Ｒａｇｎａｒ Ｌｏｔｈｂｒｏｋ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ex_unstabled499) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
binomial2014-04-29 02:46 am
ex_unstabled499) wrote in binomial2014-04-29 02:46 am
Entry tags:
and now i just sit in silence
▸ post your character ◂
▸ add a picture/lyric/song/or write a starter prompt ◂
no subject
afterlife au???
i'm so sorry about this
Even the blessed fall like any other man, Ragnar finds, though he feels his time was not yet up. Did he acquire knowledge? Of course he did. There could be books and books, libraries dedicated to the amount of things he learned in his time, of how things had changed under his role in history. And yet, he dies young. He dies hungry, he dies cold, he dies without honor.
He dies next to Athelstan.
Or Athelstan's corpse, really, still hung upon the cross he was crucified on yet again, this time with final punishment. Ragnar had watched him die, watched him suffer, from the barred window in his cell while he awaited his similar death. Please, Ragnar, he'd called out, from chapped and bruised lips, a strangled voice contorted into something inhuman, not like Ragnar's soft and warm priest. Ragnar, save me.
The crows nipped his flesh before he'd even expired, sucked blood from his veins in a mockery. Ravens stood as if an idle passerby, turning their heads in disgust and shame.
Is this what you wanted, Father? Ragnar asks to Odin. Have I pleased you in this life?
Athelstan's corpse remains on the cross for two days - the second day when Ragnar is stood beside it, a rotten and dead thing, with a pungent stench like a slap in the face. A reminder of Ragnar's failure, of how he could save the world but he couldn't save him, the one who mattered most. The maggots are there when Ragnar is, squirming, invading his little priest as little conquers do, raiding his body and falling to the wooden platform beside Ragnar, sluggishly sliding to his direction.
Soon, he thinks you'll have something else to feast on. Yes, come to me, leave the priest.
Ragnar stares to the corpse of his once friend, of the one he couldn't save, and to the fat, laughing face of the king, and then to his executioner. But it's not him - instead it's Athelstan's face, it's his happy smile, it's his words saying die, viking scum, die you pathetic man.
Athelstan is in the audience, too. He's watching, blank eyes, deep scars, bare chest and crowns of thorns. He comes from the left, too, in his monk clothes and shaved head - and then again to the right, in a ponytail and dark clothes, cross wrapped around his neck.
None of the apparitions wear Ragnar's band, and he pretends not to notice.
"Forgive me, Athelstan."
That gets said out loud.
Being hung takes some time to kill him, but it is inevitable after hours of hanging in the hot sun, waiting for death and whispering soft and gentle words to the ghosts of Athelstan that come up to stare - not smile nor sneer, but stare, unwavering and neutral.
But death comes and Odin says welcome, my son and Ragnar says where's Athelstan?
Because yes, Athelstan had to be here, there was no doubt. Viking or Christian was hardly important - he was a warrior and had proven himself as such, and deserved a place among other warriors. The other men like him, who died well despite pain or fear or other variables - Athelstan deserves to drink with the gods and rejoice in everlasting happiness.
But no, Odin tells him. Athelstan has gone to Hell.
Hell, which Ragnar has heard plenty about from Athelstan himself - about cruelties unknown, of both heat and chill and impossible pain forevermore. Athelstan had been afraid, terrified of the possibility of the unknown and of what is known - and Ragnar decides.
That is no place for his Athelstan.
So he leaves Valhalla, marches up to Hell's front gates and steals Athelstan back. He breaks every rule in the book in taking him back to Valhalla, but Ragnar barely gives a shit - he went to Hell for Athelstan, but he'd go further if it was asked of him. This is nothing. He doesn't give a shit if he gets kicked out of Valhalla - or if the gods scorn and hate him. He doesn't care where he ends up, so long as Athelstan is beside him.
