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A week into her husband's convalescence, Lagertha felt the pain of her uselessness like a wound in her side. The frantic fear of the first few days had passed. She no longer expected Ragnar to die at any moment. But, he was little better. He lay on his makeshift pallet by the hearth, barely able to hold his head up to sip soup, usually sleeping. When he wasn't sleeping, he was often senseless, wracked by fever. In his rare moments of lucidity, he was mostly apathetic, rarely rousing enough to share more than a word or two. She lay beside him at night and felt the fever burning itself out and prayed to Freya with all of her strength.
During the day, those fears seemed further away and she grappled with a different sort of uselessness. The autumn rains had begun to set in, making any step outside an exercise in misery. They were all crammed on top of each other--five adults and two children in a one-room house that would be small for two. She and Athelstan did their best to make themselves useful, but there was only so much wheat to grind, so many vegetables to chop, so much laundry to scrub or floors to sweep. Lagertha spent much of her time curled up with her son and daughter, trying to keep them entertained with stories and songs. Both children were frightened by what had become of their home. Gyda was slow to sleep and quick to weep. Bjorn was angry and increasingly prone to lashing out at everyone and everything.
Despite it all, Floki and Helga were gracious hosts. They were free with their board and patient with the children. If it weren't for Helga's occasional worried frown, Lagertha would not have known they were depleting their stores. But, once she saw the other woman's anxious eyes and significant glances towards Floki, she could not un-see it. Her guilt at every meal could not be assuaged.
She was foolish to try.
"You are too good to us, Floki," she said one evening after draining the last of her broth. Athelstan was already rising to collect the empty bowls and take them to wash. Floki licked his fingers and laughed.
"Too good. As if goodness were a plague to be avoided at any cost."
"It is more than we've any right to ask."
Floki waved a hand, his long fingers fluttering. "We are all in need at some point. Perhaps the next time it will be Floki who is at death's door and Ragnar and Lagertha who bring him back." At these words, Helga tucked her head possessively over his shoulder.
Lagertha tucked her braids back from her shoulder. "All the same, it shames us that we cannot do more to thank you for your kindness. Come, ask me for a boon, and if it be in my power, I will grant it." The words held the weight of her honor, and everyone present knew it. It wasn't until Floki hesitated and glanced at Helga that Lagertha wondered if she should regret them.
The other woman gave a small shrug, a smile playing at the edge of her lips. Floki returned the smile and looked back at Lagertha. "Perhaps there is one thing. A small matter." His fingers walked up and down Helga's bare arm. "My lovely Helga has entered into her period of chastity to thank Freya for Her many gifts."
Lagertha nodded. It was a common practice among women who were not yet mothers to abstain for one lunar cycle as a show of devotion. "May Freya bless and honor you," she told Helga, who grinned.
Floki flapped his hand. "Yes, yes, it's all lovely for her, but the trouble is that I have no cause for such a sacrifice, and I find myself bereft."
Lagertha's eyes narrowed a little. She unconsciously straightened her back and lifted her chin. "Floki," she said in a cool, formal tone, "I am in your debt for what you have done for Ragnar. But, I would hope you know better than to proposition the wife of an honored guest."
Floki stared at her for a moment and blinked. Then, he collapsed into a fit of helpless giggles and clapped a hand over his mouth. "Nothing like that," he assured her once he could speak again, "I may not have had company in some time, but I know the bounds of propriety, to be certain. I ask for no more than you can spare." His eyes shifted past her. "I wish only for the comfort of your slave."
It took a moment before Lagertha realized he was talking about Athelstan. One by one, everyone in the room turned to him, save Ragnar who was deep in fever-dreams. The Saxon stared back at them with wide eyes. Slowly and deliberately, he picked up a bowl and wiped it dry. "What do you mean by comfort?"
Bjorn laughed. "It means he wants to have sex with you," he blurted out. Lagertha kicked him under the table, drawing a grimace. "Well, it does," he grumbled, rubbing his shin.
