#athelstan ic.

[melodicwitchlight]

the mundane he lived with, jess, had a better time sleeping now, no longer on the bed with a window yawning a little open, for the city air to breathe in. she was in the house of beautiful woodsy smell, which calmed her. she was still suffering quite, he sees as he writes in his quill and ink at the monastery. she felt demons clawing their way into her chest, not unlike his delusions of seeing his book of saint john bleeding, his forehead bleeding.

she felt the world was cruel to her, as she walked on the westeros road, trekking with her backpack, tired. she is walking away from john and dean as she did not want to fight demons and ghosts ; not wanting to go into the family business. she is thinking, why can't anyone understand me, of how much pain I'm in?

he sighs, he walking alongside her, he hugging his orange scarf around his neck, yet she seemed a little afraid of him..? she coughing violently, drawing blood onto her palm, overworking herself to align the distortion of the tyranny of the world ; of the invasion of the saxons and vikings.

memories had rushed to overwhelm her from their long long history together, she struggling to breathe through and live, and also dealing with the strange light and confusion of trying to understand people like ragnar and ecbert, who saw her drowning under a green sea, and...are they hurting or helping me? he shaking his head, as she tries to ascertain his understanding of his reality.

she is wanting to do right by him from the many adventures they had ; she saying he gave her a lot of courage and light to continue to live in this harsh world, she with him when he was alive in Kattegat, a ghost, and then brought to life by Christ.

he wants to reassure her, say the words he spoke to alfred, or something as simple as mercy, mercy, mercy, to her. floki had killed him, fell him with an axe, and he was breathing in the beautiful cliffs which ragnar buried him in, shining in glorious forest and nature.

he had seen her drawing, of him wearing a green sweater and his rabbit he named after gyda. ' it's beautiful...' he says in wonderment. the green was the ocean, blue and green the shore where the waters washed the sand he knelt by ; the sea calling to his soul in the darkness of the strange vikings village.

[sanctificetur]

ulvemyt ☀️ vali lokison :

athelstan is continuing to walk in the park, listening to jack savoretti’s only you, and reflecting how proud he was of his son, alfred.

he was thinking his son’s body was more than a carcass and one both ; it all to be embraced. what you think is weak and conflicted are brave traits, as he remembers hearing him sing, to find you,

you were staring at your bedroom wall with only ghosts beside you… I was on my way to find you

when looking above from heaven. for everything, there is a season ; and you are your own family of seasons.

savoretti’s singing was beautifully calming, speaking his raw emotion haunted within the hollows of him.

with your courage, I escaped my fears, as he trails his fingers on the ivory piano keys,

only you know where to go to get to me, the cymbals accentuating a tempo.

as the song continues on, he being a little lost in reminiscence, he sudden found himself collide with another.

he says, ‘ sorry ‘ to the person he bumped into, the earbuds falling to the ground. they were airbuds. savoretti’s calm croons emanated from them as they lay on the pavement.

vali notes the walkman was coloured an ocean blue, remembering he didn’t like water as he could not swim. ‘ it’s alright, ‘ he says, not sure why athelstan was apologising.

he had been walking in the park, enjoying the forest feel to it — remembering a innocent time he ran as a wolf with his fellow brother narfi… ( liking the morning dew smell of the grass ).

he reached to the earbuds on the ground, glad it didn’t land on the puddle of water pooling on the pavement. it had rained last night and now had stopped.

he was walking a time where the ultraviolet was quite low ( below five ). sunlight rather weakened him when too strong, as per his upbringing in jotunheim. and he wore a cap on his head just in case the rays shone brighter again.

he says, ‘ I quite like written in scars. ‘

[melodicwitchlight]

athelstan is the throne room ;; brown wood 🪵 covering the walls. his wounds still aches, of a crucifixion which had been the death of him.

scars are on his forehead, and his back aches painfully from being hung on the cross. he is wearing a dark brown priest’s cowl and hood.

he says to ecbert that no woman should be treated like that, looking at the woman’s face in which her husband had hit her.

[devoutpriest]

arrival in storm's end | margaery + athelstan.

ablessedharvest.

ATHELSTAN GLANCES OUT AT THE SEA, AS HE HELPS ROW THE BOAT WITH HIS BROTHERS. He liked water, it cleansing and powerful ; he feeling the water in the bath. THE WAVES OF THE SEA lap all around the sturdy boat, as they sailed towards a foreign land. Father Cuthbert had once again encouraged them to enter another land, to preach the Word of God, the day before. A letter additionally had been written on parchment, and sent via raven to this Storm’s End, to notify the people, of their arrival.

So, henceforth now the next day, they gathered their supplies, like scriptures & quills and had boarded the boat, to travel from the Lindisfarne Monastery in the Kingdom of Northrumbia, England, all the way to Storm’s End.

The truth was, despite having done quite a number of rounds of these pilgrimages and developing a number of new languages, there was still a sense of apprehension he felt, although it was also mixed with the buzz of adventure.

He did not know what to expect, although he trusted in his God to keep him and his brothers’ safe. That part was certain.

The boat finally arrived to where the castle of Storm’s End was, a magnificent castle to behold, which briefly took Athelstan’s breath away. It was a light brown castle, with turrets and keeps ; surrounded by a blue sea. mountains surrounded them, sprawling and beautiful in its green and yellow scenery. there were grey clouds in the sky. 'it's like genesis,' he wondered to a fellow monk, 'the gardener joshua watering the gardens ; river pi'shon awashing around hav'i lah...'

They then docked at Shipbreaker’s Bay, a port in the sand shore where the waters rose and ebbed in their waves, where they tied the boat to a wooden pole. For some odd reason, there was a giant fortress around Storm’s End, which gave his brothers and Athelstan pause. How could they enter?

No sooner than they thought this, the fortress parted, and a previously unseen door & steps rose up with a clamour of tremendous rumbling noise, it forming a bridge in between.. THAT IS GOOD, THEY RECEIVED WORD OF OUR ARRIVAL…

Climbing up the rocky steps, Athelstan reached the door first & knocks on the doors three times, and waited patiently with his brothers. The GOSPEL OF ST. JOHN was clasped in Athelstan’s arms. Numerous other books were piled in his bag as well, which was slung over his body.

[sweetsplinteredspirit]

Athelstan was at the church with a kitten carved on it with the young monsignor. Its whiskers were black and long engraved charcoal ; a woodsy smell.

The monsignor was wearing a black suit with white collared shirt. He was a Vanir, a creature of sight. ‘ Gaman at hitta pik, nice to meet you. Mitt navn er Monsignor Sebastian. ‘ Bark powdered his eyes, his gaze rather piercing, Athelstan recognising him to be the same priest who had asked him if he believes in norse. His heart thudded in his chest, where he could feel the cold cross, shy and scared of the other. The cross held significance to him, a flower sword, as he could speak to his son, Alfred through there.