As it is, Athelstan is resting on Ragnar's adorned bed - carved from inconceivable riches and talent unknown - rich golds and silvers and intricate designs. But Ragnar cares little for that - he waits patiently, sat beside Athelstan, one hand holding tightly to his. He waits for hours, for days probably. But he doesn't move. He just waits. ]
WOW WOW HOW DARE YOU
Even as the footsoldiers are struck down at their feet and the stone runs red with blood, Athelstan only feels pity for them and faith in... in Ragnar, if not any of the Gods in the sky. Ragnar will save them, Ragnar will get them out of this. His gaze tells him that much, meeting Ragnar's eyes with nothing but trust as they're lead to the great hall to be presented to the fat king.
Someone kicks the back of his knees and he falls, barely catching himself on his hands. Aella looks at them, disdain coloring his face, and says to them, so this is Ecbert's Apostate. Something close to fear curls around his heart there, but Athelstan says nothing, merely looks back toward Ragnar, trusting him- there has to be a plan somewhere, an orchestrated escape, there has to be someone waiting to save them. And then Aella looks over the two of them, his beady eyes merciless and full of a sickening pleasure. He looks at Athelstan's face, his bowed shoulders, his scarred hands.
Crucify him.
Ragnar will leap into action, won't he? Ragnar will pull a hidden weapon and fight all of the dozens of men keeping them captive, Ragnar won't let them- Athelstan kicks and bites and screams as strong hands wrap around his shoulders and drag him back over the stone floor, kicking and pulling at clothing until someone finally knocks him unconscious with the hilt of their sword.
The last thing he sees is Ragnar, restrained by no fewer than eight soldiers on the other end of the hall. Meeting his eyes before the world goes dark and he's dragged from the room with Aella's damning laugh echoing in his ears.
They don't let him stay unconscious, of course. That would be too easy.
When the world rights itself again, the rope is tying his wrists tight to the edges of the cross, and Athelstan spits blood as one of the soldiers strikes him in the stomach, kicks him bruised and bloody. He almost chokes on it. It tastes metallic and sick.
The press of metal against his palm is horrifyingly familiar, and Athelstan screams, trying to wrench his arm away, begging them, begging anyone who will listen- until the nail is driven through his palm once more and then all he can do is scream. His other palm next, and then his feet, and all Athelstan can do is just yell and scream, the pain too much for him to even be able to process words. The cross is lifted, planted in the ground, and he hangs by his bloodied limbs as the thorns drip blood into his eyes. He hangs there and bleeds and they leave him for a time.
He can barely comprehend anything but the pain, and there's still the mortal wound- Athelstan hates himself for looking forward to being impaled, to an end to this. He tries to beg Ragnar to save him, lips moving, his voice high pitched and inhuman as he pleads with Ragnar, but Ragnar isn't here. He was supposed to have a plan. Athelstan trusted him to have a plan, but he isn't here.
When they finally shove a spear in his side, it doesn't kill him, not right away. His lung pools with blood first and he chokes on it, Ragnar, please, he chokes on his blood, and save me, he can't lift himself up to breathe anymore, not when blood is bubbling up his throat. He can feel the sharp sting of the ravens on him, can't muster the strength to fight them off.
Forgive-
Crucifixion can end in two ways: blood loss if God is kind, and suffocation if He is not. Here in the courtyard, before the window of the cell that Athelstan doesn't know Ragnar is in, God is not kind. Here, he sputters on his own blood and forces himself up by the strength of his arms, the nails in his hands, and takes a breath. Another breath. It seems to stretch on for an eternity, but when it's finally over, there is no bliss in death.
Nobody is there to see him die.
If God granted him one mercy, it's that of unconsciousness before his suffering, before his separation from Him. When his soul births his new body in the separation, it's untouched for now, unmarred by the horrors he'd just experienced.
And so it goes. His soul gives into despair in the time that follows- weeks, months, years, he knows not. It's only punctured by blissful silence, unconsciousness, death again and again.
When he wakes this time, he is not cold for the first moment in ages- he is not in pain, does not feel an icy fire consuming him. It's unnatural enough to make him open his eyes, feel the warm, calloused fingers of Ragnar pressed against his own. If this is Hell- and it has to be, how could he have left?- then Ragnar is just a cruel apparition beside him, another construct of the devil himself.