Athelstan's eyes darted back and forth, as if waiting for someone to contradict the boy. No one spoke. Floki's laugh had faded and he was watching the younger man with a disconcerting intensity. Athelstan swallowed and looked down. "Floki," he began, his voice tremulous, "I, too, am grateful for everything you have done for us--for Ragnar. But, I must decline."
"Decline?!" Bjorn sprang to his feet, his expression outraged, "You cannot simply decline, slave! My mother swore a boon."
"The boy is crass, but he is not wrong," Floki said neutrally, "The body of a thrall belongs to the master, not the slave. It does not fall to you to deny her will."
"Floki," Lagertha interjected, keeping her face composed and her tone reasonable, "It's true that I promised you a boon. I mean to keep my promise. But, it would be well for everyone if you would reconsider and ask something else. Athelstan has sworn eternal celibacy before his god. It is just as sacred, in its own way, as Helga's vow, and I do not wish to compel him to break it."
Floki's eyes widened almost comically. "Eternal? What kind of god would wish for celibacy eternal? A cruel one, I am certain."
"Nevertheless, I can offer . . ." Lagertha's voice caught as she remembered anew how little she had to offer--she who was a shieldmaiden and had been a landowner's wife but was now little more than a beggar. "My husband will not always be ailing. Once he is strong again, we will raid and grant you great riches in payment for your kindness. Only be patient a while and I will keep my word."
The shipbuilder met her gaze and there was no cruelty in his kohl-lined eyes. "I do not doubt that your husband will be generous with his friends. But, I have little need for riches. I've food on my board and work in my shop and I lack only a soft body to warm my bed." His fingers fiddled with his arm band and he smiled. "People rarely keep their vows to poor, mad Floki. I will not think less of you for withdrawing yours, nor will I turn away your family. But, you asked about a boon and I named the only one I value just now. It is yours to give or withhold."
Lagertha's lips tightened. She looked down at her lap for a moment, then up at Athelstan. The slave saw her answer in her eyes. His own eyes widened further and he shook his head slowly while backing up, first one step, then another. When Lagertha's face did not change, Athelstan spun and fled out the front door and into the rain.
"Slave," Bjorn called out, "Where are you going?"
Lagertha stood and tugged her son back by the shoulder before he could run after him. "I will handle this, Bjorn." He scowled, but reluctantly nodded.
She took two cloaks and, draping one over her shoulders, followed Athelstan outside. Night was nearly upon them, and the storm had banished the light earlier than usual. All the same, it was easy to pick out the disturbed mud where Athelstan had scrambled up the slope. Bending her head against the driving rain, Lagertha followed. She knew the priest had not gotten far. The deep marks in the mud showed where he'd tried to run but fallen several times in the attempt. She caught up with him halfway up the slope. He had collapsed against the side of an oak, prevented from sinking into the slop only by his locked knees. His arms were wrapped tight around his chest and he was trembling violently.
Lagertha whisked the spare cloak out, draped it over his shoulders, and tugged the hood over his head. "There was no need for all that."
He did not look up, but his hands fisted gratefully in the lining of the cloak. "I'm not trying to shame you," he said, "And I am grateful to Floki, it's just . . ."
"It's just what? Does he frighten you? He is strange, but harmless, I think."
"It's not that." Athelstan drew a sharp breath. "It's just that it's a very grave sin that he's asking. Not just for a priest, but for any Christian. There was a time when men were put to death for it."
"For having sex?" She could not help a laugh. "Then how, precisely, do your people not die out?"
"Not sex. Sex between men. Do your people truly have no taboos?"
Her smile died. They did, of course, foolish as they might seem to her. Free men could not allow themselves to be penetrated without being seen as ergi, and not truly men. Slaves, of course, were exempt from the prohibition, as everyone knew they had no choice in the matter, but the stigma remained. "No one is going to put you to death," she soothed, laying a hand on his shoulder, "And no one is going to harm you on my watch. Certainly not Floki. But, you must do this thing--for me and for Ragnar. Our honor is only as good as our word. If your god has a problem with it, he can take that up with me."
