by J P Sayle
He was thankful his brother had not been able to return and witness this debacle. He was unsure he would be able to mask the pain, and his brother had a way of reading him that was uncanny, considering they did not get on.
As he moved down the lower passageway, the darkness cloaked his movement, allowing him a moment to relax the hold he kept on his emotions. His feet faltered at the sound of thudding feet. His shoulders tensed as he realised who was being brought up from the dungeons. Almost as if bracing for battle, Óláfr spread his legs, standing firm, his muscles quivering with the strain of holding still. The urge to turn back up the passageway and escape facing Magnus had his hands fisting into balls and his nails digging into the hard skin of his palms. Straightening, he forced himself to remain still. Waiting for what he wasn’t sure, but the need to stay overrode everything else. He held his breath as the clatter of feet grew nearer as his men finally reached the top of the stairwell.
His exhalation sounded loud, even to him, as it whistled past his frozen lips. His eyes barely registered his men as they devoured Magnus. He willed Magnus to lift his lowered head, so he could see his beautiful sky-blue eyes one more time. Óláfr’s eyes riveted to the crown of Magnus’s matter-dirty skull. As if sensing Óláfr’s intense stare, the head slowly lifted, granting him his wish. Flinching, he tried to keep still as he felt a solid punch to his stomach.
The desolation that bled from the depths of his watery, bloodshot gaze made Óláfr reel backwards, hitting the stone keep behind him. Bedraggled and willowy thin, Magnus looked as if a stiff breeze would snap him in half. Dark matted hair glued itself to his grimy face, making his haunted, swollen, red-rimmed eyes appear huge as they stared at him. He could see the moment recognition slid past the misery. Magnus’s expression lit up. Though Óláfr expected him to show hate, all that came at him was love. So much of it, it swamped him. Magnus’s heated stare stole his breath. Óláfr chest puffed up as his lungs struggled to pull in oxygen that seemed to have disappeared under the overwhelming love that was coursing through his veins.
Convinced he’d destroyed their connection, their bond staggered him. He felt it ignite inside his mind, his heart and soul as it burst into flames. The torches they had lit outside paled in comparison. Emotions rioted thought him as he struggled to maintain eye contact. Magnus offered him a small smile before his head dropped down, hiding his face a moment before the men dragged him away from his view.
Óláfr sagged against the cold stone, stomach heaving. His desperate fingers tunnelled through his windswept hair while his mind and heart screamed at each other. The ferocious battle left him breathless. His mind struggled to overcome what his heart was telling him was the right thing to do. To stop this colossal mistake. Óláfr yanked at his hair, trying to slow down his rabbiting heartbeat. How do I watch? How? How do I change what I’ve set in motion?
The cold at his back was hardly noticeable as his insides iced over with reality and fear. There was nothing he could do now but watch; be the man he should have been from the beginning. Only now he would pay the highest price. A lifetime without that which he should have treasured, kept safe.
No, no, no!
His tears of anguish fell unheeded, the wetness dripping down his iced face, brushing at his cold cheeks. He locked his legs, forcing his feet to follow the path his men had taken. The pitch black of night shrouded him for a second as he exited the castle. His eyes adjusted while his mind drowned in the darkness.
Forcing himself to stand tall, be a man, he took a deep breath. The strong scent of wood burning filled his nose. Moving away from the fire and holding his damp fingers up, he tested the air current to determine which way the wind was blowing before treading carefully over the rocky outcrop to the edge of the bailey.
As he sensed the power of the sea at his back, the air thickened with salt as his face grew damp and sticky with its residue. Óláfr moved closer to the roiling black sea, feeling it suited his mood perfectly. He hoped that the roaring sea would block some of the sounds that were bound to occur once Arngrim carved the blood eagle into Magnus.
Óláfr shuddered under the onslaught of images of doing the very same thing to other Norsemen. They moved to the forefront of his mind. Why did these pictures not haunt me in the same way I know that tonight’s will?
The question went unanswered as he knew it would. His punishment was to witness this execution, ensuring it would haunt him for many millennia to come. He had always believed the soul travelled through different lives, and that he had lived before this life.