Still. He can't help the way that his heart surges at the sight of him, his eyes widening, the sudden movement as he weakly extends his other arm and reaches for Ragnar like he's all he could ever want to hold again.]
Ragnar?
YOU PROMPTED IT
He cares for nothing, except the little priest on his bed.
He passes the time by uttering broken prayers of the Christian faith on his tongue - remembering the words Athelstan used to speak, the Our Father and the Hail Mary. He can't remember all the words, and he feels a traitor for muttering them in the palace of his own father - but he knows Athelstan would appreciate it, maybe, even still. He forgets the words but he ends it with "amen" every time.
It's silly, he thinks, to say a prayer from a religion he does not believe in - but he knows Athelstan had been in a situation similar to it before, and it doesn't seem that silly. It seems... sad. He could have killed the priest the second he'd landed Lindisfarne, saved him from the troubled heart he had in this life - and apparently the next. Would it have been more merciful to kill the innocent priest he'd known, than to watch the crucifixion of a mighty viking? Ragnar does not know.
And for the first time, he feels as though the knowledge he had acquired fell short of the task.
And yet, Athelstan stirs. Ragnar stands up at the sign of movement, leaning in to let Athelstan's hand touch him, letting his own hand grip Athelstan's painfully tight. His face is set hard - if he weren't so in control of his emotions, Ragnar is sure he would be crying like a babe, begging forgiveness. He'd watched every hour of Athelstan's death - every excruciating second - in a hope that his priest would ride on the wings of valkyries and make his own way to Valhalla - now seeing him like this, all right and without scar, makes Ragnar's heart warm and break at the same time. ]
So it is. [ He nods once, threading their fingers together once he gains enough sense to loosen his hold. ] Welcome to Valhalla, Athelstan.
I REGRET EVERYTHING
He simply watches for a few moments as the flurry of emotions whip through Ragnar's eyes, still processing everything, trying to figure out what's going on, how the devil could tempt him with Ragnar's image, where he could be-
Valhalla.
The very word makes his eyes flicker open wide, and Athelstan turns his head suddenly to look at the room around them- ornate and gold and bathed in light. This could not be Valhalla, could it? Not when he had spent the last of eternity lying in proof of his own faith and the ramifications of his lack of it. To think that both places could coexist at once... he's not sure if he can believe it, even now. He's not sure if this will all be pulled away from him like a veil, some cruel joke to offer him a chance at happiness and then to snatch it away and leave him without once more.
Slowly, he turns his head to look at Ragnar, hand tightening on the other man's own- holding tight, as if trying to prevent this dream from escaping him.]
I... you- [He breathes in shakily, shifting closer to look to Ragnar, the tattoos on his head, the bright blues of his eyes. How can it be anything but him?] -how? How am I here?
no you don't
He kisses him, them. Not showy or with talent, just a press of their lips together - Ragnar's who are fat and warm, bitten nearly raw with hard anticipation of a moment he wasn't sure would ever come. But it's here now, Athelstan's awakening, and he acts without any thought, only on the sheer whim of what his heart finds its longing for.
It longs for Athelstan.
But Ragnar quickly finds error in his ways, pulling completely back and standing, pacing the room while his fingers run nervously across the sides of his head. Nervous, thinking, persistence. If nothing, he can always rely on himself to do exactly what should not be done, at any given moment. He clucks his tongue before speaking, rolling his head back and cracking his neck. ]
You should not ask questions. [ It's not that he shouldn't, it's that he wouldn't be pleased with the honest answer - so Ragnar negates it, pretends ignorance, because that's easier than the truth. ] You are here, in Valhalla, in the room of knelt man who begs forgiveness.
okay i don't at all
He stares silently toward the other man as he paces across the room, not quite understanding what he's doing or why. Even when Ragnar chastises him for questioning, Athelstan can't feel much more than confusion, curiosity. You are here in Valhalla.
After a moment, Athelstan finds Ragnar's eyes again, not quite understanding the implication- begging forgiveness? What could Ragnar possibly want forgiveness for? The former monk straightens slightly in the bed and reaches a hand for him again, silently asking for him to stop pacing, to come over to him.]