He looked at her, his eyes suddenly intense. "Please . . . you cannot ask this of me."
She let her hand drop from his shoulder. Coming to stand before him, she clasped his head, one hand on either side of his face. "Athelstan. You must do my will in this. I do not want to beat you to get your compliance, but I will if I must."
By this, he knew that she was serious. The slave bowed his head and nodded. Lagertha squeezed his neck gently. With her thumb, she brushed away moisture from his cheek that had nothing to do with the rain. "It will be alright," she murmured, "Come. By Floki's generosity, a warm hearth awaits us."
He fell in a step behind her, and she was careful to steady him when he slipped on the sodden ground. They reached the house on the shore without further mishaps, and Lagertha firmly took Athelstan's arm to lead him inside.
They were met with confused, expectant faces. Lagertha gave Floki, Helga, and her children a brief nod. Peeling the cloak back from Athelstan's shoulders, she replaced it with a blanket that could stand to be washed. That done, she guided him to sit in a corner on the far side of the hearth, as far as possible from Floki. Gyda, with characteristically instinctual understanding, moved quickly to tuck herself against Athelstan's side. Lagertha left her daughter to chatter comforting nonsense into the Saxon's ear. She went to Floki and dropped to one knee at his side. "We will grant your boon," she told him softly, "But my slave is very frightened. I would not have you be rough with him unless it is absolutely necessary."
Floki grinned at her. He was grinding leaves into a paste with a mortar and pestle. "It will not be necessary. His fear will not last." He held out the concoction.
Lagertha sniffed and frowned. "This is the potion given to funereal sacrifices."
"The very same."
"Do you even know if this is safe? The funeral girls do not live long enough to say whether it is poison."
"It is safe," Helga chimed in with a knowing smile, "And quite enjoyable, for all involved."
Lagertha pursed her lips, but nodded. Floki tipped the crushed leaves into an empty cup, added a measure of ale, and swirled it to combine. Standing, he went to Athelstan, squatted at his side, and placed a hand on his back. The Saxon jumped, but Floki merely laughed and patted his back bracingly. "Easy, little Christian, Floki is not the monster some think him." He pressed the cup into Athelstan's hand. "You must drink this. Drink it all, now. It will help."
"What is it?"
"Just drink." His hand was shaking, but Athelstan obediently raised the cup to his lips and began to drain it. Floki let out a cackle that was a little manic, then seemed to remember himself. He schooled his face into an expression probably meant to be comforting and petted over Athelstan's clothed back. "Good, priest. Good." He stayed beside him until the cup was empty, then stood and stepped away, letting it take effect. No one spoke for a few minutes, which meant that everyone heard when Athelstan's breath began to hitch, as if he were trying to hold back sobs but losing the battle. Gyda rubbed his arm and tried to shush him, but it hardly seemed to help.
Bjorn stood. Lagertha's stomach sank, and she almost stopped him, but her son surprised her. He walked over to the priest, knelt, and gripped his shoulder. "It's alright, slave," he shook his shoulder lightly as if to snap him out of a dream, "Just be obedient. That's all we want and you can do that. Can't you?"
Athelstan's head was bowed and his breath was still coming in short gasps, but he managed a small nod.
"Then you will be alright." Bjorn squeezed his arm one more time, then stood and turned away. Lagertha allowed a small, proud smile to play at her lips. Every once in a while, she could see Bjorn's father in the boy.
"You'll feel better soon," Floki added, "And being clean and warm will help. Why don't you little ones go fetch some water for his bath? Hmm?"
In the space of a heartbeat, Bjorn turned back into a prickly adolescent. "I'm not little! I am a man!" He waved his arm band in a way that only boys did.