SWEETSPLINTEREDSPIRIT : TUMBLR GENERAL CLASS;

I. Can login and is intact and viewed chrono in blog theme view and navigation in full beauty.

II. Login once a year to retain username.

III.  Capable of posting and interacting without any restrictions.

IV. Can look at current sessions, iOS apps > Apps in account settings, and writing Review to end of tumblr url.

V. Generally can look through each page of blog theme view to see if there is a screening filter on it, as well as tumblelog / postlog view.

VI. Overall Blogroll : Tumblr.

The hollow of the church room was a yawning yggdrasil trunk of tree. He had seen a sighting of this tree once with his fellow vikings. He says to Sebastian, ‘ Morginn, monsignor, ‘ bowing in courtesy. A moment later, he says, gathering courage to continue speaking to the priest, ‘ As I was walking through town, I saw a scarecrow of straw that looked scary. ‘

The town was in a southern gothic forest in the country, where he knows how strange it can be. He remembered he had been crucified by saxons in the harsh outback.

He had escaped to there ; pilgrimaging through the desert, the forest where he splashed through the river, to evade the wrath of high school. He had killed a bully, Matthew, for hurting his rabbit Gyda. He thought the town may frown upon this, so he doesn’t say this to Sebastian.

It was Einmanaor, a day of snow, snowflakes drifting to the ground. He was walking through the bridge where a river was, during his walk, going downtown, and strangely, green blue silk streams were flowing on another black house’s roof - a well connection. The pond he sees ahead is the Well of Urd. He saw a man sitting there, bare feet touching on the black cobblestone.

Sebastian nods at the other’s words, ‘ The scarecrow is a norse god of fertility - we sacrifice a tourist, so the town will prosper. It is a great honour to be chosen. ‘

As they talk, an elderly man is busking on the thatched brown jute stringed ground with a long grey beard, playing the harmonica ; moving his lips in sharp sound. He was sat near the steps of the church, where a priest had been killed ; his ghost haunting the town. He was a resident in a nursing home, in which he felt quite sad and lonely in - pain and paranoia too, as he was a jewish survivor. As he harmonises, he is a beautiful boy, sailing on a ship.

[melodicwitchlight]

rcbcrn ☀️ athelstan :

‘ All of the feeling inside me isn’t raging, no, they were muted, much like the colors of something that have been left outside in the rain for too long. I didn’t FEEL like i once did, didn’t feel the same thump that my heart would make near Ragnar, didn’t feel sadness as i once had. It was like everything was draining away from me but this form stayed, ‘ Athelstan grimaced at his words and pursed his lips.

At this point, half translucent and ignored by all, he didn’t think that meeting his God only to be cast into HELL would be worth it. “I once read, ‘When love is lost, do not BOW your head in sadness; instead KEEP your head up HIGH and gaze into heaven for that is where your broken heart has been sent to heal.’ I did not think that it would ever apply to me; I never believed I would fall in love, but, it seems relevant now,” hands reached for shoulders and dug into skin as well as they could. Blue met blue and Athelstan’s eyes dug holes FURTHER into the younger him. Words could not be found to tell him what he should do.

they are under the shelter of the straw house in kattegat, watching the village, light rain falling down the roof. he sees his self, athelstan, in future remembrance.

‘ a ghost, ‘ the older had said he was, to the one looking at his grey blue discolour, a white shirt clad on his torso and pants which were a little long ( so he rolled the sleeves up ).

he himself, aethelstan, is wearing a light brown shirt with flowing sleeves ( embroidered at hem ) and the same pants. he sees athelstan has a faint scar on his hand, from being crucified in the cross, asking ‘ could I touch your hand? ‘ pain is echoing in his chest, as he folds his flowy arms and sees the other.

he missed lindisfarne, where ragnar and the vikings had raided. kattegat was quite strange in its ways, it having shaken him. they saw him as a virgin monk to be slaughtered and sold, and did not care about him or his lindisfarne family ( he seeing his brothers hung crudely with a rope tied to washing lines and logs of wood for campfires. )

as athelstan speaks to the younger, having seen him when praying at the seashore, he and ragnar were talking about paris in the sand. he remembers being in a raid with his fellow vikings, his black purple hair swaying in breeze and sighing in wistful sadness ( as he is on the boat to england ). there was a bookstore of manuscripts in lindisfarne, which he touched the yellowing crackle of paper ( with beautiful calligraphic ink ).

there was a beautiful mountain overlooking the sea there, which aethelstan liked going to during his monastic studies before the vikings pillaged and plundered, to see and hear the rushing sound of the waters trickling through. it brought him peace and calm, as did the silver cross he wore.

god keep my head above water, don’t let me drown, it gets harder.

modern reincarnation;

I. Modern reincarnation new athelstan ic.

II. Stayed intact on my multimuse.

III. Vault cottage username channels : athelstan - blinded by faith. usernames in full ( new ).

IV. Verses.

V. OOC.

VI. Positivity.

VII. Headcanon : Modern.

VIII. Found peace and pain in storm and rain in modern emergence in the roleplay community.

athelstan had felt sorrow and sentimental, in furrowing of his brows and slight groove of his forehead in touch, a brown moth moving its wings in the paper. as aethelstan touches the other’s hand. he enjoyed photography, and colours of the landscape. ‘ low key colour, ‘ he continues. ‘ I was in the grey storm waters, holding out my hand to ragnar. ‘

he had said to ragnar to be there for his sons, after the words of mercy.

he remembers when cooking fish in the house, that he was less interested in escaping now, as he talks to the wider eyed man, ‘ I never believed I would fall in love, ‘

ragnar had been at church with him, and they were fighting in a battle against saxons. the dane warrior had seen a bleeding wound with mud on his friend’s cheek, and had handed some green herbs 🌿 and water to fight the infection. athelstan cradling his cheek with them and tree bark bandage, and saying he was kind and tender-hearted. he had draped on a brown woollen coat with blue grey armor.

[melodicwitchlight]

athena had been hiking up to the fjord mountains ; dark and light brown rocky cliffs, stopping at thrymheim.

‘ i was on the way to visit the uppsala temple ‘, when she saw the woman’s injured state. skadi was wearing a yellow sunflower shirt.

she sees the white and browning grey wolves standing with teeth bared glaring at her, standing in between the green fir trees within the cliffside. a bit scared, standing a distance away at first.

skadi sees the other’s gaze, the wolves were her family. she ruffles the wolf’s fur, remembering njord disliked the wolves ; thinking their howling sounded ugly after the song of swans. ‘ I have heard about the uppsala temple before. ‘

‘ I don’t think we have met, but you look like you needed someone to talk to, ‘ she continues to say.

athena nods, having heard about skadi, noting a wolf say it, from the stories she read.

they talk for a while, skadi’s wound hurting quite a lot, she wincing.

she then nods, allowing the woman, she learned name was athena, bandage her brown coloured arm. white bandage to the bruise purpling on her skin from the wood splinters ( which she managed to pull out splinter before the salve cream and bandage ).

