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Athelstan woke to the sound of something crashing through his door. Momentarily disoriented, eyes flying open, breath catching in his throat, he reached for the small knife beside his bed before realizing the identity of the intruder. The moonlight filtered in from the slats in the window and landed on the large, dark outline of a man that Athelstan could distinguish anywhere.
“Ragnar! What are you doing? Are you okay?” Athelstan questioned, tossing off the covers and getting up from the bed, heart still pounding from the spike of adrenaline running through his veins.
Ragnar had never visited Athelstan's room in the middle of the night before.
It was a small, cozy room, with a dirt floor and a little bed, near the Earl’s Hall and Main Square, but located down a quiet, secluded alleyway. Ragnar was the one to give it to him, after Ragnar had become Earl, presenting the new quarters to Athelstan with excited, nervous anticipation. Ragnar said it reminded him of their old farmhouse and he liked that it was private; said Athelstan was lucky to have a place without any curious eyes or ears to bother him.
Athelstan loved it. He had never had his own room before; he had lived in the communal dorms at the monastery and slept on a pallet in the corner when living at Ragnar and Lagertha’s farmhouse.
He had been surprised by how much simple pleasure he felt when filling the place with all the things he possessed. It was not much, most of it given to him by Lagertha: a few changes of clothes, some warm furs and woven blankets for the bed, a few baskets of various sizes, a wooden cabinet and a chest for storage, shelves full of various everyday objects, an old table and chair placed in the corner. He did not much care about material objects, one Christian discipline that would never be unlearned, but he did feel a tiny amount of pride in the novelty that the room and its furnishings were all his own. Athelstan relished in having a place to retreat.
But apparently, Ragnar had plans to invade Athelstan’s retreat tonight.
Ragnar stumbled farther into the room, weaving on wobbly feet and grabbing the edge of the cabinet to keep himself upright.
He was absolutely piss drunk.
Athelstan had last seen Ragnar, earlier that afternoon, knocking back cups of drink like he had just walked across a desert and was dying of thirst. When Ragnar had gotten back from seeing Lagertha and Bjorn off, he had been intolerable - snapping at everyone, patience nonexistent, temper angry and spoiling for a fight. His friends and staff, Athelstan included, recognizing his foul, depressed mood, had quickly scurried away looking for cover from his slicing looks and harsh words, giving him a spacious moat.
Athelstan, looking at the drunken man swaying about in front of him, knew Ragnar was devastated by Lagertha and Bjorn’s decision to leave Kattegat. No amount of alcohol or irate tantrums could disguise the look of pained sorrow in his eyes.
Athelstan knew better than most how much the family cared for each other. He had shared a home with them, after all. Saw the loving looks they would shoot one another, the way they teased each other good-naturedly, how passionate they were about their family.
In fact, many times at the farmhouse, Athelstan had seen more of the pair than he had ever anticipated, for they had never been shy with their bodies or desires, even once inviting Athelstan to share their bed when he first arrived at their home. Athelstan had sat, shivering in shocked terror, and stammered out a decline, all the while wondering who in the name of God were these shameless barbarians.
He soon found out that the family was not barbarian at all. They loved, fought and laughed together just like any family. And they seemed to care about Athelstan, showing him affection and treating him with respect. Sometimes in their company, he even forgot he was a slave. Overall, they were hard-working, gracious, and decent people.
Still, a measly wooden divide hardly kept out the sounds, sights and boiling hot sexual chemistry of the couple’s lovemaking. Eventually, Athelstan had become, if not at ease with it than, at least accustomed to it. And it certainly served to prove that Ragnar and Lagertha were very much in love. Though, it never stopped being both an embarrassing and arousing reminder that this was a strange, new world.
But things between husband and wife had changed. The space between them grew wider and bitter. They lost their baby and then not long after their beloved daughter.
Athelstan felt his throat tighten at just the thought of sweet, young Gyda.
Lagertha had been left alone to care for a dying city and daughter while Ragnar was off on a diplomatic mission on behalf of King Horick. Turns out, he had done more on that excursion than just deliver terms for a land dispute. Lagertha had burned her daughter on the funeral pyre as Ragnar was impregnating another woman with his child. It had all just been too much. Their relationship splintered.
Athelstan knew Lagertha was going to leave as soon as Ragnar had asked her to open up their marriage. Lagertha had her pride, if nothing else. She loved Ragnar, but there were just some things she could not accept. A cheating, insensitive, unsupportive husband was one of them.
