Athelstan of Lindisfarne

There's something under his bed again. He can hear it moving about, he can smell it, and he doesn't know if it's the demon come back, if it's found him even here, or something else. Ragnar's - in the bathroom, perhaps, or gone downstairs for something to drink. Wherever he is, he isn't there.

Athelstan lies, alone and rigid in the dark, not daring to move until it stops. Then he gets up, and he takes a candle and looks under the bed.

There's nothing there.

He lies slowly back down on the mattress - and within a minute, it starts again.

Athelstan bolts for the door.

Athelstan can see Ragnar everywhere he looks in this room, and it tears at his heart at the same time as it comforts him.

He tries not to think of it, though, turning to take Sinric's hand again as they step inside.

Athelstan had been doing better, it seemed, talking with more strength and lucidity and staying awake longer at a stretch.

Not any more.

He's lying on his front again, sweat standing out on his skin, when Sinric approaches the bed, and mutters something unintelligible when Sinric touches him.

Athelstan doesn't make a habit of leaving his door unlocked - who does, really, these days?

But sometimes, like this particular night, when it's by prior arrangement... well, he doesn't mind so much.

He's half-asleep in bed by the time Ragnar arrives.

Athelstan leads Sinric into the suite of rooms, and straight into the bathroom.

"Would you like plain water, or something in it?"

Either way, it's probably going to sting.

They lower the cross as gently as they can, but there's still a jolt when it hits the ground. And then they start to pull the nails out of his hands and feet, and that hurts almost more than when they went in, and Athelstan screams, and they stop.

He feels a small bottle held to his lips, a bitter taste in his mouth, and he swallows. A few minutes later, they try again with the nails, but he no longer cares.

They load him onto a low cart and the bumpy ride from the field to King Ecbert's villa begins. When it's over, two or three pairs of hands lift him smoothly and carry him inside, laying him on a bed. Another dose of poppy juice is poured into his mouth, and he drinks it. And then he's left alone.

He lies there for some time, gathering his strength, the only thought in his mind of home. Surely, he thinks vaguely, they won't have posted guards on the door for a man on the edge of death, and who couldn't be expected to walk besides.

He forces himself up, gritting his teeth against the flares of pain even through the dulling effect of the juice, and step by agonising step, Athelstan makes it to the door.

There's nothing left.

Horik and his men have gone, everyone says so, gone and left him behind, and the few times he's managed to get to the magic place, there's been no sign of Ragnar. Since then, the door has refused to show itself for weeks, weeks filled with pain and crushing loneliness, and nothing but the same stretching out before him as far as he can see. And worse even than that, he's failed in his promise to Ragnar.

Athelstan doesn't believe Ragnar would abandon him if he had any choice - but that can only mean that for one reason or another, Ragnar has no choice - perhaps the other men have finally declared Athelstan unworthy, and they surely would if they saw him now - or else thinks he's dead, and Athelstan has lost hope that they'll ever meet again. Lost hope of heaven, too, when the communion bread tasted like ash in his mouth. Either thought tears at his already wounded soul, and both together are unbearable - but perhaps, after all, there's one way Valhalla will have him...

He goes to the kitchen, and though he's quickly chased out, he doesn't leave empty-handed - or rather, empty-sleeved.

They'll notice its disappearance soon, but not soon enough. (Everywhere he goes, stares and whispers follow him, and he knows this time it will never stop. But he knows what to do.)

Back in his room, Athelstan takes off his long-sleeved tunic and raises the knife, steadying himself, before setting it to his wrist.

The first cut, on the left, is long, smooth and deep, almost to his elbow.

The second, on the right, with the knife gripped in a slippery and shaking hand, is ragged and trails off to a much shallower cut before it's done, as he drops the knife and falls to the bed.

(Just for a moment, before his eyes close, he thinks he sees a figure in the corner. A man, not too tall, with long brown hair and the robes of the Holy Land, looking at him with sorrow. And then he's gone.)

The party is loud and raucous - but aren't they always? Even if this one is all the more so in celebration of the new child. Athelstan's come to enjoy it, all the noise and life that are so unlike anything he knew in England.

He makes his way among the crowds, drink in hand.

They don't talk much as they walk into the woods, but Athelstan sees how Ragnar looks around and moves, placing himself between Athelstan and... someone he can't quite see.

Finally, they stop in a clearing. Ragnar declares it safe for him to go on alone, but Athelstan... doesn't want to go just yet. He can't look away from Ragnar's face.

Athelstan is sitting outside the hall, working on repairing a net that belongs to one of the old fishermen.

Lagertha doesn't need him just now, and it's something useful to do with his hands while he waits for Ragnar, because surely he'll be back any day now.