@writtenbytate

[ BANDAGE ]  for your muse to provide my muse with first - aid (athena - genderbend athelstan to skadi. maybe she reincarnation time travel back to skadi’s timeline of your preference & she patches up skadi’s wound from some battle?)

Skaðis jaw was clenched as this Midgardian decided to help "heal" her wounds. She didn't like accepting help from anyone. She was a lone wolf and liked to keep it that way but of course this mortal had to find her as she was picking out the splitters from the wood that impaled her.

Her wolves were sitting around, glaring at the young women, watching making sure that she wouldn't hurt their leader. "Why are you so far up the mountains at this time of year, it is not safe for your kind."

[sanctificetur]

athelstan continues to walk down the pavement circling through the park. he had been listening to jack savoretti through his walkman — only you, which now turned to next of his songs — the other side of love.

he is wearing his intricate flower cross, which reminded him of the time he went to france ; he saw francis have a pattern of a flower on his silver armour sash ; saying flowers were a symbol of spring 🌼.

the tambourine playing resonated within him like the wild norse music he has listened to in kattegat ; like wardruna. they playing the music by the campfire.

his eyes flicker up to the person he bumped into after quickly saying sorry, seeing a young blonde-haired woman with light blonde curls.

as he sees a red flowered crown with green leaves encircling her head, he realises it was gyda. she had been one of the rare few who felt he did not deserve hate and pain when he first arrived at kattegat, more so curious initially if she could keep him — she asking ragnar this — and then they had grown closer.

his eyes widen and he touches her face, worrying a little if he would shatter her.

she says, looking at him with yearning brown eyes, ‘I don’t like walking around this strange and empty house,’

and he says, ‘so hold my hand, I’ll walk beside you, my dear.’

[procrastinatingsoicanreadfanfics]

timetraveling!Vikings + Christmas

Summary: how timetraveling Vikings would react to modern Christmas/what they enjoy/etc.

Tagged: @majesticwren @obsessiveformiyatwins @leithdragon @demon-of-the-ancient-world @alicedopey @ivarlover @levithestripper @batmandallyboy @akayxo09 @vrtualfairy (hmu to be added to any of my taglists!)

Masterlist | based on this request | requests are OPEN!

Ragnar

I think Ragnar likes modern christmas more than he should

He takes it like many non-christians do nowadays – fuck Christianity, i’m getting presents

Might let Athelstan drag him to church

Leaves midway tho

So bad at gift-giving that he accidentally gets you a great one

Lagertha

The BEST gift giver

Has a little table (after you show her how excel works, obvi) of the people she wants to get presents for and tracks their wishes over the course of a year

You need her at Christmas, actually

She doesn’t like the Christian part of it, but she likes the community it creates and GODDAMN Lagertha makes some good food

Athelstan

Vibes to church service HARD, even in modern times

Big enjoyer of WHAM! And Mariah Carey

Makes small, but very thoughtful gifts

Definitely always gets sick around Christmas and wears a bundle of scarves

Please don’t let him shave his head weirdly, or his brain will freeze

Bjorn

Doesn’t like Christmas

He came to the future, you have planes, let him use them

Spends his Christmas in warm places

Honestly, he might enjoy Aussie Christmas

Any excuse for beaches and bbq

Ubbe

If you want to stage a great Christmas celebration, go to Ubbe

Despite being from Viking times, he will be able to organise it better

He likes bringing people together for any occasion, and will be decorating the venue he chose like a PTA-mom with rabies (so, quintessentially, Ubbe)

Does not let snowy grounds stop him from playing football with friends/brothers

Hvitserk

LOVES Christmas

An endless supply of cookies and chocolate? Are you kidding??? The christians got something right?????

Eats everything you leave lying around

On time for everything during Christmas

Honestly, he gets hilarious gifts for everyone

Surprisingly good at singing christmas carols

Honestly, Hvitserk makes friends in all religions so his year of exquisite eating is just

Easter -> Eid -> Midsommar -> Thanksgiving -> Hannukah -> Christmas

Rinse and repeat baby

Sigurd

Spends the entire time critizising the compository value of christmas songs

Has an enemies to lovers arc with them

One day, soon after Christmas Eve, you will find a slightly drunk Sigurd in front of a karaoke machine with a thousand yard stare and the best interpretation of Last Christmas your ears will ever hear

Ivar

Christmas is a capitalist venture for the foolish designed by greedy christians

Totally does not buy super expensive gifts for his friends to brag

That Tesla outside your door? That’s not a Christmas gift silly, he’s sending you down the frozen road as a sacrifice to Odin so his bleeding ears might be saved from Sigurd

Does make an effort to put his mafia-ventures on hold for you though

He still hates Christmas

Floki

HATES CHRISTMAS. Floki hates Christmas so much. Did he already say he hates Christmas?

Hates it so much he secretly loves it.

‘Annoyed’ at Helga for baking cookies with you

‘Annoyed’ at the celebrations and people coming together

He secretly enjoys the non-Christian part of Christmas

But he just can’t get over the Jesus being born thing

Celebrates the part of Easter where he’s dead for a few days

Helga

Loves Christmas, and without shame

Turns into a cookie factory

Handmade gifts for everyone

Does a lot of charity/social work around Christmas

Enjoys ice-skating rinks as well

Tells Floki to stop moping around (he does)

[demon-of-the-ancient-world]

There is Thunder in our Hearts (part 4)

Read on AO3

@levithestripper @grantairescurls @procrastinatingsoicanreadfanfics @eriexplosion @starrose17

Lagertha finds him.

Again, he hears her before he sees her. He would know her sounds anywhere.

"What are you doing?" she asks him, without coming into his line of sight.

"I," he says, "am making a handle. For a knife. For one of my boys."

"Which boy?"

He doesn't answer, only continues whittling away at the chunk of beechwood. It's the shape of a wolf's head, a strong shape. Each flick of the knife calms him. Somewhat.

"Ragnar." She's quiet now. Not angry.

His grip on the half-made handle tightens. "I am still listening."

Now she gets closer to him. When he looks up at her there are pinched lines of worry around her mouth, tired grey streaks around her eyes.

"Bjorn has returned," she says quietly. "Our son. He is unhurt."