There is nothing to forgive, [he finally murmurs, tucking his legs under him.] You did nothing wrong.
good c:
It is a tender touch, even despite Ragnar the man being a hard individual. He's more than capable of love and sweetness - even though his fingers are worked to the bone with callouses and rough patches of skin, he still holds Athelstan as gently as he can. Not because the man is delicate or breakable, not because Ragnar thinks he might spook him, but because Ragnar loves him and treats him in such a way. ]
I did everything wrong, Athelstan.
[ He strokes his fingers, strongly debating kissing him again, before taking a seat in the expanse of bed next to him. He curls Athelstan's hand up, kisses his knuckles, before pressing the pale flesh against a bearded cheek, leaning desperately into the forced touch. ]
But you are safe now, and I can rest. That is all that matters.
no subject
The feel of the other man's chest relaxes him, as if for a second he had entertained the notion that Ragnar really would deny him this, and Athelstan melts in relief when the other man finally moves to sit beside him, lifting his hand and- oh.]
Ragnar... [It's soft, and his thumb gently strokes against the edge of Ragnar's beard, fingers curling slightly against his face. He's thinking of that kiss, of the desperation that it brought, how close Ragnar is now and what he must have done to keep Athelstan in a place like this. In Valhalla.]
I don't know how long I have been here- how many weeks or years it's been since I saw you last. It feels like yesterday, it feels like a lifetime ago. [He looks down for a moment, collecting his thoughts.] But- but I am glad for it. If you wish to rest, I would stay here and watch over you, if you would allow it.
no subject
But there is still proof - in knowledge, and in the shame Ragnar feels. He should not be here, in Valhalla. He died with no one watching, he died without receiving a proper funeral. He died frowning because his best friend and greatest love was rotting beside him, neglected of a hero's funeral, as he deserved.
Ragnar does not deserve to be here. But Athelstan does. ]
I do not deserve your gaze. [ The muscles of his mouth twitch in a self-deprecating smile for a moment before fading, replaced with a frown instead. ] If you do not want to be here, I will take you wherever you would like to go. I will find your God and beg him for mercy, if you wanted your... heaven. I would do all this, because you are a loyal friend, and I have let you down.
no subject
Could Ragnar feel such shame? That he would offer such a thing, that he would expect Athelstan to loathe him. His heart skips at the notion, still burning from the touch, and instead of responding, Athelstan leans forward to kiss him again.
It's softer than Ragnar's had been, tentative and chaste. He doesn't know if this is allowed, if this is considered a sin in Valhalla, but if it is, then Ragnar has sinned first. So he kisses him, using his hand on Ragnar's face as an anchor, grounding them both as his other hand slides to the nape of the viking's neck, curling soft fingers around it and holding him there.
When the kiss is finally broken- and it feels like forever that he's stayed there, and that's a good thing- Athelstan swallows hard, trying not to feel doubt, regret, or unease with what he's just done. Instead, he simply leans forward, pressing their foreheads lightly together and looking to Ragnar- blue against blue, his jaw set tight.]
I will stay where you are. [And then a pause, and he falters somewhat. This is not his Heaven, this is Ragnar's Valhalla, and he should be able to shape his paradise as he sees fit.] -if you allow it.
no subject
But his hands are warm and inviting, one at Athelstan's side and the other resting on his hip. The close proximity doesn't bother him - not because he's used to it from his vikings brothers, but because it's Athelstan, and if Ragnar is permitted to nuzzle his nose and touch his forehead, then that's exactly what he will do. ]
You are free man, friend.
[ His eyes slip shut, and he leans halfway in as if to kiss Athelstan again - and yet stops himself, hovering before his mouth, breathing the air from Athelstan's lungs. It tastes of him, intoxicating and forbidden, but Ragnar's never been too fond of following the rules. He brings a hand up to curl beneath Athelstan's jaw, feeling the feather smoothness of his beard. ]
The choice to stay by me or wander to other places is yours to make. Not mine.
