
Athelstan stayed outside.
He heard steps on the wooden planks. They came close to him and stopped. He did not look away from the water. The other settled beside him and was silent. The minutes stretched and Athelstan was able to find his peace in the water again until the other spoke, jarring him from it
“What do you say to your god?”
It was Floki.
Athelstan found this strange and yet not. “Nothing,” he answered. His voice was soft and hoarse, for it received little use as of late.
“Nothing?”
He watched the moon dance.
“Huh,” Floki muttered. Athelstan heard the man shift, scratch his beard. “Why?”
The question was direct. He answered in kind. “He will not listen.”
Silence came again. The water laughed.
“Do you speak to the Aesir?” Floki asked.
“No.”
“Why?”
There was a spark of irritation in Athelstan’s chest, but it had nothing to catch. It went out. “They don’t want me.”
“Are you sure?” There was some humor in the question.
“His face is not acceptable to Odin. His heart is corrupt.” Athelstan intoned the words of the Seer. They followed him, always.
The water called.
“You speak so little these days, priest.”
They once shared stories. He used to ask for more.
“I have nothing to say.”
“Ah,” Floki said, and even in one word his sadness was clear.
The moon danced and the water laughed.
“Your lips are turning blue.”
Athelstan watched and listened.
“You are still weak from the fever.”
He gave a small shrug. “I was always weak.”
He heard Floki stand and leave a few moments later. Time passed, but it did not seem like much when he heard steps again. A warm, heavy weight fell over his shoulders and startled him. He looked away from the dancing moon.
Floki tucked the fur in between his knees and beneath his chin. Athelstan stared up at him as he fussed.
The man smiled and Athelstan saw understanding in his eyes. He did not speak again, only put a palm to Athelstan’s cheek and walked away.
Beneath the fur, his cloak and his tunics, Athelstan began to shiver.
*****
The next afternoon, a young goat escaped its pen. There was laughter as it was pursued, for it bounded away from all who would reach for it. It nimbly climbed and leapt from roof to roof, bleating joy in its freedom. Until it fell, and the joy turned to squeals of pain. The laughter became mist in the wind.
They stood around it in a circle as Ragnar bent to examine it. “His leg is shattered.”
No one spoke. Ragnar looked at their faces; Bjorn and Eylir, both breathless from the chase, Arne, disappointed in his own failure to stop the beast’s flight, Lagertha and Aslaug and Siggy, all three carrying their distaffs laden with wool. Then he eyes fell on Athelstan
It was the first time Ragnar had really looked at him in months. He knew what the man saw. Pale. Thin. Weak. No beard or braid could ever disguise his otherness and Athelstan often wondered why he’d even bothered. Ragnar blinked slowly, tilted his head. There was no smile, no teasing in his voice. “What should we do with him?”
The goat was on the ground, panting and trembling as his eyes rolled. His leg was bent and foot twisted unnaturally. The poor creature would try to shift its weight and bleat softly, dolefully.
“Kill it.”
He heard the gasp beside him, knew that his blunt, cold answer had shocked Lagertha. It was clear his response surprised Ragnar, too. The man’s brows rose, then furrowed together in consternation. “Are you sure? He might be saved.”
“It would only go back into its pen to be killed later.” Athelstan met Ragnar’s gaze without flinching as he spoke. He waited.
The silence was broken only by the goat’s labored breathing.
Ragnar nodded and pulled out his knife. With quick proficiency, he slit the beast’s throat.
Athelstan watched as the blood pooled beneath its head. The goat’s eyes calmed, its breathing slowed. Soon it was still and silent and only the dark stain sinking into the earth would know it had ever been there. Ragnar stood with its back hooves in one hand. He looked at Athelstan, but Athelstan was staring at the ground, at the life that spilled there. He felt another spark in his chest. Once it would have been pity.
Ragnar stepped up to him and drew his gaze. There was pity, right there in Ragnar’s eyes, along with alarm and a goodly dose of distress. He opened his mouth to speak but Athelstan turned away. As he resumed his work of bundling thatch, he felt that spark in his chest burn out for lack of kindling. He knew it was not pity.
It was envy.
*****
Athelstan took the fur with him to the mooring that night. His hands and feet did not hurt for a long time.
The moon skipped instead of danced, hidden behind fast moving clouds. The water laughed loud and long as the wind quickened. Storm approached, and with it came unrest.