She had quietly said her goodbyes to Athelstan that morning, as Ragnar was off hunting rabbits. Athelstan had not even tried to convince her to stay, even though the idea of not seeing her again made his stomach knot and turn over, knowing that it would be easier to train a cat to play fetch than to get this fierce, capable woman to change her mind. She had a dejected look in her eyes, but her voice never cracked as she made him promise not to say anything to Ragnar until after she was already gone. They had held each other tight, he had buried his face in her soft, fragrant hair and let a few miserable tears fall, soaked up by her blond strands.
As soon as the sun had set, Athelstan had withdrawn to his room and gone to bed, hoping to fall into an empty sleep and just forget about the entire horrible, emotionally-exhausting day.
Seems he was not going to be that lucky.
Ragnar, with a glazed look and unsteady gait, sauntered right past Athelstan, who was still standing in the middle of the room unsure of what to think of his unexpected visitor, and collapsed ungracefully on Athelstan’s bed. Athelstan stared at Ragnar, opened mouthed, as the drunken man lay sprawled on his back.
Feeling a cool breeze at his back, Athelstan snapped out of his surprise and walked to the door Ragnar had busted open, softly closing it. He leaned his forehead against the rough wooden grain for a moment and took a steadying breath, gathering himself. He turned around and looked at the bed and the impossible fool lying in it.
The night was a little chilly with a bite of the coming winter in the air, Athelstan crossed his arms over his chest, pulling the sleeves of his shirt over his hands. His eyes darted around the room, indecisively. What was he supposed to do with the highly intoxicated, belligerent Earl?
After Uppsala, Athelstan and Ragnar had been mostly walking in circles around each other, the easy camaraderie between them gone. Ragnar would dart him guilty, regretful looks and occasionally try to talk to him; the conversations were short and awkward. There was so much to say, but neither one of them had the words to say it. Athelstan could not bring himself to absolve Ragnar completely, not yet. Despite Ragnar and Lagertha’s explanation and apology, Athelstan could not help still feeling hurt and betrayed by the whole affair.
Since the sacrifice, Athelstan felt like he had been walking along on unsteady, undependable sand, where there used to be solid stone. The sand kept shifting and sliding under his feet, knocking him off balance and making him feel like he was always having to stop and throw his arms out to keep himself from tripping. It was uncomfortable and exhausting. Never knowing if his next step would be the one that brought him slamming down, face first into the ground.
Ragnar was no better off, Athelstan acknowledged, in the last few years Ragnar had nearly died fighting for his farm and family, reluctantly become earl, lost two children, been betrayed by his brother, watched his friends die in battle, and seen his people ravished by the plague. The lines on Ragnar’s face grew deeper, the circles under his eyes darker and his spirit heavier with each misfortune.
Now, his wife and only living child had left him, too. In spite of Athelstan’s unresolved resentment towards him, Athelstan could not stop the wave of sorrow he felt for the man when he thought of all Ragnar had been through recently.
What they had all been through recently.
Ragnar was not the only one losing his family, Athelstan thought fervently. Lagertha, Bjorn and Gyda were the closest thing to a family he could ever remember. But instead of making Athelstan feel hostile towards this imperfect man that carried so much weight on his shoulders, Athelstan’s stomach clenched at the comprehension of their shared pain. They had both lost those they had loved, never mind who was at fault.
On the bed, Ragnar was mumbling nonsensically. Athelstan watched as Ragnar brought his arm up and covered his closed eyes, hiding them beneath the bend of his elbow. Athelstan stayed frozen in place, still uncertain of what to do, until he heard Ragnar take a hitching, wet breath and realized he was crying.
Tentatively, Athelstan crept closer, wary of making any sudden movements and bringing attention to himself. His feet softly pattering against the dirt floor until he reached the edge of the bed frame. Hearing the footfalls, Ragnar stirred, withdrew his arm from across his face and pierced Athelstan with an intense stare that nearly rocked him backwards.
Ragnar angrily swiped his hand across his cheeks, his forehead creased and he gave Athelstan a slow-eyed, unfocused blink. With a look like he was confused about where he was and why Athelstan was standing over him, he sat up. Then, with an alarming quickness for someone so inebriated, he clumsily fisted his hands in the front of Athelstan’s tunic and pulled the smaller man down onto the bed so they were sitting up facing one another.