[ He pauses and leans in again with intent this time to kiss - but Ragnar stops himself, but again, shaking his head. Then, almost in an afterthought: ]
... But I would ask you to stay.
no subject
This isn't his place, he doesn't belong here, and he should allow Ragnar whatever freedom the other man once- even the freedom to be alone, should he wish it. And Athelstan is not stupid, he can see the guilt etched across the other man's face, can read the hesitation for what it is, and part of it breaks his own heart. He doesn't know how much of his death Ragnar had been privy to, doesn't know that Ragnar had seen each excruciating second of his crucifixion, heard his screams and cries for help, and if he did then he would not only understand the guilt, but also share it, for making Ragnar feel such a way.
Still, the words, however hushed, makes his spirit soar, and Athelstan tries to maintain the serious calm of the situation, to prevent himself from flying into a relieved laughter and a warm kiss. He steels himself, remembering the solemnness that Ragnar is feeling right now, and tries to emulate it.
If Athelstan can't help the slightest quirk of his lip into a smile, then- well, nobody could blame him, right?]
Then I will stay. [It's warm, earnest, and Athelstan leans his cheek into Ragnar's touch, wanting Ragnar to be the one to decide to kiss him again, should he want to.
Still, when he speaks again, his voice is soft- only audible because Ragnar is inches away from him.]
...for I cannot imagine a Heaven without my dearest friend beside me.
no subject
Because what does he have left? He has no life to offer, no dreams or aspirations that reach further than joining the Einherjar and fighting until Ragnarök is at bay. Even that feels insignificant. All he really has, all he really wants is the warm little viking beneath his fingers, the feather softness of his brushing lips. Ragnar has never wanted simple things, but now he feels as though he could be content to kiss Athelstan for the next eternity, without needing breath.
He still breaks the kiss, even with that thought, pulling back far enough to press a lingering one on Athelstan's forehead. A hand clenches the fabric at his side, again and again, the other holding steady at the side of Athelstan's next. ]
Then stay.
[ Words of affection are not necessarily the easiest -- he knows love better than most, even despite cruel viking natures, but his love is violent in nature, not like what he wishes to give Athelstan. He just holds him for what it's worth, gently as can be, fingers brushing through the ends of his long hair every so often. ]
There is no Heaven if you are not there with me. No Heaven or Valhalla. That is the truth.
no subject
Just breaking the kiss is enough to make him tremble, and he looks up at Ragnar questioningly before he can feel the other man's lips press warm against his forehead. It seems to radiate a soft heat that he can feel from the edge of his skull to the very tips of his toes, and he leans just barely into it, letting Ragnar do as he sees fit.
Stay.
In the end, it's not a matter of choosing one god over another and it's not a matter of deciding between governing religions that he's had most of his life. It's realizing, deep in his core, that he cannot exist in a place where Ragnar just isn't. It's knowing once and for all that Ragnar is his heaven, not any sort of marble halls or ivory-wrought gates.
He feels his heart give into the knowledge like it had been taken by the undertow, and Athelstan nods weakly in Ragnar's grip, his fingers flexing against the fabric at Ragnar's side.]
...will Odin allow it?
look a happy one
predictably tags the happy first
The eye of Odin helps him keep an open mind, Ragnar guesses. Craving Athelstan's touch, the soft pads of his fingertips, the feathery lightness of his lips - all a struggle for knowledge. It must be.
Ragnar also has a way of getting what he wants, for the gods bless him frequently enough. And they must want him to know Athelstan's touch, or they would not have giving him a priest with such gentle hands, nor given Ragnar an inability to keep them from his mind for too long. An opportunity presents itself when Ragnar helps Athelstan train for battle - each with an ax, a shield, a fighting spirit.
Athelstan slips and cuts his hand - and Ragnar is quick to his side, inspecting the wound the utmost care. Unusual for a viking. ]
A pity, priest. [ Ragnar says, ripping a cloth from his shirt to start wrapping Athelstan's palm - his rough fingers deliberately touching what he can of Athelstan's hand, trying to commit the feeling to memory. ] You have such pretty hands.
pbbbt
One moment, he think he might finally have the upper hand (Ragnar is going so easy on him, he knows), and the next, his footing slips in the loose dirt, his fingers slip on the handle of the axe. He grabs at it, trying to deflect a blow from Ragnar at the same time, and his hand closes over the blade, slicing down his palm. Careless.
