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Jun. 1st, 2015 10:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
athelstanthescribeThere'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.)
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.)