They looked at each other a startled moment, until Ragnar tightened his hands into the fabric of Athelstan's shirt and roughly jerked him closer. Athelstan had to fling out a hand against the mattress to catch himself in order not to topple over.
Pulling at Athelstan possessively, Ragnar, bearing his teeth in a grimace, fiercely murmured, "Stay with me." He took a quick, shuttering intake of air, voice sounding tight and hoarse.
Athelstan just stared at him, speechless.
"Stay with me. Please! Don’t leave me." Ragnar repeated in a husky, nearly frantic tone.
Athelstan observed Ragnar as his brow furrowed, his red-rimmed eyes squeezed shut, his head tilted up towards the ceiling and he let out a gasping, agonized moan. It sounded like it came from a dark, hurt place deep inside his chest. Excruciating and heartbreaking.
Ragnar's face broke and silent tears began to stream from the corners of his eyes again, he dropped his head to his chest, listlessly released Athelstan's tunic, then slowly tipped forward and hid his face against Athelstan's shoulder.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please." Ragnar mumbled against Athelstan's throat.
Athelstan, feeling like his stomach was somewhere near his knees and still unsure of what to think about this turn of events, hesitantly brought his arms up and gently, awkwardly patted Ragnar's back.
"Shhh. I'm here." He whispered, trying to comfort the distraught man.
The room was dark, but Athelstan's eyes had adjusted to the dimness, he scanned the contents of the space and then shifted his stare out the window to the half-moon in the distant, black sky while holding Ragnar until the larger man finally stopped his soft, grief-stricken, incoherent ramblings, his muted sobs tapered off and he became quiet.
Athelstan placed his hands on each of Ragnar's biceps and pushed him upright, drawing his face away from Athelstan's tear damp collar. Ragnar let himself be moved as easily as a child's ragdoll, totally exhausted and compliant.
Athelstan laid him down on the bed, helping him to straighten out his limp, long legs and then sat down on the edge and gazed at the prone man. Ragnar sluggishly gazed back, now calm and looking slightly more sober.
"Lay with me?" Ragnar quietly requested, coming from a man like Ragnar, it was practically pleading.
Athelstan complied. He crawled onto the small bed beside Ragnar, close enough that he could feel Ragnar's body heat, but not touching.
Ragnar would have none of it, he lifted his arm, forcing it under Athelstan's head so that the Norseman could pull the former monk against his chest and wrap his arms around Athelstan's shoulders. Athelstan was so stunned that he simply let Ragnar maneuver him so that he was lying snug against the taller man. Ragnar smelled like a barrel of mead, but his body was warm and welcoming.
Athelstan had the disturbing thought that he fit against Ragnar perfectly. It made every section of his body that was in contact with the large, muscular frame suddenly sizzle.
Athelstan listened to his racing, anxious heartbeats and, feeling the rise and fall of the firm chest under his burning cheek, measured Ragnar's breathing.
When Athelstan was sure Ragnar had passed out, he gently extracted himself from the Norseman’s loose limbs, holding his breath and moving in slow motion the whole time. He walked over to his storage chest and hauled out an extra blanket. He knew the cold night air would have them both shivering by morning, as Ragnar’s unconscious form was lying on top of the blankets, and Athelstan knew he would never be able to pull the covers out from under the heavy body without waking him.
He gingerly placed the blanket over Ragnar and then went about removing Ragnar's boots, being as careful as possible not to disturb the resting man, concerned eyes jumping to Ragnar's face every few seconds, although Ragnar never stirred during Athelstan's ministrations.
Once the Earl of Kattegat was settled, Athelstan regarded him. Even in sleep, Ragnar had a troubled look around his closed eyes, his mouth was slightly parted and his skin looked pulled tight over the bones of his handsome face.
There was a low, dull ache in Athelstan’s chest that would not ease. Looking at this obstinate, beautiful, wrecked, spectacular man made his heart feel like it had been annihilated. He gave a heavy, defeated sigh.
Athelstan thought briefly of sleeping on the floor, but with only one extra blanket and disliking the idea of spending a restless night trembling on the cold dirt, he decided against it. Maybe they both needed the comfort, anyway. Feeling bone tired, he climbed back onto his bed beside Ragnar’s comatose form and fell into a dreamless slumber.
Athelstan awoke to diffused sunlight streaming across his face. He burrowed deeper under the warm covers before slowly opening his eyes.
Ragnar was looking right at him, unabashedly, with swollen, bloodshot eyes.