*****
“The closeness makes him quarrelsome. It’s like too many bears in a cave.”
Floki was leaning over to speak quietly, conspiratorially, as if what he said was secret. He wore his wicked grin and his lips were smeared with grease. Athelstan did not answer. He merely went back to his meal. The wind moaned outside, striking the hall’s roof with hard ice.
It was the second day of their confinement.
Ragnar was indeed fractious. His ill-humor spurred baiting, biting words, and no amount of ale would soothe his malice. He had started with Siggy who retreated within moments, casting a dark glance to Ragnar as she left. Rollo accompanied her, snarling a warning. Bjorn, who in his youth was still easy to stir into anger, abandoned them after his father scorned his friendship with Eylir. Lagertha spoke in his defense, and Ragnar laced his speech with venom as he jest about her lack of child birthing ability. She threw her plate in his face, followed by the cup. One of them bloodied his nose.
Laughing, Ragnar wiped his face with his fingers. “I’ve missed your touch, woman. Come and kiss me. We may try again.”
He lunged for her and she swept out of his way. In his haste he upset the table, knocking the rounding form of Aslaug from her seat. He was so laden with drink he did not notice.
Athelstan hurried to her side and she smiled, saying, “I’m alright. It will take more than this to injure me or the babe.”
“I’ll help you to your room,” he said, steadying her while she stood.
She shook her head. “He is in too much pain tonight and will not stop. She will be the only one who can conquer him and if she does not, we will need to before he does harm.”
Ragnar followed Lagertha as she warily backed away. Her expression was furious, her hands twitching as she reached for the axe displayed on the wall. “I will cut you open and piss in your heart, then close you back up to watch you drown in it.”
“You can try, my love,” he sneered, crouching low to the floor.
Floki came to Athelstan and took his arm. “Out of the way, just in case,” he said, and tugged both of them to the corner.
Lagertha’s rage now unbound, she swung the axe straight for Ragnar’s smiling face. He was fast despite his addled state, rolling forward to allow the weapon to strike only air. He came up on his knees and took her around her waist. He was laughing until she jabbed the handle into his skull and kneed him in the chest hard enough to knock him over. Ragnar was flat on his back, laughing again, when she straddled him with the axe held high.
She did not lower it.
“I await your kiss,” Ragnar said, breathlessly.
With that she threw the axe away and hit him, hard, across his face. She struck again and again, her curses and his grunts mixing with the sounds of fist on flesh and labored breath. Floki giggled behind his hand and Aslaug smiled. “It is not a tender approach, but I think it may work,” she whispered.
“She’ll kill him,” Floki answered, not as softly, unable to contain his glee.
Athelstan said nothing, just watched Lagertha bloody her husband…and Ragnar let her, lying with his arms wide-spread.
Lagertha tired and rested back on her heels. Her face was wet with tears, but calm. Sad. Her hands rested limply on her thighs. “You are,” she said when she’d caught her breath “a terrible husband.”
Ragnar turned his head to spit blood onto the floor. Then his mangled lips broke into a smile. “I know.”
He took her hands in his and brought them both up to kiss. He licked them, blew softly across the abraded flesh. “You are a brilliant wife. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
Aslaug sighed. Floki was disappointed. “I want to watch her hit him some more.”
“It’s only a start,” she said, laughing softly. “He still has far to go.”
“And knowing him he could ruin all and have to start over on the morrow.”
Aslaug chuckled. “There is that. You may have the chance to see more.”
Athelstan wandered away from them. He went to the door, pressed his ear against it. The call was louder still than the wind. Louder than ever before. His hand was on the bar, ready to lift.
“Not tonight.” Fingers covered his, grasping and pulling him away.
*****
There was more shouting in the morning. Over breakfast. Bjorn had one glimpse of the marks on his parents and lit like a flame to oil. “You always do this! You treat each other as the enemy until it is time to fuck! What is wrong with you?”
Lagertha’s eyes flashed. “Mind your tongue in the hall, Bjorn.”
“Why should I? I am the only one who speaks the truth to your faces!”
Ragnar stood and so did Bjorn. Though his father still loomed large, Bjorn was growing by the day, and he did not back down. “You will not speak to your mother that way.”