Her words chip away at something in him, a gentler version of the knife he's using now. He lays the the project down, hands trembling. Bjorn. His eldest son. "And Floki?"

"Alive, too."

His oldest friend. His oldest son. Ragner is hit with a wave of almost giddy triumph. He's won. Again. "Did they say how it went with the Gotlanders?"

"They have agreed, for the time being, to side with us. With you."

"Good."

He keeps whittling. She doesn't need to say anything else. If he keeps his eyes locked away from her for long enough, she won't.

"The peace is a fragile one."

He shrugs.

"Ragnar," she says, softly. He keeps whittling. "Ragnar."

"What."

He hears her soft footsteps behind him, and then a hand brushes his shoulder, tightening there. "I will say it once: Athelstan may still die. I know it, you know it. Go to him. Speak to him."

Ragnar keeps whittling.

"He has asked for you. Many times."

"I can't."

His fingers grip the knife handle, hard enough that its surface digs into his skin. "I cannot face him, Lagertha. Why can no one understand that?"

She sits before him, pale brows drawn together in a frown. "You blame yourself. That does not mean he will blame you. You know how he is."

"I never said I blamed myself."

"Clearly you blame someone. And I don't think it's him."

She doesn't understand. Does she think he wants to see him, near death as he is?

"Go to him. You are being unreasonable - "

"I cannot stand the proof."

The truth explodes out of him like a sparking birch log. It sears his throat, it shames him.

Lagertha takes his hand in her own, roughened from gripping axe-hilts, from carding and spinning and weaving. Athelstan's hands are like that now, too. They weren't always. "Proof of what? Say it."

He can't look at her. His hand lifts, covers his face, and the other squeezes tight. The knife falls somewhere on the floor.

When he speaks it's hardly above a whisper. "That the gods can twist my fate too. That they can twist the fate of those I have claimed. That I am not my own god. I rule these people. I do not rule myself."

She is silent for a long time. The awful, raw thing he's just spat out lies thick between them, like a mass of blood and flesh.

"Well," she says, "I could have told you that."

He snorts out a a bitter laugh. The mass thins, slightly. "I am a man. I am not a god. And neither can I do battle with gods. There are times I forget that. I hate to admit I forget it."

But it doesn't seem to matter much now. There are other things that matter more than his pride. Even that, he cringes to admit - even to himself.

"Then you must - "

"I can't. Do not tell me what I must and must not do."

"Look at me." She takes his jaw in her hand, turning him toward her fierce face. "On this night, eight years ago, I burned our daughter's body on the beach."

He freezes in place. She has frozen him, her words have cast a frost spell.

"Look at me."

He can't not look. "You were not there."

"Don't." Something shatters the ice around him. "Do not speak to me about that - "

Her grip is like iron around his wrist. "I will speak of it as long as I have to. "Our child died. And you were not there. You went away and fucked another woman - "

Ragnar gets up. He wrenches his own hands from hers but they're still cold, icy rings about his wrists where she held him. He can't look, he can't think, all he can do is pace back and forth through the room like a goat soon to be slaughtered. She's finally done it, finally cracked away the piece of him he'd so badly tried to keep in place. How is it even after years of separation she still knows how to do that?

Somehow he ends up near a corner, forearms pressed into the wall, his head resting on his hands. He searches for thoughts but finds none, his mind a spinning whirl of cold, dark things he cannot start remembering. All he wants to do is tear something in half, or someone.

Eventually he hears Lagertha stand, make her way to the door. She doesn't come to him. "If you abandon the ones you love, they will begin to abandon you," he hears her say quietly. "Do not give yourself another night to regret."

Then the door closes, and he is alone.

****

When he walks into the room Athelstan lies in, it feels as if he's dragging his feet behind him, each step screaming not to proceed. But he does it. For you, priest, he thinks. For you, daughter.

A tallow candle stands by the bed, the only light in the otherwise shadowy room. Ragnar pulls up a stool and sits by the motionless, bedbound form.

Athelstan lies limp, breathing shallowly, but breathing. Someone has dressed him in a warm shirt, retied the bandages underneath. As Ragnar watches his head moves fitfully on the pillow, a line creasing between his brows. A small, pained sound escapes him that tears something deep in Ragnar's chest.

"Easy now," he says quietly. He dares to touch Athelstan's chest, to feel the warmth of life under his skin, the rapid little heart. Once he does, he finds it hard to move the hand away.

"You're all right now. I knew they'd take good care of you." The bandages - the ones Ragnar can see - are still clean for now. At least he doesn't have to see the blood his friend has spilled.

Rage comes over him, so quick and bright his hands shake and there's nowhere to contain it. Why had his men not listened to Athelstan? To him? Why did it have to come to this? Why were there those who supported Horrik still?

Why why why had he just not gone instead?

"Because I wanted to," he says aloud.

No, not for cowardice. He'd wanted to. Oh, by the gods he'd wanted to. But he had wanted to go to Gotland too, and to calm the outland raids Torstein had been sent to quell - and, more than anything, he wanted to be raiding with his brother across the sea, unknowing of and indifferent to all this chaos.

He had wanted so many things and couldn't have them all, so he had chosen to have none. "A king should deny himself wants in favour of his people's needs, isn't that right?" He says. "Denying yourself of pleasures - you taught me that idea, didn't you?"

Athelstan doesn't hear, doesn't speak.

"I don't know what brings you pleasure, my friend. I have tried to learn. But after all these years I still cannot understand parts of you. But I know the things that please me, and one of them is getting to kill those who have wronged me, and have done harm to those I care for. That pleases me a great deal."

Ragnar folds his trembling fingers together. The stain of blood still lingers under his nails. "You always tell me to wait. To think about my actions. To not act with impulse alone. So I waited. I thought. I didn't run off to Gotland or Guthbrand or the mountains - I stayed here. Had I gone away to fight for my people, I would leave them undefended. So I stayed, and others had died for it. How was I to win?"

Athelstan shifts in his sleep. He's facing Ragnar more now, and all Ragnar can see is the round bruise around his eye, the long still-healing cut on one cheek. Something reaches inside him and squeezes, crushing.

This is what happens, he thinks. Men who fight get hurt.

But Athelstan isn't men who fight. Athelstan is Athelstan.

His hands are tucked beneath a blanket, and Ragnar is reluctant to wake him, but he settles for laying his own hand on Athelstan's shoulder, squeezing it as tightly as he dares. He leans close, both hoping his friend can somehow hear him and hoping he cannot and won't remember a second of this when he is recovered.

"I'm sorry." he says.  "I know you can hear that."

His thumb strokes, gently as is possible, meeting bandages and feverish skin. By the gods...he's so small.

"I hurt you. You will hate me for it. You can, if you like. But you don't have to. If you want, give it to me and I swear I will hate myself enough for the both of us."