With a tired sigh, Lagertha rose. "Bjorn. Go get the water. You too, Gyda." The girl pressed a quick kiss to Athelstan's cheek before rising and accepting a cloak from her mother and a bucket from Helga. Lagertha allowed Bjorn only one more moment to glare before shooing him out along with his sister.
Floki turned to Helga and clasped her hands. "You will see to the preparations, my dear?"
"Of course." She pulled out a copper wash tub and a stand to hold it over the fire. While waiting for the children to return with the water, she pulled out a small pan as well and dropped a bit of lard into it. While that heated and softened, she added butter and some fragrant herbs and stirred to reach the right consistency. As Bjorn and Gyda returned with the first buckets, Helga set the mixture aside to cool.
Ragnar grumbled something in his sleep. Lagertha shushed him and sponged his forehead with a cool cloth. She could feel Athelstan's eyes on her, and as her husband quieted, she forced herself to look up and meet his gaze. His head was swaying, his gaze becoming a little clouded as the potion took hold. Lagertha was glad to see it. The girls at the great funerals often laughed and sang and scarcely seemed aware of what was being done to them. It was mercy for them, and she hoped it would be for Athelstan, too.
She turned away and focused on laying out the children's bedrolls in the limited floor space. She placed her own with theirs rather than next to Ragnar. After a moment's hesitation, she laid out a fourth bedroll for Athelstan against the far wall. She doubted he would want to stay in Floki and Helga's bed once all was said and done.
The tub was full and starting to steam before Lagertha had the children dry and ready for bed. As she tucked Gyda in, she saw Helga rise out of the corner of her eye. Bjorn was staring from his bedroll as the woman tugged Athelstan to his feet and steadied him as he swayed. Lagertha caught her son's chin. "That's none of your concern." He reluctantly rolled over and stared at the wall instead.
But, as Lagertha dimmed the lamps, she could not help but steal a few glances herself. With gentle, cajoling hands, Helga was coaxing the slave out of his tunic and pants and helping him into the wash tub. The drugged ale had clearly taken a stronger grip on him. He was clearly reluctant, but made no attempt to hide his nakedness--uncharacteristic in a man who had long clung to modesty, trying to dress behind screens and around corners even in such cramped living conditions.
Lagertha was ashamed to note that he was thinner than he had been when Ragnar first brought him to their doorstep, though she had to admit that it suited him. Pale skin covered narrow hips and lean ribs, the latter bearing just a sparse covering of dark, wiry hair. He submitted to Helga's scrubbing without complaint, but when she drew a small knife, he sprang out of the tub so quickly that half the water sloshed out. Floki laughed quietly while Helga steered the slave to sit on a stool. "Don't fear, priest. My Helga is very skilled with a blade." Athelstan's whole body was rigid as the woman smoothed a hand over his chest, but all she did was lean close and run the knife lightly over his breast, shaving away one small bit of hair, then another.
While the younger woman worked, Lagertha decided it would be best to give Floki one last thing to think on. He sat by the bed, reapplying his face paint with careful hands. She stalked over to him and leaned over his shoulder, causing him to jump and smear the dark dye. "Athelstan is very dear to my husband," she told the shipbuilder in a soft, warning tone. "Do not forget that he, too, saved Ragnar's life."
Floki turned to face her and she saw keen intelligence in his eyes, overshadowing the glint of madness. "I would not dream of forgetting it, Lady," he said seriously. He wiped his cheek and applied another careful line of kohl. "This will be good for the priest. The sooner we get his false god's claws out of him, the better off he will be."
He believed what he was saying, and that would have to be enough for Lagertha. Behind her, Bjorn laughed. She turned and found Helga trying to shave the dark tuft between Athelstan's legs while he squirmed and objected. Lagertha glared at the boy until he fell silent and rolled over once again. She then approached the slave and put a steadying arm around his shoulders. "Athelstan. Hold still before she cuts off something important." He froze at once and allowed Helga to spread his knees. Lagertha rested her cheek against his head and ran her free hand through his hair, feeling the bristle on top where it was growing back in. "I'm proud of you for doing this," she told him softly, "And Ragnar will be, too. You'll see."