“What do you care? You disrespect her with your every move and word. I could call her a pig all day and it would never equal what you’ve done,” Bjorn spat. He pushed his father from him.
“You speak of things you do not understand. We will hear no more of it at this table!” Lagertha was on her feet now, and if the fire in her eyes had not been so cowing, it would have been a relief to see after so much cold.
Ragnar went back to his seat. Lagertha took hers. Bjorn stood, still, and stared at them both. “You don’t see it. You don’t see what you’ve done. You’ve broken us, father, and like toys you only wish to throw us away to get new ones.”
“We’re not discussing this, here, boy,” Ragnar snarled over his grains.
“Everyone else can see. Even Athelstan.”
Athelstan raised his head at the call of his name. He found Ragnar’s eyes on him and stared back.
“Tell me then, priest, what do you see?” the man asked, softly.
If Ragnar had asked this a year ago, there would have been depth to what Athelstan saw. Life blooming behind this family as they walked. The sun’s rays gilding all they touched. On this day, there was no light. No life. Only grey winter.
“I see a man eating his breakfast,” Athelstan answered, expressionless.
“Is that all?”
Looking closer, studying Ragnar’s face, Athelstan remembered warm smiles and curious eyes. He remembered seeing love and open affection, anger and forgiveness. He could remember feeling those things in return, once. Now when he looked at Ragnar, there was only emptiness.
“Yes,” he whispered. “That’s all.”
Bjorn leaned over the table, looking angrily into his father’s face. “See? You’ve broken him, too.”
*****
The storm relented midday, at least enough for Athelstan to leave the hall for short, freezing walks. It was a struggle to get through the snow that amassed, reaching his knees in some places, but it was worth the trouble. He made his first escape to the woodpile and stood staring out at the harbor for several moments before he gathered an armful to take back inside. The world was all white and so silent; not even the water was laughing.
On his second break for peace, he had to force the kitchen door open. The family was at it again, Bjorn’s voice carrying, bouncing off of the walls and careening around him like a bell. It was about Gyda and Athelstan could hardly stand to hear her name. It rubbed him raw, scratching the surface of wounds not healed but for the barest crust. If that protection were to slough away he would bleed and bleed, and there would be no healing this time.
So he pushed and strained at the door, forcing it open against the drifts. During the summer it was the start of the path to the refuse pile. He followed it by the memory of trees, for the tread was awash in unbroken crystalline white. The place was close enough to walk to but remote enough to distance the insects and beasts from the house. Even so far away, those warm months would imbue the place with the scent of decay. Summer called all manner of creatures to the pile; wolf and fox, deer and rabbit. He had seen each more than once. In the bitter cold, with mounds of snow and ice built atop the waste, it was clean and fresh. There was no movement or sound for there was no life in the ice.
Athelstan thought of the quiet forest and the clean smell, and wondered if the hum of life would always bring a carrion stench.
His hands began to hurt and shoving them under his arms did little to help. He he’d left without a cloak. He’d been in such a hurry to escape the shouting he’d not thought of the need. It was foolish in deep winter, could cost him fingers or toes if he did not hurry back. Yet he lingered, for the thought of returning to the stale, angry air of the hall nearly sickened him.
There was a soft crunch to his right, a foot breaking the crust atop the snow. It would not be uncommon for a lone, hungry wolf to find its way to the pile. If it found him, too, and if it were hungry enough… He was rational in his mind, thinking very calmly that though the lure of death was strong, he did not relish being eaten alive. He scanned the forest floor for the gleam of grey fur and sharp teeth.
It was a man he found, instead. The moss colored cloak was as stark a difference in the snow as a white flower in green summer. It draped long and heavy over a tall, slender frame. The hood was pushed back enough to identify its wearer. His face was clean of paint, serene and open, unguarded in a way Athelstan had never seen. “Priest?” Floki called, surprised.
Teeth chattering too much to answer, Athelstan just waited as he came closer.
“You absolute fool! What were you thinking to come out here without at least two cloaks? Even an idiot Englishman should know better.” Floki unwrapped himself and there was a great many layers beneath the heavy wool. He shoved aside another cloak, then untied a belt to open a heavy robe lined with fur. His long arm encircled Athelstan’s shoulders and pulled him in close.