There's a small sound, something almost like a plea, that comes from the prone body. And Ragnar draws away, uncertain. He should not stay. If Athelstan wakes...

"I don't want you to die tonight," he says, so quietly. "You are not ready. I am not ready." He hides the tremor in his voice behind an uncertain smile. "Certainly the gods are not ready - not for you. You would puzzle them so much still, priest. Best you let them get used to you a little more before you join them."

Athelstan's head shifts. Very carefully, Ragnar lays his hand against his cheek, his forehead. Impatiently brushes away a few strands of ink-dark hair. "I did not mean to send you to your death," he tells him. "I never meant for that to happen. I believed...too much. Can you understand that? Can you forgive me?"

And I forgive you, he wants to say, but he can't. There is nothing for him to forgive.

He thinks of Athelstan, lying alone and bleeding into the mossy northern ground. He thinks of Gyda, who he could not save. "I'm here now," he says. He cannot be a god. Sometimes he fears he cannot even be a king. All he can be is here. "Do not let anyone let you think I've abandoned you. I never could."

The head in his hands shifts again, this time towards him. As if Athelstan wants to be closer.

"I will stay with you until the sun rises. I'm here now."

He stays right there, cradling Athelstan's head in his hand and listening to his every breath. To both their breaths, wound together. Making up for lost time.

Until the sun rises.

****

Birds.

When Athelstan begins to wake the first thing he hears is one of them, chirruping incessantly on the other side of the wall. For a moment he thinks he must be near a window, one of the narrow slices in Lindisfarne's walls that lets in the cold breath of the sea.

For a moment he lets it be true. He's slept late, perhaps he is unwell, and soon one of the brothers will see to him. There is no pain at his side, no beard on his cheeks and no scars on his hands.

He is at peace. For a moment.

But a twist in his side brings a closed sound of pain to his lips. Even so much as shifting his body is too tall of an order, so he endures. He aches in every part he can name.

Slowly, very slowly, he pries his eyes open. The first thing he notes is that he is in the same room as before, tucked away from the rest of the hall. The brief worry he had that he might have died and gone to...wherever he is fated to go, fades.

The second is that someone has dressed him in a warm wool shirt, soft against his skin - and the third is that he isn't alone in the room.

He has to blink hard several times to recognize the person sitting across from him. At first he thinks it could be Ragnar, but...

"Bjorn," he mutters.

He still wonders if he could be wrong until the figure looks up, eyes widening. "You're not dead!"

Athelstan can't help it - a small smile curves his mouth. "Neither are you. Does your mother know?"

The younger man nods enthusiastically. "I've seen her already. And my father. Floki came back unharmed as well."

He'll certainly be glad to see me alive, Athelstan thinks, drily. "And Gotland..."

Bjorn shrugs, his face darkening. "They have agreed not to wage war, that is something. But they see my father as a rival still, one they can intimidate. We will see."

Athelstan lies back, already feeling winded. But he's stronger than he was, he can feel in his bones a shaky energy already returning. The wound still aches, but not so terribly as it had. He isn't eager to move just yet.

"I heard about how your raid went...my father killed two of the men, did he tell you?"

Athelstan's stomach swoops out from under him. "He...he didn't."

Bjorn shrugs, though he looks uncomfortable. "Well. It happened. Before I returned. But they deserved it," he adds quickly. "That they would betray you when my father - when their king's honour is at stake...and you could have been killed."

"I could have been killed whether they betrayed me or not," Athelstan says.

"What they did didn't help," Bjorn says darkly. "My father gave you that position...that they could not respect it..."

"I know." Athelstan closes his eyes again, weary. The last thing he wants to think about is this, and yet it's the only thing it makes sense to think about. He has to think about it.

But Bjorn is eager to talk, eager to go over things. He is - unmaliciously, Athelstan is sure - thoughtless of the fact that his current conversation partner may not be in the best state for the talk he wants.

"He trusted them," Bjorn continues, "breaking my father's trust was never a thing that would end well for them."

Athelstan gives a noncommittal grunt, closing his eyes. He trusted me too, is all he can think. Are my own failings not breaking his trust?

"Athelstan?" says Bjorn, sounding alarmed. "Are you...still there?"

He drags his eyes back open, coming to fix them on the young man hovering near his bed. "I'm all right," he says in the most reassuring tone he can manage. "But I am weary. It is...difficult to speak to you, and I fear it will only get harder."

Bjorn nods, enthusiastic even about that. "I will go, and let you rest. My mother may come to you though...she says you need to be watched."

Of course she does. "Thank you, Bjorn."

He doesn't have the strength to do much else. His eyes fall shut and he's asleep again in seconds.

The cycle begins anew shortly after; waking to someone changing the bandages on one or more of his wounds, sipping water and healing herbs, falling asleep again. Sometimes he manages to get out a word or two in between, a question. Often he isn't awake long enough to hear the answer.

As Bjorn promised, Lagertha does show up after a time, and hovers over him with folded arms and a frown, scanning his wounds with an unflinching eye where the healing woman pulls away the bandages.

"I am better," he tells her, though the weakness in his voice isn't helping to convince her. "They've told me it's only a matter of time until I can walk again. With some help."

He adds the last part rather guiltily. In truth, despite wanting badly to rejoin the world, a part of him wishes he could remain hidden here for a little while longer. At least until he can sort out his many thoughts with a clearer head.

And he wants no one helping him. It is horribly embarrassing to need so much.

But he continues to need. Often he feels tired enough to sleep through an entire day if they'd let him, he cannot raise his right arm and he's always chilled, always thirsty. He is still working out how to tell those looking after him these things without them thinking he is complaining.

And his head aches. That he doesn't bother telling anyone.

Lagertha touches his forehead, lightly with the backs of her fingers. She sits beside him. "You are very lucky, you know," she says. "The gods have favoured you. I am sometimes alarmed at the amount of times you have escaped death."

Athelstan would have laughed, if it didn't hurt. He watches her hand, roughened from years of shield and sword-bearing, now carefully adjusting his blankets. "I hope it isn't the last time."

At his words her face only looks to be filled with a deeper sadness. "I feared it would be. Many times in the last few days I have thought your journey to Valhalla was near."

Athelstan smiles thinly. "I don't think the gods would welcome a sick man into the hall of warriors."

"They would," she says sharply. "Are these not battle wounds? And your fight continued long after your sword fell. I sat here beside you telling you not to surrender - I would know."

He doesn't remember that part.

"You scared me. I have watched friends die before." Her voice softens. "And this is not the first time I have sat with you while you battled a deadly fever."

Athelstan's heart sinks. He hadn't thought...

"Do you know what day it is?" she asks quietly, looking back at him.