As he worried his lip, his eyes darkened when they landed on the pale, naked body that seemed to glow ethereally in the dark of the night. Magnus seemed oblivious to his men’s loud jeering voices floating around them. The hate-laced words wound around his heart, tying them into his soul, punishing him.
Their mocking of what he could only see as beautiful hurt more than he had considered. Exhaling past the pain, his hands balled into fists. His eyelids lowered to hide how they roamed over the displayed body—that even coated in dirt was a splendid sight. He yearned to touch the long, lithe lines of his back and legs, the small, compact muscles of his backside as it flexed when Arngrim thrust Magnus over the wood bench.
The loud thud that followed had the crowd jeering. Magnus’s lean legs collapsed, causing a shout of anguish and pain when he landed hard on the rough wooden bench. Óláfr growled low in his throat and fisted his hands tighter, imagining it was Arngrim’s throat he was squeezing. The urge to demand Arngrim remove his hands from what belonged to him made his jaw ache.
Clasping his lips together, he looked down at his wet fingertips. His eyes widened at the wetness he’d been rubbing absently on his face. Odin’s Raven, this is not good. My men can’t see me like this.
He masked his face, not sure how much of his misery was pouring out of him. He kept his gaze averted from the crowd, letting his hair fall and shield his face.
Confusion warred inside him. Before he could consider his actions, his heart had made a decision. Not allowing his mind to catch up, he found himself moving closer to Magnus. The distance he thought he’d needed to deal with his anguish got buried under the need to keep vigil. His mind was made up. If Magnus could do this with dignity, then he would not hide. He pushed back his shoulders, weaving his hands into his windblown hair and pulling it away from his face to stop it from obscuring his vision. He watched with a feeling of doom while men tied Magnus’s filthy body to the long rough bench. The nakedness now seemed secondary to what was coming.
He felt the air charge with evil excitement as those close to the fire vied for a better position to witness Arngrim in action. All eyes shifted, riveted to Arngrim as he strolled around Magnus’s prone body, but Óláfr kept his hooded eyes on Magnus’s face which had turned towards him.
Memories of those few stolen hours flooded through him. The beauty and splendour of their connection reinforced and had him shifting from foot to foot. He felt his body awaken. Heaving a sigh of disgust at his own body, Óláfr forced his mind to stay with Magnus dwelling on the reality of their situation. His body instantly wilted when his brooding eyes took in the puffy eyes squeezed shut along with the cracked, bloody lips.
Óláfr stared hard for a moment. Moving closer, he watched Magnus’s mouth, trying to capture what he was saying. A soft voice spoke inside Óláfr’s mind that wasn’t Maximillian’s. He jerked at the sudden intrusion, and his leather-clad feet slipped on the wet rocks. He staggered back as his arms flailed out while words of love and devotion melded into his mind, heart, and soul. Gasping, Óláfr struggled to gain his footing. With pounding heart, he looked wildly around when he felt tiny warm hands gripping his arm from behind, steadying him.
What in Odin’s Raven is that? He swirled round in fright, having not seen anyone approach him, and he blinked in amazement at the empty space behind him.
Searching the darkness, his eyes bugged out of his head. He rubbed at the warm tingling he could still f
eel on his arm. Am I losing my mind? First, I think I can hear Magnus talking to me, telling me how much he loves me no matter what, and now I’m imagining an invisible presence that stopped me from falling. Whatever next?
Warm, light, fluttering air wound its way up his body before the chilly wind took its place. Trembling, he turned back towards Magnus. Óláfr shook off the eerie feeling creeping up his spine while looking about the grounds, hoping that whatever place Maximillian had been hiding in he would come and help him get through this.
Seeing only his men, Óláfr barely resisted the urge to shout and stomp his foot in temper. Instead, he glowered, his jaw thrusting forward ready to poke anyone’s eye out if they chose to get too close. Seething at Maximillian’s tactics, Óláfr’s senses struggled to push past the anger when a voice spoke inside his mind, making his earlier worries of losing the plot turn his gaze to Magnus. Distracted from his temper, his mind felt the heat of love spread over the anger, coating him in a cloud of protection as it soothed his battered soul. He willed Magnus to open his eyes so he could show him he’d heard him.
