Chapter Text
There was something in the air that night, something unsettling and dangerous, Pete had felt it low in his gut as he’d watched the heavens and the fiery-tailed stars painting golden streaks across deep blues and inky blacks. Kometes, the Greeks had called them, a term adopted by many of his brothers, but he preferred to call them falling stars. There was something rather wonderous about a falling star, was there not? As he’d stood and watched, he felt a chill creep below his robes, a chill that made the hairs at the back of his neck stand on-edge, it was a tingle in his fingertips and a feeling of dread haunting the back of his mind.
But the stars had been so beautiful.
They came on the waves, riding them with their wooden horses, their sails bulking in the strong Eastern winds, the dragons on the prows of the longboats looming over the monastery like a demon over man, except this was no demon. Demons couldn’t enter sacred grounds. Or maybe they were. Maybe that was why they burned them to the ground. On his knees, in front of the altar, the tall, stained glass window covering him in its protective cloak, a promise from God. He was not alone. He’d done well, he’d been brave, he could be proud of himself. He was going to the Lord now and the Lord would take care of him.
He heard rather than saw them entering, their heavy, fur boots dull on the stone floor as they shuffled along, in search of gold, jewels, anything they could steal and destroy. Oh, how Pete wished for a choir of angels to sing him to sleep, to help him find the courage he needed to not run, to give him strength. This was the right way. He had pledged his life to Iona Abbey, he wasn’t going to break his vows now, after seven years. He prayed for a swift blow rather than the slow, choking death of a fire.
Never had he been more certain of God’s existence than when he felt a rough, cold hand on the back of his neck, pushing his head down, exposing the skin below his hood and he bowed it, eyes shut and hands clasped in silent prayer. May the Lord take his soul and return it to the garden. His duty here was done. He was ready.
“Ekki hann!” Pete’s breathing hitched as the stern voice echoed its command through the nave, repeated by the vaulted ceiling as though it was mocking him, after all he had done, after all he had given, this was his reward? Pete had to accept his lot. So was the way of life.
“Ég sagði yfirgefa hann! Ertu heyrnarlaus?” The cold at the back of his neck disappeared, leaving it exposed and Pete was only sure of one thing: He had never been so frightened in his life. God had promised him strength when he most needed it. Where was God?
Blue. Blue eyes. The colour of nordic ice, streaked with falling stars around the centre. He found himself transfixed by the bearded man before him, his golden hair, his pale skin, the way he was examining him carefully, like he was… like he was another human. Not just a commodity, a casualty, collateral damage.
“Ég er Patrekr.” Pete’s heart hammered in his chest, racing at 1000 miles an hour, threatening to break free and finally, finally release him of his fear.
He was so scared.
The Norse cocked his head not unlike a dog would, his bottom lip catching between his teeth and his brow furrowing as he did so. Pete swallowed past the heavy lump in his throat, his mouth hanging open as if it wanted to say something.
“Þú skilur ekki?” What did he want? Why couldn’t he understand him? How Pete wished he were more like his patron, like Peter who had the aid of heavenly flames so the whole world understood the tongue he spoke. Where were his heavenly flames? Was he not Peter? Did he not carry his name and honour?
The Norse tried a different approach, pointing his finger at his fur-clad chest. “Patrekr.” Patrekr… Pat… Patrekr… Patrick.
The penny dropped and Pete’s eyes went wide at the realization that… that the Norse was telling him his Name . His mind floundered, trying to work out what best to say next, what would keep his head on his shoulders and his body from the flames.
He didn’t want to die. Not really.
He lifted his own hand, directing his own finger at his chest in the same way Patrekr had.
“Peter.” It seemed to be the right response. Patrekr’s face widened into a broad, white grin, well-kept teeth emerging from behind an equally well-kept beard. He stood up, leaving Pete on his knees in front of him and said to the man behind him: “Ég er að taka hann. Ég vil hann.” And then he walked away. Pete watched him as he climbed the steps to the altar where the ostensorium stood, catching the sunlight between its beams and glowing golden in the glory of the Lord.
He took it.
He broke it open.
He removed the corpus christi.
“No!” Pete was on his feet before he could think anything of it, already a step towards the Norseman, the heathen, the pagan who had dared set foot in this church, this sacred place of worship and murdered and mamed and pillaged and stolen and before the day ended he would probably burn it to the ground and leave. No survivors. Wasn’t that the way these things went? Oh, Pete had heard of Lindisfarne. They hadn’t been alone in it, the King of Mercia had arranged special protection for the monasteries on his coasts.
They had no soldiers and no army. They only had faith. Faith and fists and Pete smacked his square in the face of the man who gripped his shoulder tightly, making his nose give with the most horrendous crack .
The red blood running from it mixed with the colours of the stained glass and twisted him into a monster. Pete stumbled back in shock and horror. He was not permitted to cause harm to others. That was not his calling. He staggered into a pillar, his back pressed against the cold stone and his nails scraping along the coarse surface of it. Whatever… whatever Patrekr had said, had meant… whatever had stopped this pagan before…
He’d braced for pain, darkness, light, nothingness, heaven, hell, infinity and the end, an axe to the head. That was preferable, he presumed. That sounded quick.
He’d not braced for harsh, loud laughter. Mocking, no, amused, no… impressed?