"Lagertha . . ."
"Athelstan?"
But, whatever he'd meant to say, he couldn't get it out past the growing stupor from the potion. He tried a few times, then gave up and gave her a helpless smile that somehow still seemed sad. Floki was moving around the bed, drawing back covers and checking the temperature of the lard mixture, but Athelstan was not watching him. Instead, his gaze had fallen on Ragnar's still form and fixated with an odd intensity.
Lagertha stayed at his side and kept stroking his hair until the dark tuft was gone and he was smooth and hairless as a boy. He did not look like a child, though. Despite his fear, his cock was beginning to fatten from Helga's touches. When the time came to turn him and finish the job, he truly resisted for the first time, his face flaming with shame. Lagertha's comfort became careful restraint, and after a moment he stilled, kneeling with his knees apart while Helga spread his cheeks. She moved quickly, now. Another moment and it was done. “Don’t fear,” Helga said with a small smile, “He will be gentle with you. He can be so gentle when he has a mind.”
His face paint perfect, Floki rose and crossed the floor. His gait, as usual, suggested he was dancing to some song no one else could hear. “Thank you, Helga. My lady Lagertha. I will see to everything from here.”
Lagertha nodded, resisting the urge to swallow as if she were afraid. She pressed a quick kiss into Athelstan’s hair, gave his shoulder one more squeeze, and went to lie beside Gyda. She watched through half-lidded eyes while Helga rose and settled herself on her side of the house’s only bed. Floki knelt at Athelstan’s side and ran a hand slowly up and down his back. “Priest. Let’s get a look at you.” His voice was pitched low and clearly meant to put Athelstan at ease. Results were mixed, at best. He drew the Saxon to his feet, turned the man to face him, and steadied him as he swayed. Floki’s eyes roamed hungrily. Athelstan’s kept sliding to his face and then flitting away. “My Helga’s work is always lovely,” the older man said, still in the tone one might use for a frightened child or wounded animal, “But even more so when she has such a fine canvas.”
He paused, smiling. The priest drew a ragged breath but said nothing. Floki settled an arm around his shoulders, soft but sure. “Come, Athelstan. Let us see if we can silence the gods for a while.”
He led him over to the bed, and Lagertha was struck at the contrast. Athelstan was not a large man but next to Floki, who was taller even than Rollo, he seemed downright diminutive. Floki removed his shirt, leaving the pants for the time being. His skin was browned from long days on the water, his muscles lean and wiry from chisel and hammer and log. Athelstan, with his pale, freshly shaved skin, looked even more vulnerable. Floki made him face him while his fingers trailed lightly over the slave’s chest. That was the same thoughtful touch that Lagertha had seen him give to the prow of a ship while deciding where to carve. His face paint sat on the bedside table alongside the fat and herb mixture. Floki picked up the former, stirred it with a small reed, and lifted it to Athelstan’s chest. While the priest looked on, the shipbuilder drew a swirling design just below his collarbone. Next, he moved to his side and traced three intersecting lines over his ribs.
Curiosity seemed to quiet Athelstan’s fear a little. “What are you doing?”
Floki met his gaze and smiled reassuringly. “You are afraid. You think your god will be jealous that you are here with me. These symbols will hide you from the eyes of all the gods. He cannot take vengeance for what he does not see.”
Athelstan watched the swirling ink, seemingly mesmerized. “I . . . I don’t think it works like that.”