What day? It takes him a moment, scrambling to count up how much time has passed since the raid - and then he remembers, and all her wanting to stay, the depth of her fear, makes sense.

Oh.

"I haven't prayed," is all he can think to say. "Normally I do - every year - and not only to my god..."

"I know." Lagertha has been thumbing his shoulder where blanket meets bandage, almost absent-mindedly. There is a heaviness in her face. "I hear you. The years when we have been in the same place, I've heard you. You ask for our gods to keep her safe. You ask them for a sign from her, that she can hear you. That she knows she is loved, that we think of her. You share your memories, and ask that the gods pass them on to her."

Warmth floods his cheeks. "I...I hope it has not insulted you. She was your child, not mine."

"It comforts me," she says. "No, I am glad someone thinks of her. She would want to hear you speak to her. She cared for you."

Athelstan doesn't cry. He is steady, as always, a great deal of hurt needed to elicit that response. But something is making it hard to speak, a hard knot forming at the back of his throat. "I did not know it was today," he manages. Any other year he would have kept track - and has.

"I did," Lagertha says quietly. "Do not worry, priest; I thought of her for both of us."

He gives a stiff nod. It's made his heart seem to fall out through his back, remembering.

"For a while I wondered if the gods were telling me and Ragnar something - that you should die when she did."

"But I didn't."

"No. No, you didn't."

Another memory. This one of his first time waking after his illness long ago, the first thing in his sight her face bent low over his. The world shining like dew, like a too-bright candle. Have I died? he'd asked, his words all running into one another.

No, you haven't, she'd answered, her face impossibly sad. He thinks he'd asked for Ragnar then too, and Lagertha said he's not here, go back to sleep.

When he'd woken next, Gyda was dead beside him.

"I prayed for her then, too," he tells Lagertha. "When I could manage it. If I could not say the prayers aloud I'd say them in my head, again and again, to as many gods as I could remember..."

The hand on his shoulder pauses. "I didn't know that," she says.

Keep her safe, he'd thought, his feverish mind in a thousand different places. Keep her safe. For me. For her mother.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I'm sorry it wasn't enough."

Lagertha brushes away a stray hair from his face. "It was enough. We did enough. We tried. And now she feasts with the gods."

Athelstan had wondered, at the time, whether it was because of him. That he had brought the plague on these people; he had been meant as a sacrifice and the gods were denied what they were promised. And so they had taken the lives of half the village, and left him alive to see what he had done.

Lagertha straightens. "It is the time to remember. To think of her, and to think of what comes next. But we have no room for guilt," she adds sternly, frowning at him. "That will do you no good."

He nods, feeling chided. Time to go forward, and forward.

The bedclothes rustle as she rises, and once again she adjusts them - though with his good hand he's perfectly capable of doing so himself. Her hand strokes his hair again, thumb brushing lightly over his forehead. "Sleep, priest," she says. "I think the worst is done."

Once she is gone, he shuts his eyes and rolls to his side. And prays in a whisper.

****

It's another day and a half before he can stand on his own, shaky and leaning heavily on a crutch, three before he's able to be out of bed for most of his waking hours. The arrow-pierced leg trembles badly and threatens to give out, but he's told if he rests it properly from time to time it shouldn't collapse under him. The wound in his side, which has left a tight and crooked scar, gives him a low constant ache, pulling unexpectedly at times and leaving him breathless and in pain.

And his broken arm is still in a sling. His writing arm. Of course, even the things he can do that aren't fighting are barred from him.

When he can, he ventures outside to sit on the steps of the hall, or further out into the village. The sun is too bright on his eyes, the breeze chill enough to leave him shivering after only a short time. But being somewhere other than that dark room is like breathing air anew, and he breathes it deep.

Sometimes folk he knows from the village - an elderly sail mender he greets whenever he sees him near the harbour, twin nine year old boys who admire his axes, the woman who sells onions and angelica root - will see him and come up to him, faces concerned or disbelieving. The boys tentatively ask if they can see his scar, and he's hesitant at first but when he finally pulls away his tunic their impressed comments can't help but make him smile.

The sail mender bides him sit on the dock when they talk, mentioning nothing but regarding him with concern. The onion seller passes him a bundle of herbs - ones he knows will help with pain and easy sleep - with a gentle pat on his hand as he passes her stall. An old woman he has hardly spoken to at all touches his arm and asks him how he fares.

This is how he finds out that word of his deeds, and word of his injuries, has travelled far beyond the confines of the great hall. Naturally, he finds it hard to spend any length of time outside without returning flushed with embarrassment.

Not that he isn't touched. He is, and deeply so. But in no way has he expected it.

"You are loved," Lagertha tells him one day. She insists on accompanying him on most ventures, hovering close enough to catch him should he stumble. "Don't you see how they all care for you? Even the ones you barely know?"

"I am a curiosity," he says drily, cheeks heated yet again. "An oddity. I fascinate them the way a foreign plant might."

"And you are good to people. All people. They remember that."

He doesn't think on it too hard. Doing so only makes his already aching head more painful.

On one of the rare occasions he manages to slip out unaccompanied, he limps to the yards behind the great hall, where he hopes he won't be seen. Once there he stands blinking in the sun, just breathing. He's still alive. The world is still alive.

He's still hobbling with his crutch, but makes it over to a low wall and sits, stretching his painful leg out in front of him. For the first time in a long while, he feels calm. At peace. The sky is nearing sunset, and streaked with rose-gold clouds, and smoke is rising from the hall's roof. He's at home.

The sound of movement from the hall's half open door makes him look up, and when he does he startles involuntarily. Ragnar stands just a few paces away, knife in hand.

For a long moment he stares at Athelstan, not saying a word. Then he strides up to him as if nothing could prevent him from doing so. Athelstan is momentarily envious at the sheer ease with which he moves through the world.

"Priest," he says, not looking at him but sitting down on the wall a few feet away. "I did not expect to find you here."

As he speaks, Athelstan is surprised to find his heart thudding anxiously in his chest. He's winded, close to internal panic. He has to clutch his hand in a fist to stop Ragnar from seeing it tremble. "Nor I you," he replies.

Ragnar takes out a block of dense wood, in the shape of a wolf's head. "Is that a hilt?"

His mouth twitches. "For Ubbe. He's in need of a good strong blade. I'd like to make one for each of my sons, each with a creature hiding in the hilt. A snake for Sigurd, of course, to match his eye."

Athelstan nods, the thunder beneath his ribs dimming somewhat. Maybe they don't have to talk, and instead can just - well, talk.

Ragnar whittles away, and Athelstan sits awkwardly beside him, unsure what to do or say.

"If I were to carve you a hilt, I think I would hide a pig within it."