Athelstan's eyes widened and he sucked in a shaky gulp of air, taken aback for a second, having temporarily forgotten in his sleep-clouded mind the events of the night.
Ragnar's serious, somber face cracked a little, sad smile at Athelstan's expression.
It was barely dawn and the world was still soundless and peaceful. The air in the room was chilly, but their cocoon under the blanket was toasty. They both watched each other for a long moment, before Ragnar broke the silence.
"It is good to see you." Ragnar whispered, voice sounding raw and gritty, like he had swallowed sand.
Athelstan thought Ragnar looked impossibly weary, just completely spent, like he had run up to the top of a mountain without stopping for a break. But despite the fatigue wringing over his features, Ragnar had a thoughtful, surprised look of relief in his eyes. The look a man would have after his house burned down, but miraculously his most cherished treasure had survived intact.
Athelstan stayed quiet and watched the dust particles floating in the strips of light above the bed, thinking. Then he took a meaningful, purifying, forgiving breath and smiled at Ragnar.
It was a new day.
"Good morning, Ragnar."
"Good morning, Athelstan."
After that, it became a semi-regular occurrence. Ragnar and Athelstan would stay up late into the night, bundled under covers, talking and laughing like school boys.
Athelstan would tell Ragnar stories from the Bible, fables and myths from his childhood, teach him more English phrases, softly sing hymns to him in the dark.
Ragnar’s curiosity was boundless. The landscape of his interests vast and wide-ranging. He loved discussing an assortment of topics. Everything from politics, ethics, and religion to battle field tactics, famous warriors and far off lands. Nothing was off the table. He would get a childlike obsession with a topic - have to know everything about it, sitting enraptured, all the while beaming from the inside out with excitement. He would ask endless questions until the issue had been exhausted then he would bounce to something new. Never tiring in his ceaseless enthusiasm for learning.
Athelstan found it impressive and adorable.
That this remarkable man never tired of speaking with him, valued his thoughts and opinions, respected his knowledge and beliefs, wanted to spend time picking apart his brain and seemed to find him infinitely fascinating was a constant, stirring wonder to Athelstan. No one had ever treated him the way Ragnar treated him. No one had ever looked at him the way Ragnar looked at him, either. No one had ever made him feel so important, useful…wanted.
Sometimes, in an instant of silly speculation, Athelstan though that if he claimed to transform into a giant falcon and hang the moon in the sky every night, Ragnar would have probably believed him. Athelstan, in Ragnar’s opinion anyway, could do no wrong.
Ragnar would look at Athelstan as though he were some sort of marvel Ragnar could not quite figure out. While Athelstan was talking, the Norseman would sometimes tilt his head to the side like a dog trying to understand his master’s commands and listen intently with a look on his face of pure awe. Like he could not believe what he was seeing and hearing.
Athelstan was humbled and intoxicated by Ragnar’s devoted attention.
For Ragnar’s part, he would act out exploits from his childhood, laughing with glee at the memories. Turns out, Ragnar was a gifted and funny story-teller and he seemed to delight in being able to make Athelstan laugh.
According to Ragnar, his mother once told him that he was both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because he looked like he had been put together in the image of the most handsome gods and for his startling intelligence, even as a baby, but a curse because he was such a little menace, always getting into mischief. With a voice that was a mixture of one part amusement, one part pride, he told tales of he and Rollo pulling pranks on unsuspecting neighbors, hiding behind bushes to watch the fall out then taking off, like an arrow, for the woods before the offended parties could find the culprits, manically giggling the whole way.
Apparently, even though Ragnar was the younger of the brothers, he had always been the leader, the schemer, between them. The one to come up with elaborate plans and games that usually ended in one or the other being injured or in trouble with their parents. He would be the one to convince his rowdy group of friends to go outside of the hunting grounds they had been sternly forbidden from leaving or ignored the warnings and swam out farther than the others just to say he could; to see what was beyond the lengths that other men had seen.
Seemingly, even as a child, for all his exceptional qualities, Ragnar was still just as infuriatingly hardheaded. It sounded to Athelstan like Ragnar was quite the handful; he was a precocious, stubborn, and wily boy. Athelstan silently both admired and felt sorry for his poor mother. Raising a boy who refused to be caged in by limits could not have been easy.
Athelstan thought Ragnar looked carefree and young in those animated instances. Smiling at a memory, laughing at a joke, closing his eyes blissfully while listening to Athelstan talk of the things he had seen while traveling. Athelstan loved these private, intimate moments with him.