The other man snorted dismissively. “Trust Floki—he knows something about gods. Even strange foreign ones.” Athelstan watched, unmoving, while he painted a third symbol and then a fourth. When it was done, Floki squeezed his hip. “Careful now. This needs to dry.” He turned the smaller man to face away from him. Floki’s hands wrapped around his biceps while his eyes wandered across his back. He pressed a kiss to Athelstan’s shoulder, making him jump. Floki laughed. “Easy, priest. It will be a long night if you startle at everything.” His head dipped once again and lingered, kissing or perhaps licking over his back, his shoulders, his neck. His roughened hands trailed down his flanks, over his ass and the top of his thighs, then back up. He was touching him the way one might touch a young colt to accustom it to handling—gently but firmly. After a moment, he pressed his body flush against the other man, his hands wrapping around his hips.
When Floki’s hand disappeared around his front, Athelstan jerked and cried out. “Settle down, now, Athelstan. No need to fret. You ought to enjoy this as well as me.” Watching their backs, Lagertha saw Athelstan shudder, in time with an unseen stroke on his cock. He shook his head.
“Don’t . . .”
“Shh, this will help.” Floki’s free arm wrapped around his chest, holding him close, almost cradling him. Lagertha couldn’t say why she continued to watch. She couldn’t explain away her fascination as protective sentiment; it was clear that Floki had no intention of hurting her slave. And, she didn’t really expect Athelstan to resist to the point where she might have to intervene. Yet, she watched. She tried not to analyze the impulse too closely. She would have very much liked for Athelstan to join her bed, both for his own beauty and for the soft, tender looks he brought out in Ragnar. When he’d first entered their house, she’d been tempted to compel or at least coerce him, but Ragnar wouldn’t hear of it.
After a few minutes of pulling gasps and noises from Athelstan, Floki turned him and spread his spidery fingers over his chest. The priest’s face was flushed, his cock was hard, and he was looking anywhere but at Floki’s face. The man pushed him back, still gentle and firm, until his calves hit the bed. Athelstan swayed for a moment, then fell into the bed and right into Helga. She laughed, stroked his hair for a moment, and then urged him to sit up. While he was still disoriented, Floki pushed his knees apart and crawled between them. When Floki’s lips touched Athelstan’s cock, the slave let out a cry so loud it startled the children. Helga lounged next to them, smiling slightly. Lagertha didn’t miss the way her thighs squeezed together, the way a trace of wickedness slipped into her face. Floki sucked for only a few moments before pulling off and smacking Helga’s thigh lightly. “No cheating.” Her smile turned to a pout, and she rolled over as if to sleep.
Floki turned back to Athelstan and pushed his legs wider. He canted his hips just so, knocking the man off-balance. Athelstan’s face was apprehensive. “What are you doing?”
“You’ll see, priest.”
Athelstan’s next gasp turned into a cry halfway through. “What . . . why . . .”
“Why must there always be a why? Don’t you ever weary of whys?”
Athelstan did not answer. Whatever Floki was doing—and Lagertha could imagine—it was leaving him breathless and strung out. Lagertha let her eyes drift to slits. To a casual observer, she might seem to be sleeping. She didn’t want Athelstan looking to her for reprieve, especially when Floki suddenly rose and flipped him onto his stomach. The slave cried out, but she did not move. They had nothing left—her and Ragnar. No land, no boat, nothing to promise and nothing to trade. The only thing keeping them—and their children--out of Haraldson’s hands was goodwill. Athelstan would have to do his part, the same as all of them. Better that he be frightened at the hands of one of Ragnar’s friends than slaughtered or sold by his enemies.
Floki arranged Athelstan face down with his knees tucked under him. He picked up the little bowl that held the lard mixture. “Nothing but the best for a slave of Ragnar’s.” Dipping his fingers in the grease, he pressed his other hand into the small of Athelstan’s back. Athelstan was trembling, but Floki just made little shushing noises and kept his movements slow.
When Floki first breached him with one long finger, Athelstan jerked and cried out, trying to get away. Floki pinned him with a hand at the back of his neck. “Settle down, little priest. Let the slick do its work.” Athelstan’s breaths were coming raggedly. “Tingles, does it not? Focus on that. The burn will fade.”