"A pig?"

"Pigs," he gouges deep into where the wolf's eye would be, "are fiercer than they look. Because we keep them on our farms and eat them up on our tables, we forget that. But they are smart creatures, more so by far than a sheep or a cow. And they will eat anything they are given. Anything."

Ragnar frowns in concentration. "You take anything you are given. You accept and accept and accept, without judgement. Without fear. You think deeply. Have you ever seen a pig think? They do quite a bit of it. And - " he grins - "you don't look it, but you are near as stubborn as one sometimes, priest."

"I'm glad to hear it," Athelstan says drily, very unsure of whether he is being complimented or insulted.

"So. A wolf, a snake, and a pig. What other creatures have I surrounded myself with? We will see."

Athelstan nods again. Despite Ragnar being here - finally here - he feels suddenly lonely.

"Ragnar," he says in a low voice, "thank you. For bringing me back. For bringing me home."

The knife pauses, Ragnar's face unchanging. Athelstan prods onwards. "You saved my life."

The carving commences. "It was the healers who did that. And Lagertha."

"You could have left me where I was - "

"No, I could not."

His voice is sharp enough to make Athelstan hesitate. But something is replacing the anxious fluttering of his heart - a kind of warmth. He has nothing to fear from Ragnar, not his wrath and not whatever other feelings he may have.

There is no threat. None. There never was.

Daring himself, he nudges Ragnar on the arm. Playfully, in a way unlike him. Now Ragnar looks up, surprised. "You saved my life, and then you wouldn't see me. I was half dead, and you couldn't make the effort? You'd let your ex-wife do all the work?"

He says it lightly, and for the first time he feels lightly about it.

But Ragnar's face darkens. "I did see you," he says heavily, as though each word causes him pain. "I saw you. I held you. I was there."

The brief smile is wiped from Athelstan's face as he takes in Ragnar's words. "I didn't know."

Ragnar shrugs unevenly. "It was..." he waves his hand in a vague way. "You were not awake."

"I didn't know. I...thank you."

"Well. Lagertha made me do it."

The words sound so childlike that for a moment Athelstan has the bizarre desire to laugh. And Ragnar must sense it because the corners of his mouth have quirked up again.

I held you, he'd said...once again the heat of embarrassment crawls up Athelstan's neck. But more than that - gratitude.

"Ragnar," he says again, looking full at him, laying a hand more gently on his arm.

Dear friend.

Brother.

He knows not how to say all that he is thinking; I'm sorry, and forgive me, and I missed you, and thank you, and I forgive you, and let's put this all behind us. I respect you. I love you.

"Can we...can we stay here for a little while? Just...to sit. Will you stay with me?" He prays he doesn't sound desperate.

Ragnar finally looks back at him, eyes roving over the bandaged arm and the crutch and what's likely a face full of bruises. Athelstan is struck by how tired he looks. "Anything you like, priest," he says.

So they sit. It's not long at all before Ragnar puts down the carving knife and the wolf's head, and drapes an arm around Athelstan's shoulders, gently but firmly pulling him closer. And Athelstan lets out his breath, properly for the first time in days. All is right. All will be right, soon. It can be, and it will be.

The sun sets.

[melodicwitchlight]

👀 Do the mun and you get along? // 🎨 What are the mun’s hobbies? // 🙏 Do you think the mun would be able to survive in your world? // 🔥 How would you spend one day with the mun if you could?

[𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐊]:  Muse talking about the mun [𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒]: accepting [𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌]: @melodicwitchlight​

👀 Do the mun and you get along? 

❝I get along with everyone that is not a miserable asshole, and at the very least, she is not that. She seems to like overanalysing things, however, especially when it comes to me...and honestly, I am not into that. Which she also doesn’t seem to like.❞

🎨 What are the mun’s hobbies?

❝Boring things, such as reading her book, writing, watching tv-shows & movies...And only one thing we have in common: swimming. Although I am not sure if that is considered a hobby.❞

🙏 Do you think the mun would be able to survive in your world?

❝She probably would survive, but she would not be happy. Perhaps it also depends on the house she grew up in. If she was of a high position, she would not be happy since she would have to marry and be patient with idiot men making decisions.❞

🔥 How would you spend one day with the mun if you could?

❝Hmm. I suppose we could explore a city. Even though we would have to take quiet breaks and be at the hotel by nine. As I said...she can be quite boring for me, but at least she is more entertaining than my brother.❞

[devoutpriest]

sxrieux:

It’s precisely four o'clock in the afternoon, and Enjolras is done for the day  ( well, done by most standards; of course he’s going to go home and carry  on trawling through paperwork anyway ); the city streets aren’t quiet, but  emptier than usual. He was a news reporter, passionate about delivering news to the citizens of Paris. He has a mic on the red lapel of his jacket. He talked in front of the barricade, where he and the other les amis spoke about poverty and making the streets safer from the policemen. France was a wonderful country, which he loved. It’s not until he stops to buy a cup of coffee at the corner  of the street that he notices someone looking rather lost, or perhaps  just indecisive — whichever it is, Enjolras finds himself inclined towards  offering his help.  “— Are you lost?”

Athelstan hears an unfamiliar voice, which shakes him out of his slightly lethargic daze. 

He then glances towards the one who addressed him, a man with blondish hair. He remembered him from his speaking his anger at the rally in the streets, he in the red jacket with rose. A man had been with him, with freckles on his cheeks. The stranger’s question, which spoke of concern, was unexpected but welcome nonetheless.

“Hello. No,  I am not lost, but thank you for asking.”

In contrast, he knew the city quite well, but there had been an event that happened to him which burdened his mind. They had infiltrated his monastery, these evil monsters. He had barely escaped with his life. It had shaken him, him speaking to the bishop who met Jean Valjean, and gave him refuge.

He see the other then cross his arms, frowning. '"Are you sure?" The young man before him was visibly shaken, he thought. He notes bruises ; one shadowing a crow on the man's arms, blood on his sleeve.

[ginevralinton]

@its-a-hare-pom-pom thank you for the tag!!

Favourite colour and why? blue - it reminds me of the sea, it feels calm and sad but happy too. I like the sound of the word. I also love pink, because it's a happy and bright.

Five comfort movies: i don't really watch movies...

Favourite season and why? winter! i like when it's cold and you can wrap up in blankets; i like those really cold mornings and cold nights and the frost and ice; less people are out when you go to parks/outdoor places; there are several things that can't happen in winter and those things give me anxiety; i have work and while it's stressful, it's not intense like other parts of the year

Favourite book(s): Villette by Charlotte Bronte, Frankenstein by Mary Shelley, Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte are my top three

favourite aesthetic(s)and why? I think 'cottagecore' is pretty cute, or like, space aesthetics or 'arty' ones - oh, and like, horribly gaudy rainbow ones. Idk all the proper names but those ones just appeal to me

Favourite genre and why? It depends on what it is, but I'll talk about books because TV tastes are just - random. With books, I like 'literary' fiction, classics, historical fiction and short stories too? I guess I like the analyse stuff when I read, to look at the layers and structures, and I find those genres lean more easily towards that.