It felt like witnessing something rare and extraordinary.
As a young monk, on a missionary trip, Athelstan had once seen a man with a pet wolf. The man was on the outskirts of a market in Rouen, a city along the Seine. The day had been dreary, it having rained all morning. The ground was muddy and Athelstan’s sandals made wet, squishy sounds as he walked along a darkened passageway that connected to the main street. There were only a few people trickling through the thoroughfare, browsing the stands full of vegetables and meat or tents brimming with handmade crafts.
At the end of the street sat a man on a rickety, low stool. His clothes were threadbare and there was a large hole in the knee of his trousers. The old man's hair looked like it hadn't seen a comb in months and from the smell of him, which Athelstan got a whiff of from almost a dozen feet away, he hadn't bothered to bathe in just as long. Athelstan assumed he was a down-on-his-luck wanderer, judging by his appearance.
Beside the old man, gangly, long legs sprawled, sat a wolf. He was a wild, ferocious looking creature with big, glossy, black eyes that darted about vigilantly. After a man walked by a little too close to the invisible perimeter the wolf had apparently erected around him and his master, the gray beast snarled and snapped at the stranger, warning the unlucky stroller to stay clear, instinctually protecting himself and his owner. The stranger gave a terrified yelp and rushed off in the opposite direction, giving the disheveled, stinking man and his apparently undomesticated hound a wide berth. The old man simply looked down at his enormous beast and murmured sedately to it and, astonishingly to Athelstan who was watching the scene unfold, the feral looking wolf rolled over on his back and allowed the man to place a dirty, wrinkled hand on his thick fur and rub him.
Watching Ragnar in those moments was like that. A wolf rolling over to display his tender underbelly. A predator allowing himself to be vulnerable because he knew he was safe with his companion. Oddly unguarded and sweet. It was humbling to witness, for Athelstan knew it was not something shown to many.
They became more and more comfortable with each other, their nights together more frequent with each new baby born. Ragnar was a doting and devoted father, but late night feedings, fussing babies, and kicks in the shin from dreaming toddlers rolling around between him and Aslaug sometimes sent him sprinting for a quiet night's rest in Athelstan's peaceful sanctuary. Once Ivar was born, it became rare for Ragnar to sleep in his own bed.
One such night, Athelstan was sitting on his bed, leaning up against the headboard, writing in his journal by candlelight while the bigger man, lying on his stomach, dozed beside him.
"What are you scratching in that thing?” Ragnar mumbled sleepily, lifting his head from where it was buried in his crossed arms, shooting a blearily-eyed look Athelstan's way.
"It is my journal. You know that."
Ragnar had seen him writing in it many times since their return from Wessex. Athelstan had carried it back with him when he left his native country behind. He had kept it under his tunic the entire journey back, protecting it from the salty spray of the ocean misting over the sides of the boat.
Ragnar enjoyed watching Athelstan make his strange loopy characters across the paper, despite only understanding the basics of what some of the written letters meant having, at the Norseman's insistence, been taught the written alphabet by Athelstan.
"Mmmm. Put it away. Scratch my back instead." Ragnar whined, settling back down into the soft bed, closing his eyes and giving his bare shoulders a little impatient shake.
Athelstan looked down at him and gave a small half exasperated, half indulgent chuckle. This man!
Athelstan laid his journal and writing utensil on the bedside table carefully, and then slid down the bed to lie next to Ragnar, turning on his side to face the warm, sleepy man.
"You are spoiled." Athelstan quipped as he slowly ran his fingernails up and down the muscular, hard planes of Ragnar's back. Tracing old scars, the tips of his fingers tingled as they passed along the smooth, bronze skin. His pale, white hand contrasted against Ragnar's naturally darker skin tone.
Ragnar just hummed lazily and gave a low happy grunt when Athelstan's hand roamed over a particularly ticklish spot.
Athelstan, letting the hypnotizing movement of his own hand lull him into drowsiness, watched Ragnar for a while, until finally the Englishman's arm got tired. Ragnar's breathing was slow and even, Athelstan watched the Norseman's ribs and shoulder blades expand and contract with each intake and exhale of air, he could tell Ragnar was on the verge of sleep. Athelstan, scrunched into the tiny sliver available on the edge of the mattress, while the bigger man was spread out comfortably, gave a long-suffering sigh.