His cheeks burn with embarrassment as Ragnar tends to him and Athelstan looks toward the dirt with a nod, expecting to be laughed at or chastised- but instead, Ragnar seems sympathetic, almost concerned, and he finds himself flushing deeper as his hand is tied.]
It was careless of me. [Athelstan flexes his fingers once, wincing at the sting that it causes him.] I don't think it's very deep.
[But it's bleeding quite a bit, and despite the flash of pain, he can't help but notice the excess of touch, from the tips of his fingers to his wrist, despite his wound just laying across the palm of his hand.]
...thank you.
no subject
His hand are soft, Ragnar is delighted to confirm, supple and sweet and smooth. And addicting, he might add, how the gods taunt and tease him with this perfect little priest, with hands and skin that make Ragnar want to protect him, preserve this little touch of innocence. ]
You are learning. Vikings are not made overnight.
[ Even after the knot has been solidly tied across Athelstan's palm, Ragnar continues to hold him, bloodied fingers brushing sweetly over his knuckles. A now freed hand moves up to scrunch up his hair. An intimate gesture, perhaps, but Ragnar has to wonder if everything about this man is as soft as his flesh. ]
One day you'll grow greater and more ferocious than even me. [ His grin is joking again, mischievous in tease, and he clunks their foreheads together. ] Is there pain?
no subject
At the teasing, he smiles a little wryly, giving the other man a Look, before flinching as their foreheads are brought together. And God in Heaven, Ragnar's eyes are large this close, clear and bluer than the sky, than the waters that reflect it. Athelstan swallows hard, not sure where to look so he casts his gaze down, turning his hand over to press his palm against Ragnar's own.
The pressure hurts, but he doesn't stop, and Athelstan doesn't know if he's trying to prove himself or trying to be something he's not, but either way, blood seeps out of his wound and into the fabric, which grows slick against Ragnar's palm as his fingers close around the other man's wrist.
His breath betrays him, trembling on the inhale with the pain that the action brings. Ragnar looks to him as if he is a child, he knows this, but he can be hard. He can be like Ragnar, impervious to pain, pleased at the sight of his blood.]
You joke now, but I intend to be fierce. [He still can't look at Ragnar's eyes, but he lifts his own a little to the other man's face, earnest, proving.] Pain shouldn't matter. It doesn't matter to you, does it?
no subject
He doesn't know when he'd adopted a second son - and that thought makes him smile too, a hand knotted at the base of Athelstan's neck. Son isn't the right word. ]
It depends, priest. [ He shrugs, scrunching up his mouth in an over-exaggerated way, thoughtfully. ] You can learn from pain. On the battlefield it holds you back, but in practice it strengthens.
[ Stepping back barely, Ragnar draws light circles to the inside of Athelstan's wrist, watching the contrast in plain interest. He's hardly being subtle now, dragging his thumb over the sensitive patch of softer skin, and further down still, touching with care to his inner arm. Ragnar hums, contentedly. ]
A priest has pain on the inside, but it's different from the one on his hand. He must take care.
no subject
Perhaps he's still not doing it right. Ragnar certainly doesn't seem to think so, and Athelstan takes a deep breath when he feels the hand at his neck, comforting instead of terrifying. Ragnar could snap it at a moment's thought if need be- but he doesn't need to. Athelstan trusts him, and the trust is relaxing, and he subconsciously leans against the other man, exhausted from the training.]
My pain comes from myself. I can't stop being afraid of what I don't believe in. But that won't matter on the battlefield. That's not what I want to dwell on today.
[But Ragnar is touching him, warm and smooth, and Athelstan's eyes are drawn to where the other man's larger hands are stroking over his own narrow wrist, his sensitive forearm. He shivers, but doesn't pull his hand back.]
...are you so concerned?