The robe, both cloaks, and Floki’s arms were wrapped around him. His forehead was pressed to the man’s jaw, his elbows tucked snuggly against Floki’s ribs. The heat there burned him he was so cold, but it soon mellowed. It was pleasant in a way he’d long forgotten. To be held for the sake of warmth with hands rubbing briskly over his back…it was tender and precious and entirely too much.
He pushed at Floki’s chest. “Let go,” he said quietly.
Floki held on. “Not yet.”
“Please.” He struggled but the man’s arms tightened. There were soothing noises in his ear but he did not quiet. Sudden, unexpected shame reddened his cheeks and brought tears to his eyes. He’d thought it carved from his heart along with everything else. “Please, Floki…I can’t…” he whined, sounding like a child.
“Can’t what? Let me warm you so that your fingers don’t fall off?” Floki asked, gentle humor in his voice.
Athelstan stopped fighting. He rested his forehead on Floki’s shoulder and took deep breaths as his fingers clutched the man’s tunics.
“That’s good. Be still now. Be quiet.”
They stood together for a while, with Floki’s stroking hands on his back and soft, wordless murmurs in his ear. His struggle turned inward and he wrestled now a swell of feeling, emotions long held at bay by his empty soul. It would undo him, this first sign of regard towards him since the plague swept the village. He would be unable to face the day, to see the accusation in their eyes and feel it reflected in his heart, if the chasm were to fill.
“What do you fight against, Athelstan?”
Floki’s question startled him. He jumped. “Fight?”
“You tremble, even under a warm cloak. I can feel you tense and ready as if for battle or flight,” Floki answered. “What threatens you that you stand against so fiercely? Why do you seek solace at the bottom of the harbor?”
To hear it put in words made it real. He shoved, as hard as he could, and set Floki from him. The man only went an arm’s length, for Athelstan’s fingers still clutched his tunic.
Troubled eyes met his. “What plagues you so that you would take the coward’s way?”
“I am a coward!” Athelstan shouted. He shook Floki once and let him go, stumbling back to fall against a tree. “I am weak! Have I not confessed it?”
Floki stared at him and did not speak.
The silence prompted anger, a blaze so quick and high, he felt his heart race with it. “I should be dead! I was supposed to die! I should have died thrice over and yet I am somehow still here!”
“Do you not think it the will of the gods?” Floki asked, moving quickly to his side. He put firm hands on his shoulders and widened his stance, not to be thrown off again.
Athelstan laughed, a cracked, broken sound. “Which gods? Mine or yours? Neither will have me. I’ve been cast upon the wind with no promise of Heaven or Hell in either realm. The water calls and I listen, because it offers me peace. It would give me a blanket to cover myself with and they would no longer have to see me. There would be no more reminder that it should have been me!”
“No, Athelstan, you mustn’t…”
“I see the faces everywhere I look, living and dead. I hear them whispering. Cursed. I have brought down the wrath of the gods and every day I live is another to face calamity. If Ragnar had killed me, if he had left me to Haraldson, would not Leif still be alive? If I had been worthy of sacrifice, the plague would not have come. Gyda…and Thyri…”
His voice wavered. His vision blurred.
Floki pulled him close once more, holding tight against any struggle. “Do you truly believe this?”
“How can I not? I am neither seen nor heard, and I am never touched. It is as if I am a ghost. If I am, then I am already dead and what does it matter that I hear the water call me?”
“You are not a ghost,” Floki told him, fiercely. His hold fortified, stealing breath as it creaked bones. “Could I hold a shade like this? Would he feel the heat beneath my clothes and the strength in my arms?”
“I don’t blame them,” Athelstan continued, speaking into Floki’s shoulder. “How could I? Their pain is so great, and my presence a reminder.”
There was a hand on his head, stroking his hair.
“I can’t stay in this…purgatory, waiting for release to a hereafter that has forever banished me.”
“You’re not a coward, Athelstan,” Floki said, smoothing curls run rampant since his illness. “Or a ghost.”
With a shudder of surrender, Athelstan sank into his embrace, taking the comfort of a friend.
“You are not a ghost.”
*****
As evening settled, the household did, also. Lagertha sat at Aslaug’s feet, having her hair combed and braided. Siggy sat with them, laughing softly when Aslaug would tear through a snarl and cause Lagertha to make a face. Bjorn was staring into the fire, fingers toying idly with his arm band. He was calm and quiet, having finally given air to his anger. Arne and Rollo were throwing a game of bones, while Floki playfully criticized their skills.
