athelstanthescribe | (no subject)

Without Sinric around to clean it, the room certainly bears the signs of Ragnar's bender. Empty bottles, wet clothes dropped in a corner, the scent of his sweat on the sheets.

Sinric feels his own heart ache - for them and for himself. He takes Athelstan's hand and steps inside, closing the door behind them.

"Nothing I do is right", Athelstan mutters unhappily, picking up a discarded bottle. "More harm caused."

Edited 2015-09-28 23:46 (UTC)

Sinric catches his hand and pulls Athelstan back to him. He cups Athelstan's cheek, looking deep into his eyes. "Ragnar would not blame you for this. Or want you to blame yourself. This is not your doing but whatever force it is that keeps you apart from him."

He steps away and starts to tidy the room, stacking the bottles away and tidying the wet clothes into a basket to be laundered.

Edited 2015-09-28 23:49 (UTC)

"I told him long ago, after Gyda died, that he should send me away for grief follows where I go." Athelstan's throat moves sharply and he looks down. "Even then, before we were lovers, he wouldn't hear of it."

Sinric turns with impassioned light in his eyes. "You are not the bringer of grief! We are all God's playthings and all the comfort we can take in our suffering is in each other. In the love we share."

He believes that. He has to. Tears form in his eyes, and he tries to blink them back.

Edited 2015-09-28 23:56 (UTC)

"Everyone I ever loved before I came North is dead." It's bleak. "Some at the hands of Ragnar's friends and kin, some only of sickness. I don't bring it willingly, but it follows me like a shadow."

"Our shadows follow us because we look towards the light. You survived where your brothers didn't. The blame in that is hardly yours." Sinric points out, his voice a little disparaging, wishing he could make Athelstan see.

"And no more was it theirs", he says softly. "Most of them fell to weapons they never expected to face. Poor Cennwulf let himself die of despair, and the last three... didn't have my good fortune. And then Gyda and Thyri, two who meant so much to me... I thought I hadn't escaped it after all."

Sinric cups his cheek and draws Athelstan into a slow kiss, gentle and soft. He knows he doesn't have the words to make Athelstan understand that it isn't his fault. That it can't be his fault.

Athelstan is drowning in darkness, more day by day. He lets himself sink into the kiss, his only lifeline.

When they break for air, "I've always feared it would be Ragnar who suffered next."

"He will come for you." Sinric reassures, stroking back Athelstan's hair. "He is coming for you. It is better he vented his frustration here where he is safe and others can look out for him. That he can go back ready to think and act with care and sense."

"If he dies..."

It's his very worst and deepest fear.

"If someone has spoken to him of your fears, then he will know to travel with care. To go slowly and wisely when the time is right."

"I hope so. He must not rush, just because I suffer." He pulls away a little, pacing. "If he dies on the voyage - or worse, if he is killed, Ecbert would show me his body just to break me... and I would be lost."

Sinric watches him for a moment before crossing to where Athelstan is pacing. He steps in front of Athelstan and takes his hands again.

He holds Athelstan's eyes, making him look up. "He's coming for you. There is hope, but you must hold onto it. Make it the candle you see clearly by." He strokes Athelstan's cheek, kissing him again.

His own heart is breaking inside, knowing the only man who loved him that much would die soon. And that he would be alone.

But he pushes his own pain back and pulls together his strength to give Athelstan what he needs - hope.

"I try." It's a whisper. "And it never goes out, but sometimes it's a weak and flickering thing."

"Let me help you hold it?" Sinric whispers, still cupping Athelstan's cheek. "We'll keep it from guttering."

He looks into Sinric's eyes and nods.

"You can build it up high, while we're here."

Sinric forces a smile and kisses him again, trying to keep too much heat from it. The last this Athelstan needs is guilt over that too.

He's trying to recover, but it's a slow, slow road with many setbacks - even if his body is as healed as it ever will be now.

He returns the kiss, drawing comfort from it.

Sinric strokes Athelstan's cheek, pressing his forehead to Athelstan's. "Will you lay down with me? I ask nothing more than that - just your embrace. It feels like too long since I have been held."

"Several nights", he says softly, "while Luka has been sick and Constantine occupied. Of course I will."

He nods, a little sadly. He turns away to shed his over tunic, stripping down to linen undershirt and light trousers. Enough to feel the warmth and touch but not so much to pressure Athelstan for more than that. Unless he wants it.

He peels back the sheets and stretches out on the bed, holding his arms open to Athelstan.

His ache for contact is almost painful, the need to be held.

He's fallen out of the habit, in the weeks and months he's been a captive, and the psychological causes of his impotence are many. (And possibly include being convinced he won't be able to.)

Silently, he kicks off his shoes and lies down in Sinric's arms.

Sinric tucks himself close in Athelstan's arms, resting his head on Athelstan's shoulder. He strokes Athelstan's arms, hands moving listlessly from shoulder to wrist just to feel the warm, human reality of being held.