Óláfr felt movement. Shifting his gaze, he groaned in despair when he saw the bishop scuttling towards him. His ample belly was wobbling under the many layers of fur wrapped around his rotund frame, keeping the icy chill of the night away. He watched him slip and slide across the rocks. As he diligently moved, the bishop’s beady eyes latched onto Óláfr. Giving into an internal sigh, he knew his fate was sealed, and he couldn’t escape.
Óláfr struggled to mask his face, hoping he at least could hold a civil tongue in his head.
“I see you have chosen an excellent place to watch the evening’s entertainment. From here you will be able to witness what happens to sinners up close and personal.”
He had previously thought the bishop was unaware of his feelings toward Magnus; now he was not so sure when his barbed words cut through Óláfr’s resolve to remain civil to the vile cretin.
“I would keep your tongue if I were you, especially if you do not wish to lose it on the steel of my blade.” His harsh voice scraped the vile smile off the bishop’s chubby lips. His beady eyes and pinched expression gave him pause before they were cast towards the cheering crowd as Arngrim shouted and jeered with the men. He expected that every male Norseman would come, except those keeping watch, but even those would be, he was sure, watching from the bailey.
Óláfr looked up at the dense darkness, sensing the laden clouds hiding, just waiting to release their load on the unsuspecting. Much like the anger that ate at him. It clawed like a rabid animal waiting to escape his soul and obliterate those who threatened harm to Magnus.
The impregnable night was broken only by the licking flames of the torches that were to light the pyre. The shadows created by the torches cast a spooky glow over the faces that waited impatiently for what was to come. A silence descended, leaving the crackling of the torches to fill the void a second before he heard the sounds of a blade swishing through the air, making the rowdy crowd bay for blood. Waves of violent emotions bathed his mind, growing stronger, more violent.
Óláfr forced his face to remain stoic, showing no emotion when the blade struck its mark with precision. Is this my punishment? To feel the hate, the greed for violence, for death?
His head lolled under the sudden weight of the pain rolling through him. Lowering it, he hid behind the rich, flowing tresses. His hooded eyes blinked back the wetness gathering inside. He gulped past the ball in his throat threatening to choke him.
Lost in his distress, he flinched when hot, chubby fingers touched his arm. Pulling back as if burned, his skin crawled at the utter glee of the moment showing in the bishop’s beady grotesque eyes as they devoured the terror rolling from Magnus. A feral grin spread across his plump, rosy cheeks while he spoke.
“Come on, watch. The fun is just beginning. You surely do not wish to miss this. I have always wondered how it must feel to plunge the knife in deep, feel the other person’s life force leaving them and covering you before it leaves this earth. It must be so exhilarating. How many times have you done this?”
The insistent tugging on his sleeve along with having his past thrown up into his face had Óláfr glowering down at the bishop. Peeling back his lips, he snarled. “Magnus did nothing more than choose to love and be loved. Does your Bible not teach that? If not, it should.” He spat the words out, unsure why he needed to say them. Leaning forward and gripping his fur pelt, he gave him a shake before getting into the bishop’s face. He forced himself not to pull back when hot, rancid breath ghosted his face, making his nose wrinkle in disgust.
“You, Bishop, will never tell me again what I should or shouldn’t do. Heed my words. If you push me once more, Magnus will not be the only one who will die on this night, and we will see how exhilarating you feel at the end of my blade. There is nothing but senseless loss to be felt here.”
He gave him one final shake before dropping his hands, pleased when his menacing threat had the bishop’s pupils dilating with fear a moment before his brow puckered. Casting his gaze away from Óláfr back to the men in front of them, finally, he turned back, giving a quick nod in acquiescence. His many chins wobbled before he looked away, but not before Óláfr caught the glint of malice.
Óláfr forced himself to let it go for now, shuttering his dark eyes while attempting to hide the misery that tormented his soul. His skin itched with the need to do something. Anything to release the tightness crushing him from the inside out as the blade continued to cut through his beloved.