Ragnar was leaning back in his chair, feet hooked beneath the table to keep from falling. His eyes were thoughtful as he watched his family, falling on each face in turn. When they came to Athelstan, who sat in dark corner with his cup, he lowered himself to the floor. “Priest,” he called, and waved a hand to draw him near.
Floki caught his gaze and smiled as he passed.
When Athelstan stood beside him, Ragnar tugged on his arm to put him between his feet. “Sit. I see your hair needs tending, too.”
Athelstan looked at the space there, then back at Ragnar’s face.
“Sit,” Ragnar said, taking his waist and pushing him down.
He did, facing away and hunched forward. He heard Ragnar’s impatient sigh, felt hands take his shoulders and pull until they were snug against the insides of Ragnar’s thighs. They tilted his head left, then right, then forward, until Athelstan realized he was playing and dug an elbow into his calf. He twitched out of the hold and glanced over his shoulder.
Ragnar was smiling, his eyes bright in the fire’s glow.
Athelstan felt an uncomfortable hitch in his chest and turned away again. The hands returned, sinking into his hair to seek out and dismantle every snarl. They were gentle, barely tugging as he worked. After a while, Athelstan relaxed and let his weight settle on Ragnar’s legs. His neck was loose, head bending whichever way it was pulled. He pulled his knees to his chest and closed his eyes, and tried not to drown in the sensation.
He must have dozed. He opened his eyes to find himself looking up into Ragnar’s face. The man’s fingers were still in his hair, brushing it back from his cheeks and forehead. Neither spoke nor moved, until a chair scuffed across the room.
Raising his head, blinking for a moment as the world righted itself, he saw Floki stretching by the fire. The man have him a wicked grin and said, “Not a ghost. Let yourself feel again, Athelstan.” Then he took himself to bed.
The great room was empty now, save he and Ragnar.
“What did he mean?” Ragnar asked, his fingers working now at Athelstan’s neck.
Athelstan arched into the touch, unable to stop himself. “Do you try to fathom everything Floki says?”
There was a soft chuckle. “When it seems important.”
He let Ragnar work at his shoulders, content to bask in the attention so long denied him. When the other pulled his head back again, he kept his eyes closed and let it fall. Thumbs soothed up his cheeks, stroked over his eyelids, then trailed back down to his mouth.
“You haven’t been taking care of yourself, priest.”
His eyes opened. “No,” he whispered, caught in Ragnar’s gaze.
The thumbs followed the line of his jaw, stopping at his chin. “Where did your braid go?”
Athelstan lifted his head before he answered. “I cut it off, tied it. I keep it in a bag, with a piece of Gyda’s hair. It’s all I have of her. I miss her.”
He felt Ragnar move, then breathe hot against his hair. “I miss her, too.”
“I thought…”he began, but choked on his words. Ragnar stroked his throat and waited. “I thought you would blame me.”
“Blame you?”
“For their deaths. For Gyda.”
“Athelstan,” Ragnar sighed.
“At Uppsala, if I had been accepted as sacrifice…” His breathing quickened, the tide of his newly loosed emotions sweeping into the chasm.
“No, Athelstan.”
“…she would still live. And Leif, Leif would be…”
Ragnar slid off of the chair to kneel beside him. “Athelstan.”
“If I had died…”
“But you did not!” Ragnar gripped his arms and turned him. He looked into Athelstan’s eyes, gave huff of laughter. “Not a ghost…I see now.”
“You didn’t. You didn’t see me.”
“I always see you,” Ragnar whispered, leaning close.
Athelstan brought up his hands to push him away but Ragnar’s grip on his arms was too tight. “You wouldn’t talk to me, after Uppsala. And now, only now do you touch me.”
“You will have to remind me, Athelstan,” Ragnar said, grinning wickedly “how you want me to touch you.”
Athelstan pulled him down by his tunic and pressed his mouth against that grin. Ragnar’s hands moved to hold his head, tilting it back so that he could taste more, delve deeper. Athelstan was overwhelmed, his senses reeling as he was pushed onto his back. When Ragnar’s weight settled on him, between his thighs, he twisted his mouth away.
“Everywhere, please,” he moaned, arching his back so that he could be stripped of both his tunics at once. “Touch me everywhere.”