"Scoot over. You are taking up the entire bed." Athelstan lightly dug his knee into Ragnar's thigh and gave the skin on his lower back a harmless pinch. Ragnar groaned, but obediently rolled onto his side, regarding Athelstan with a disgruntled scowl. Athelstan had a fleeting urge to laugh; Ragnar was such a grump when he was tired. But Athelstan had long ago stopped cowering to this king of fierce men. There were many things about Ragnar that scared Athelstan, mostly having to do with his own feelings for the man, but Ragnar hurting him was not one of them. Athelstan just smiled at him, knowing the man was not really angry.
They laid facing each other, knees touching, heads so close they were sharing breaths. It was quiet save for a dog barking a few doors down. The sputtering, orange candlelight cast peculiar shaped shadows across the wall behind the bed.
Staring at one another, the lethargic, teasing mood from moments ago evaporated and the atmosphere in their warm, shared space seemed suddenly more observant and solemn. Ragnar slowly gave Athelstan a closed-mouth enigmatic smile then reached his hand up to stroke over the side of Athelstan's head, icy blue eyes watching with razor focus, like he was petting a tiny, frightened animal and was trying to be cautious of not scaring it away.
Athelstan laid still, his heart in his throat.
Ragnar's fingers brushed through the errant strands of Athelstan’s dark hair, stroked the folds of his ear, ran along the edge of his jaw, traced the outline of his nose, his thumb smoothed over Athelstan's eyebrow. Ragnar's callused hand felt hot, dry and impossibly large pressed against Athelstan's face. The Norseman unhurriedly explored all Athelstan's features, looking all the while as though he were totally mystified by every line, freckle, and hair.
Ragnar, the fearless, curious explorer.
When Ragnar had finished his inventory, filing it away for safe keeping, he returned his hand to the covers between them.
Athelstan grabbed it and squeezed it within his own.
Since Athelstan’s return from Wessex, he had noticed changes in the way Ragnar acted towards him. Ragnar was more possessive and protective. For months after stepping off the boat that brought them both home, Ragnar barely let Athelstan out of his sight. Athelstan would sometimes catch Ragnar looking at the scars on Athelstan’s hands and feet with a pained, angry expression. When Athelstan commented on it, Ragnar said only, vehemently, in a cold voice that sounded forged from steel, “They will never hurt you again. If they tried, I’d set fire to that whole country.”
And Ragnar’s touches were different now, too. He touched Athelstan like he was a fragile, precious piece of glass. Tender and delicate.
Ragnar raised their clasped hands to his lips, keeping his sultry eyes locked to Athelstan’s, and kissed the smaller man’s knuckles. Then ran his slightly chapped lips against the raised scar on the middle of Athelstan’s palm.
Ragnar’s lips connected to the flesh as Athelstan counted the booming heartbeats exploding in his ears.
"You are a dear, sweet friend, Athelstan." Ragnar whispered into the private space between them, his rough voice cackling with reverence. The words came out like he was divulging a secret, revealing the whereabouts of a treasure he had kept hidden for a very long time. Hushed and exposed.
Athelstan rubbed his thumb across Ragnar's bumpy knuckles and positioned their loosely linked hands on the soft, woven blanket.
The part of Athelstan that still vividly remembered being a young monk, isolated on a rock in the middle of the sea, with only his prayers and a silent God to fill his lonely heart, felt overcome with gratitude.
One of the most unexpected benefits of being forcefully kidnapped was that as his relationship with Ragnar grew deeper, the crippling loneliness that had followed him most of his life started to fade. Oh, he had not recognized it at the time perhaps, having never known anything else. But his life before coming to this Northern wilderness full of vibrant, beautiful creatures had most certainly been lonely. Now, he knew the difference.
Ragnar was so full of energy and piercing light that his presence in Athelstan's life banished those feelings of aloneness. Ragnar's brightness filled in the shadows of Athelstan's heart. In ways no God ever could.
Athelstan had never had a real friend before Ragnar. He'd had a family he barely remembered and brothers-in-Christ, but never a true friend.
He felt his throat tighten and unexpected moisture fill his eyes. He took a deep, shuttering breath, trying to calm his emotions.
Friend? Did that word accurately describe it? Athelstan thought on it; decided that would have to do, whatever this was called between them was of no consequence anyway. There were no words for what this man was to him. Athelstan said only, “As are you, Ragnar."
Ragnar gave a knowing, dazzling smile that made his candle-lit eyes squint, and shifted forword the last few inches to press his forehead against Athelstan's.
"Goodnight, Athelstan."
"Goodnight, Ragnar."