Sky-blue eyes glazed with pain and misery wheeled open. With unseeing eyes, Magnus’s dirt-streaked face screwed up tight an instant before gurgling screams pierced the air. Pain sliced through his own back, making Óláfr bow. Bracing for the next attack, he felt the sharp blade slice across their skin. Each stroke of the knife Arngrim made carved into Óláfr’s soul. Grinding his teeth together, his lips clamped tight, holding on to the painful shout that wanted to escape. He inhaled against his will, scenting the fresh coppery smell of blood on the heated air. It lifted, swirling like a cape, surrounding him. The ash from the fire coated his throat as he struggled to swallow past the combined misery the universe was dishing out.
He ignored the small voice at the back of his mind reminding him it had been his choice when Magnus’s voice filled his mind. This time screaming for him to come and end his desolation. His gaze moved to Magnus’s pinched face, travelling down his body that was now awash with blood. The design of the eagle was marked into his flesh. Magnus’s eyes lifted to the man holding him captive, beseeching him to end his misery as words spilled into his mind.
“Help me. Please help me. Make it stop. If you feel anything for me, have done with this torture and throw me on the pyre now.”
The whispered words had him striding forward before he could stop himself, his fists clenching. The rising wind had his dark hair flowing into the air mimicking the flapping wings of the raven’s that moved in to attack their prey. His bunched shoulders prepared for battle as he approached the scorching heat, his gaze never wavering from Magnus. Uncaring of the heat and sizzle searing his exposed skin, he skirted close to the edge of the fire, needing to get to Magnus urgently.
Óláfr raised his large hands, shoving blindly at the men in his path. He was driven by the voice chanting for him to come and save him from further torture, from the terror.
Arngrim so lost in what he was doing, was unaware of his approach, even as the men around them quietened. They seemed to grow wary of what was to happen next. It was almost as if they sensed the wrath inside him, moving further back to give him room. Óláfr took a steadying breath while looking Magnus in the eye, giving him the only reassurance he could before grabbing at Arngrim’s blood-soaked arm, stopping him mid-stroke.
Óláfr flinched at the unfeelingness in the grey depths of Arngrim’s eyes. Oh, he could see the hatred glowing, but it was the lack of disregard for life that had him pause.
Am I the
same, so uncaring of the lives I have taken? Was that something else I will have to pay for?
Óláfr ignored the itch to release Arngrim’s arm and take the knife and plunge it into his broad chest. Instead he made himself hold steady, using his superior strength to knock a shocked Arngrim away from his beloved. Not second-guessing himself, he grabbed the fallen knife, quickly cutting at the ropes. Picking up Magnus, he hugged his bloody and torn body to him. Rasping breaths and the feel of Magnus’s lungs inflating against his arms made his stomach heave while blood smeared his fur pelt, dripping onto his clothing and down his legs, soaking him.
Breathing in through his mouth, he prayed for the courage to do what was needed. Óláfr blinked away the wetness gathering at the corner of his eyes. Clenching his jaw, he took a moment to express his real feelings to Magnus. Óláfr opened himself up, knowing they could speak this way, letting Magnus understand in no uncertain terms he was sorry for not treasuring him, for not loving him as a beloved should be.
Promises he wasn’t aware of leapt out before he could stop them. He would make amends. Somehow or other he would right this wrong. As the pledge slid out of his lips, he felt a spark of awareness light his chest, holding him captive.
He clasped Magnus tighter and the resignation bowing his shoulders before lifted him high. Their eyes connecting one last time. Emotions swirled around them, lighting up the air and making his legs want to buckle under the pressure. He forced his legs to hold them both while he conveyed his love one last time.
Seeing Magnus nod his head, he clamped his lips tight to stop the trembling. Stepping closer to the spitting, crackling flames, Óláfr offered up a prayer to the God Njord and the Goddess Freyja for a quick death as he threw his beloved onto the pyre. The loss of weight had his legs wanting to crumble as he raised his arms to the sky, pummelling the empty air. His lungs strained to gasp and inhale the thickening stench of burning flesh that tormented his nose and mouth as he swallowed.