Ragnar’s hands moved over his chest, lowered to untie the laces of his trousers. “I will.”
There should have been a couch, or a bed, but they made do. After what felt like hours of touching and days of kissing that left him panting and begging, Ragnar pulled him to his knees.
“Sit here, on my legs.”
Athelstan straddled his thighs and held his shoulders.
“Go as slow as you need,” Ragnar said into his mouth as he positioned his cock.
Athelstan stopped as soon as it pushed through, holding his breath. Ragnar kissed him until he exhaled, until he could move again and groaned when Athelstan slid down a full inch. His fingers were digging into the man’s shoulders but Ragnar said nothing of this. Instead he watched Athelstan’s face, saw eyes widen and jaw drop as their flesh became one.
By the time his bottom came to rest neatly upon Ragnar’s thighs, Athelstan was sweating, trembling from the exertion. And hungry, so hungry for more of what he felt. When Ragnar’s arm, wrapped snug around his waist, urged him to lift, he followed. It burned and he moaned, low and deep. It startled him the hear it, to voice all of the want and need he’d carried with him for so long. He heeded the next silent command to lower and threw his head back with a shout.
Ragnar voiced his own pleasure. “Oh. Oh, yes, like that. Take your time. You will know what to do,” he whispered into Athelstan’s throat.
His body, Athelstan would think later, was cleverer than his heart. It had been starving for this and it fed in rhythm and song. The pace and angle shifted to find the sweetest morsel within, giving him cause to cry out as he was filled. His hips were fluid as a snake’s, rocking forward as he came down. His own cock brushed against Ragnar’s stomach. He laced his fingers together behind Ragnar’s neck and leaned back, forgoing the pleasure of that touch to keep the pressure sliding over the thing inside him. The place that set his every nerve alight.
When Ragnar took his cock in one fist he arched violently and nearly toppled them. He heard Ragnar laugh, a breathless, happy sound, and raised his head from where it had lolled back on his shoulders. Ragnar was grinning, biting his lip through it, provocative and predatory and thrilling. The motion of his hips sent him up into Ragnar’s palm then back down onto the man’s prick and both brought forth such music from his lips he was sure the angels in Heaven could hear him.
His hands were sweating and they slipped, sending his shoulders to the floor. Ragnar held him up by his waist and thrust. Athelstan felt his eyes roll back. “God…Ragnar…please…”
Ragnar did it again with another gasping chuckle. “I answer all prayers,” the man had the temerity to say after Athelstan had stopped calling his name.
Groaning, Athelstan hoped he would remember to take him to task later. For now he propped himself up on his elbows and looked Ragnar in the eye. “Finish it, please,” he begged, weak from the pleasure and unsure how. “I don’t…I can’t…”
It was enough. Ragnar rose up on his knees, taking the lower half of Athelstan with him. He was bruising, punishing in his pace, but Athelstan took it all. Elbows sore, he dropped back down, heedless of the angle on his neck. His hands sought and found Ragnar’s legs and he held on as the heat built into a blaze and the blaze swept through him like lightning.
Then he was wet all over, patched in hot stickiness and limp as a dolly. Ragnar’s hold switched to his hips and the final thrusts were so hard that his shoulders slid back and forth across the floor. The man’s eyes closed. His teeth bared in a grimace. When his head fell back and a deep growl of satisfaction passed his lips, Athelstan breathed his name.
Still strong despite release, Ragnar pulled him up with the arm around his waist. He went, loose and pliant, opening his mouth for Ragnar’s tongue with a sigh. They kissed until he had strength enough of his own to wrap his arms around the man’s shoulders.
“Remind me often, Athelstan,” Ragnar said, in between licking his neck and biting his shoulder.
His fingers closed on the braid at the back of Ragnar’s head. He yanked hard, pulling the man’s mouth from his skin. Their eyes met and Athelstan said, “You’ll never forget again.”
*****
The morning came and found the two of them pressed close in Athelstan’s bed.
No one said anything, but there were knowing looks and secret smiles between them.
Athelstan said nothing, either, and found his own shy grin returned when Ragnar looked his way.
*****
There was still much to do, for their wounds were deep and would need long days of healing.
But he wasn’t a ghost.
And he wasn’t a coward.
And he would feel every day until they ended.