Favourite clothes style: honestly shifts between girly dresses and fluffy coats to dungarees, oversized shirts and DMs

Favourite music genres: most of my favourite artists fit under the 'indie' category somewhere

Favourite artists: Florence and the Machine, The Killers, The Wombats, King Princess

Favourite song(s): King by Florence and the Machine and Battle Born by The Killers

Favourite fandoms: BBC Ghosts ❤

Hobbies: writing, drawing, reading, walking

Care language you give: acts of service, I guess? or being a willing listener? idk

Care language you like to receive: willing listeners?

Are you an introvert/extrovert/ambivert: introvert

Morning or night person? i'm less anxious in the morning but i'm also awake most of the night so...

City, country or suburbs and why? suburbs. basically, i like where i live, the balance between having green space but also having easy access to towns/shops/cities

Favourite time of day and why? between 8:30 and 9:30pm, because day anxiety is over and night anxiety hasn't fully begun

Do you have any religious beliefs(don’t have to answer if not comfortable)? not really

What does your ideal family look like to you? me, a gf and many many guinea pigs? maybe a daschund (if i get over the fear of dogs)? and friends too? (and ofc some of my actual family now)

Dream future: no idea, can't see a thing

Dream place to visit: I'd love to go to Geneva, Brussels or Iceland, but realistically, I'd just like to go back to Haworth or Lulworth (or, lbr, the Isle of Wight)

Favourite type of nature: I like flowers, the sea and cliff tops

Favourite habitat (eg jungle, desert, tundra etc): the ocean and forests

How would you describe yourself in 4 words: awkward, anxious, serious, creative?

If you could be another thing on earth what would it be: something inanimate, like a rock

Favourite type of weather: sunny but cool (or snow, but i feel bad for saying that 😁)

If you could travel anywhere right now where would it be: Haworth

Do you have any fears (serious or otherwise): everything? dogs, house fires, burglary, the future, people in those mascot costumes, social interactions etc.

Dream job: who knows

Would you be a pirate/vampire/cowboy/astronaut/werewolf/wizard/witch/knight/cryptid and why? cowboy, i guess. i like the hats

I'll tag @sonnet-of-anarchy @thelastplantagenet @thatgordongirl @breitzbachbea @athelstan-anglecyning if you want to do it

[marthawrites]

Thank you for tagging me in this @aemonds-fire @autumnhymns @aemondsbabe and @aemondsbabygirl MY LOVES ♥

Tag game: tag 9 people you’d like to get to know better.

Last song: Psylla by Glass Animals

Currently watching: I'm not watching anything right now tbh! Adventure Time was playing for background noise this weekend, as well as S1 of Game of Thrones. But as far as something I'm actually sitting to watch, nadda!

Three ships: Rhaenyra and Harwin, one of my og ships that drove me wild: Ragnar and Athelstan, and DON'T COME AT ME but (show version) Daenerys and Jorah

Favorite color: Purple

Currently consuming: Ice water

First ship: Hear me out on this one, okay? Kovu and Kiara from Lion King 2 haha!

Relationship status: Married

Last movie: Night Swim

Currently working on: Not flying out of the coocoo nest!!!! Truly a struggle right now weeeee

I am late to this tag game and I'm unsure who all has already been tagged or who has done it. Sooo, I'm throwing out an OPEN TAG ♥ if you see this and wanna do it, do it!

[melodicwitchlight]

helreginn​:

“C'est d-” Hel began to say before Athena repeated her apology in english. Her left brow rose curiously at the mention of Magnus. His name was not one mentioned without want of something; Be it the illusion of status or the hope of unearned trust. In any case, the distraction was a welcome reprieve.

Her thoughts were so addled and unrelenting, she felt like the flower when her fist was closed.

She first let her hand fall away from her temple and then laid both of them in the dirt as she lifted herself from the ground. She turned to Athena, dusting her hands on the skirt of her dress as she went.

“Hello Athena.” She said, not unkindly. Though her next words might, to the unaware, give the impression of impatience. “Who are you and why would the high Warlock of Brooklyn introduce you to me?”

athena steadies her footing on the grass, hel thinking the disorientation was from being near her — side effects of being near to a warlock made from a prince of hell.

athena had been wearing a black top hat 🎩 as it was rather sunny. it fell to the ground due to her momentary imbalance, and she goes to pick it up.

as she does so, she sees the flower flutter to the ground, once vivid purple watercolour ;; and discoloured to a ashen grey of crushed velvet.

she frowns a little, eyebrows drawing together in sadness at seeing the death of the flower.

for everything, there is a season and a time for every matter under heaven… she thinks, her bible lying open on her lap. yet the evening shadow was a sorrowful sight.

‘ bonjour, hel. I am training to be a shadowhunter ;; james carstairs is teaching me, ‘ she says, placing the hat in her head. ‘ magnus said you may be able to help me with my conflict… ‘

she sees hel was wearing a light green dress embroidered with intricate vine pattern, as the other dusts the ash and cinders from her flower magic onto the skirt. there was a light yellow veiled material to her dress.

a heavy pearl necklace was lain on her neck, and other smaller necklaces decorated around. it was a silver pearl with a spiking sun.

hel asks her if she wanted a place to stay for tonight, where they can simply relax and talk about their conflicts. athena nodding. they go to her place in the underworld, where it was dark and gloomy.

[spineless-lobster]

@athelstan-anglecyning thanks for the tag!!!

This or that game:

barbie or oppenheimer (still haven’t seen Oppenheimer but I’d like to) // ketchup or mustard // crinkled fries or curly fries // robots or dinosaurs // silly hats or silly socks (#1 silly sock fan) // spring or autumn // harry potter or lord of the rings (I’ve never seen lotr but like… cmon) // vacation or staycation (ngl I hate travelling) // day or night // board games or video games // books or movies (sorry to choose both but I mean… both) // money or love // milkshake or iced coffee // waffles or pancakes (waffles taste like cardboard to me sorry) // chocolate or candy // beach or pool // laundry or dishes (I can listen to music and usually I forget the laundry timer lol) // take-out or dine-out // fantasy or sci-fi // lays or pringles

I’ll tag @limbowzo @hollow-ghost-fire @pencil-case-watches @bunny-banana @gethisshithumptyfuckingdumptied and anyone else who wants to join! (No pressure of course)