Lagertha closed her eyes as Floki began to stretch and prepare the slave. It was only sex. Whatever Athelstan might think, that was not such a terrible thing. She’d worried about allowing it with Floki—feared that such a strange man might have strange appetites—but those concerns seemed groundless. He was being careful with their slave. Truly, he was being much more patient and generous than they’d had any right to expect. The guilt now coiling in her gut was groundless. Worse, it was an insult to Floki, who’d taken them in at such grave risk and asked for such a small thing in return.
She opened her eyes to see three long fingers disappearing into the slave. Athelstan was quieter, now, but tears were dripping down his face. Floki wore that same patient expression. His usual twitches and giggles had disappeared into single-minded focus. Athelstan had gone fully soft. Floki kept trying to reach around him, probably to stroke him erect once more, but every time he released his grip on the man’s shoulder or neck or hip, Athelstan tried to twist away. At last, Floki sighed and just restrained him. “Obstinate Christian.”
“Is he disobeying?” Bjorn asked suddenly. The boy was staring up at the ceiling, his arms behind his head.
Floki laughed. “Not in any matter of consequence.”
“He needs to obey,” Bjorn said, “We gave our word.”
“It’s no matter. For an ignorant foreigner, he is doing very well. Go back to sleep.” Lagertha doubted he had ever been asleep, but he closed his eyes. Floki pulled his fingers out and stroked down Athelstan’s side. “Alright, little one, you’re as ready as I can make you.” His voice was pitched low, but Lagertha caught it. She wondered if that was by design. “The rest is up to you. Relax for me, now.” His body came up to blanket the smaller man.
When he breached Athelstan, the priest’s cry turned into a whimper so pitiful that Lagertha nearly got up and went to comfort him. She restrained herself. A child who was picked up every time he fell would never learn to walk. Besides, Floki was being considerate—pushing in slowly and then pausing to let Athelstan become accustomed to his girth. It was only sex, and Athelstan would be fine. As Floki began to move in small thrusts, Athelstan was quiet. Floki continued to murmur to him, his voice now too soft for Lagertha to hear. While one hand combed through his hair, the other slid beneath that pale hip, drawing a gasp out of the slave.
“Mother.” She turned at the whispered word and found Gyda staring at her with wide eyes. “What’s he doing to Athelstan?”
Lagertha folded her daughter into her arms. “It’s nothing to worry about, love. They’re having sex, that’s all.”
“Is he hurting him?”
“No,” she answered evenly, “Floki is being gentle.” She was almost certain it was true. The little gasps and cries that Athelstan was letting out were not so much pained as conflicted.
“Then, why is he crying?”
“He’s frightened.” Lagertha stroked her hair. “I don’t think he’s ever had sex before. First times can be overwhelming.”
Gyda nestled into her. Her voice was small. “Were you frightened? Your first time?”
Lagertha smiled as she held her. “No,” she said in a conspiratorial tone. She leaned back and took Gyda’s face in her hands, “But, I was with your father.”
Comforted, Gyda closed her eyes and was soon drifting off to sleep. Lagertha turned to watch the men once more. Floki was fucking in earnest now, his hips drawing back and sliding in, firm but unhurried. His hand was still under Athelstan, working his cock in time with his thrusts. The priest was hard and was shuddering in Floki’s hands, as if he wasn’t sure whether he should arch towards him or away. He wasn’t struggling, though, and that was something. His lips moved as he whispered, too quietly, at first, for Lagertha to hear. Then, Floki seemed to touch something inside him and he keened. His voice rose and Lagertha recognized his prayer-language.
Floki’s free hand fisted in his hair and tugged back, firm but not cruel. “I told you, priest, no gods can hear you now. It’s only you and me.” Athelstan let out a sound that was almost a sob.
