by J P Sayle
The bravery and desolation as Magnus continued to speak, had Maximillian cursing under his breath.
Oh by the Goddess Freyja, what can be done to fix this, please tell me?
A whisper barely-there uttered one word. “Nothing.” Maximillian’s claws dug into Magnus, oblivious to everything as the one word rang in his weary head as he hung on, pushing aside his misery and giving Magnus his full attention.
“I cannot change what has happened, nor do I regret those few stolen moments we had together. Whether Óláfr does or doesn’t, it is of no consequence now. I will die knowing that I was honoured by Manannán to have found my soulmate. Even if I only got him for a short time, I got to treasure him.”
Magnus’s eyes gleamed with unushered tears, a cloak of dignity surrounding him. The words so heartfelt prevented Maximillian the same luxury. Tears dripped down his fur, plopping onto Magnus’s torn clothing, soaking it. Not breaking eye contact, he let the pain and suffering he felt for what he had done show, before uttering a genuine apology for interfering.
Cold fingers gripped the scruff at the back of his neck, lifting Maximillian. His wet nose touched Magnus’s. Sky-blue eyes gave him a beseeching look, imploring him to understand as he spoke earnestly.
“You gave me a gift, Maximillian, that I will take with me to my grave and beyond. Stop blaming yourself for the thoughts you put in my mind. You gave me the courage to seek out what I wanted. No matter the outcome, I received something many do not get, a true soulmate. I had that, and though my life may be short, I was able to capture one of those bright, sparkling stars that you see bursting out in the dark sky that light up everything with its glory. I had that, and no one, not even death, can take or touch the beauty I felt when he loved and cherished me because he did just for a moment. We only had this moment, Maximillian, so I’m treasuring that, and it is unmeasurable. My lifespan is of no matter, nor will my death be because I got those gifts.”
The final choked words unleashed a torrent of tears that ran in rivers down Magnus’s dirt-streaked face. Pushing his fur against Magnus’s face, he wiped at the tears that lay on his cold cheeks. Magnus dropped his head, burying his face into Maximillian’s neck, drenching the fur while freezing, thin fingers gripped on tightly, seeking comfort.
They sat huddled together, awaiting their fates. Neither spoke as the time slipped away and reality drew ever closer.
Óláfr
Óláfr hugged his furs to his body, stopping the icy wind penetrating his weary bones. The force of the breeze caught his dark locks, whipping them around his shoulders as he averted his gaze from those who chose to look up at the top of the cap-house, where he stood watching the scene unfold beneath him. The men moved with purpose, shifting large chunks of wood they had cut down from the surrounding trees on the hill overlooking the castle.
The hill looked bereft with giant gaping holes where once stood proud trees sheltering the smaller saplings from the storms. Much as he felt, had he not done the same to Magnus, leaving his beloved weak and exposed to the tempests of feelings rising in his men to wreak havoc. Even now he could feel the tide of emotions swirling around him, their utter glee sickening him. The cramps in his stomach were making it impossible to forget the atrocity that was about to happen, even if he could block the noise below.
He knew Maximillian thought he had hardened his heart, his soul to his beloved, but nothing allowed him to hide from this pain, nothing. Clutching his chest, the silky feel of the fur under his roughened palms mocked his memories of the moments he’d spent treasuring his beloved.
His thoughts never strayed too far from what he had done. He rubbed at the growing ache, wishing it was him sentenced to death, but the fates, it seemed, wanted differently, giving him a different kind of suffering for being such a coward.
How many times had he wondered if Magnus had stayed put, had not attended his chamber, would they be in this position?
His mind mocked him. It was too late for second-guessing when his beloved was about to be murdered in front of him, slain by the preachings of a Christian God he didn’t know or understand. His weakness and fear stopped him from preventing this debacle from going any further.
No. Here he was hiding out from reality, watching over the men as they chopped and sawed. Each piece of wood carefully prepared to burn his soul, leaving him with what? Ashes and nothing but a gaping hole just like the hill with no hope of ever recovering what he’d lost.
His thoughts dragged at him while his gaze moved back to the hillside. Blinking, he leant closer to the keep shell, unsure if his eyes were playing tricks when he caught a shadowy movement next to the church. His eyes narrowed, picking out the cloister his men had informed him was empty. The woman who resided there had left several sunrises ago. Squinting into the darkness, feeling the tiny hairs on his arms lift, Óláfr scratched at the itch at the back of his neck.
He looked as he moved closer to the cold stone. His breath clouded the air as he searched for the shadowy figure. No smoke rose from the hearth. Assuming he was mistaken, he gazed back towards his men. Unsure why his gaze kept wandering back, he scratched the back of his neck again. The itch was unrelenting, making his stomach clench with apprehension.
Dark energy seemed to coat his skin, brushing against his swirling emotions as the sounds of loud crackling drew his eyes back to his men who were watching the flames lick and dance at the bottom of the pyre.
So it begins.
Óláfr shuddered. Turning away, he strolled towards the stairwell, shuttering his eyes, lowering his lids so those around him could not see the bleakness that ate at him. They scuttled about him like mice fleeing from the oncoming slaughter for fear of being caught and killed themselves. He felt their fear as real as his as he moved past them. He almost scoffed at them. They did not understand the true meaning of dread. Had he not lived with it? Felt it course through his veins? Was he not reminded with every breath he took, that his life was about to change forever upon facing the consequences of his actions.
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, a 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 that 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 t
o 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, 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 the 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 at landing 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.
When memories of those few stolen hours flooded through him, his chest heaved. 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. He blinked in amazement, seeing nothing behind him. He searched the darkness, his eyes bugged out of his head. The warm, tingling sensation on his arm did not abate.
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 thrust 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. A flood of love spread over the anger, coating him in a cloud of protection while 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 personally witness what happens to sinners.”
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 flames 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 forward under the sudden weight of the pain rolling through him. Lowering it to his chest, 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.