“Let him pray if he wishes.” Lagertha couldn’t remember deciding to speak, but her voice was clear. “We each find comfort in our own way.”
Floki’s expression soured, but he released Athelstan’s hair. “As you wish.”
The priest panted for breath. After a moment, he found his voice again and began chanting quietly. The prayer did not last very long, though. Floki was growing more demanding. His thrusts picked up in speed and force. Athelstan’s voice wavered and broke under the assault and soon the lilting words were disappearing into incoherent gasps and moans. He let out a true sob. Again, Lagertha wanted to comfort him—to gather him into her arms and tell him she was proud of him—but he was not looking at her. He was not even looking to his heaven.
His eyes were fixed on Ragnar.
Floki caught the look, and it seemed to soften something in him. His thrusts grew less sharp and he ran a hand down Athelstan’s spine. “He is not for us,” he told him, his voice soft and gentle, “You can look all you want, even love all you want, but only from a distance.” He bent his head and pressed a kiss between the younger man’s shoulder blades. “It’s just the way things are.” Lagertha swallowed against the lump in her throat as the night’s events took on a new and clearer form. This was not about Floki lusting after an untouched slave. This was not even about Helga’s fast.
Floki thought he’d found a kindred spirit.
Neither man would last long, now. Floki was driving into him faster and faster, some of his wildness beginning to cut through the false calm. Athelstan was arching and writhing in his hands. Tears were streaming down his face, but his expression held no pain—only arousal and confusion. On the next thrust, he threw his head back, arching his back and crying out. “Ragnar!” He spilled in Floki’s hand, painting the bed beneath him and then collapsing into the mess he’d made.
Even as he drove into him fast and hard, Floki rubbed his back in a consoling way. “Shhh,” he murmured, “Shhh . . .” He resettled his grip, thrust a few more times, and then threw his own head back. His eyes went wide, then closed as he let out a sigh that sounded like relief. He pulled out gently and rolled aside so that his weight would not crush the slave. Letting out a sigh of her own, Lagertha glanced around the room one more time. Her heart suddenly beat faster.
“Athelstan.”
She had not spoken. Floki had not spoken. Athelstan slowly picked up his head and saw what Lagertha had just noticed.
Ragnar was awake. His eyes were slightly clouded with fever, but he was watching Athelstan with a soft, gentle expression. After a moment, he lifted the covers of his bedroll in an obvious invitation.
For a moment, no one moved. No one even seemed to breathe. Then Athelstan let out a shuddering breath. He rose on shaky legs, stepped over to Ragnar’s bedroll, and tucked himself in beside him, apparently taking no notice of his own nakedness. Ragnar folded the slave into his arms and held him much like Lagertha had held Gyda. He let him bury his face in his shirt and kissed his hair as he drew the blankets over his shaking shoulders.
As he cradled Athelstan, Ragnar threw a glare over his head. His look of censure found Lagertha, who stared back without apology, and then settled on Floki. The shipbuilder met his gaze silently for long moment. Then, his face twisted and he hissed. Flicking his fingers, as if to fling the matter away, Floki turned over and wrapped his arms around Helga.
Ragnar’s gaze stayed sharp and watchful, like a sheepdog in the night. Athelstan’s tremors were ceasing as he sank into his embrace. But, as Ragnar’s hand came up to stroke through his priest’s hair, it trembled a little in a way that had nothing to do with fever.
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In the long years that followed, Lagertha had much cause to regret her hasty vow. True, Athelstan seemed to come through it with little harm. He was quiet and kept to himself for a day, and gave Floki a wider berth thereafter. Mostly, he just seemed surprised when the sky did not fall. And, Ragnar understood once Lagertha explained about her word and their desperate need for goodwill. He hated it, but he forgave her.
But, the bitter gleam of jealousy that was sparked in Floki’s eyes only burned and grew. Year after year, battle after battle, it would not be quenched until Athelstan was in the ground and Ragnar was shattered into pieces.
fin