“Hann er djörf og falleg! mér líkar við hann.” Peter didn’t dare take his eyes off the other one, the one with the broad shoulders, the axe dangling by his side, his arms - unlike Patrekr’s - bare and exposed to the cold, yet he did not shiver in the chill.
“Taktu hann í bátinn. Ég er á leiðinni.”
It was sort of horrific, not being able to understand what they were saying, not knowing if Patrekr had just ordered his death or his release. He sort of understood the Romans and their fear of Christ now, faced with the unknown, the familiar seems so important to protect.
The bare-armed Norse gripped onto his arm, tight, so tight it would bruise for sure, and dragged him through his beloved church, through his home, along the way he could see them everywhere, their fat, filthy hands fondling gold that wasn’t theirs, their beards hiding their faces, the paint covering the rest, heavy helmets topping off the thick fur armour, swords, axes, bows, anything that would do as a weapon hung from their heavily studded belts as their greed drove them to thievery. They would all burn. One day. Long after the Abbey had already been razed to the ground.
The heavy doors were kicked open and pete tried his best, his very best, to fight the fear and cowardice and stay, remain, die with his church as was right, but the Norse was stronger. So much stronger. The last thing he heard as the door fell shut behind him was the loud bellow of Patrekr’s voice filling the once sacred and now disgraced place.
“Taktu það allt! Ekki fara fyrir neitt!”
It was so cold. Pete didn’t know how the Norse stayed warm as he sat, huddling his legs, at the back of the boat, the chill biting his bones, until he remembered the fur hugging their bodies and the cassock covering his. Patrekr was stood at the front, his stance alternating between looking out over the sea and carefully eyeing his men, to make sure none of them were slacking, no doubt, so he could beat and whip and throw overboard anybody who went out of time, anybody who slowed them down, as though they needed to row when strong winds tore at the sail. Pete wondered if he would ever see dry land again or if he was to freeze to death. From fire into ice. He wasn’t sure which one was hell.
He couldn’t deny it suited Patrekr, life on the waves, his stocky body emitting power, control, elegance as he commanded the boat, as he judged the path ahead, as he read the skies and the oceans and the stars and aptly guided them through the dark claws of the water trying to drag them in, wind catching in his long hair, pulling at it like a million fingers coiling into it. He wondered if he had a wife, if they took wives. Maybe multiple wives for each? Maybe they passed their women around like savages. Pete could hardly imagine they followed the holy vows of marriage.
The snow crunched below Pete’s feet and he had never before been so grateful for solid land. He’d never been a strong sailor, but being kidnapped by a group of Norsemen and carted across the freezing seas of the north was another experience entirely and one he hadn’t really hoped he’d be involved in in his lifetime.
The wet soaked through his shoes in no time, not made for this weather, the maritime climate may not be snow-free, but considerably warmer, nonetheless and it was not yet winter. Not in Scotland, anyway. Here, well, Pete would not have been surprised had he been told summer never comes up here.
He was surprised to see the village, houses built into the earth, so the ground rose above them and served as a roof, the man-made parts constructed of wood and stone, a long, wide house in the middle of it all, a hall, more like. He watched the men pile into it, their loot over their shoulders and around their neck and Pete wanted to cry at the thought of it being molten down and destroyed. A hand clamping down on his shoulder prevented him from following, held him back and turned him around so he was facing Patrekr, whose face was stone but not unkind. He ushered Pete into one of the surrounding houses, one on the other side of the hall, dragging the door open with brute force, fighting against the snow piling up outside it.
Inside was… warm. Surprisingly warm. There was no fire burning, no evident source of heat anywhere, but Pete felt the cold subside, at least a little, and watched carefully as Patrekr struck firestones to light the lint in the centre of the large single room.
“Sit down.”
Pete froze solid, a familiar stiffness returning to his joints, if for a different reason this time, and he stared at the short, stocky blonde man with his skilled hands and his blue eyes and his hair decorated with intricate braids.
“You… you speak… you…”
“Yes, I speak English, can we skip to the part where you sit down and stop looming over me like a sad moose?” He gestured vaguely to one of the pelts laid out, but Pete, right now, wanted to do everything but accept his captor’s hostility.
“Why didn’t you just speak English with me at… I mean, you knew I couldn’t understand you!” It was rather ridiculous, Pete had been frightened out of his wits, not understanding what was being said about him with no way of communicating with these savages. Patrekr just sighed heavily, rolled his eyes and pointedly gestured to the pelt again and this time, somewhat afraid this was his last warning, Pete sat down on it.
“My men don’t know I speak English. I don’t want to scare them with it.” That seemed… surprisingly reasonable. Well, Pete supposed that in their eyes, he must be the enemy!
“Why… did you take me?” He treaded cautiously, not sure if he truly wanted it answered. There weren’t many possible reasons. He was going to end up scrubbing floors or herding cattle or being burned as a sacrifice to their pagan Gods and honestly, that was the worst thought. He would rather spend the rest of his life knee-deep in pig shit than being a sacrifice for heathens.
But Patrekr didn’t reply. Instead, his ice blue eyes trailed over Pete’s body, squinting as though he was carefully inspecting every last inch of him, taking him apart and Pete had to look away because he couldn’t bear the way his cheeks heated up.
“You’re dark for a monk.” Pete bit his lip. He kept his hair close-shaven so nobody would see what his mother had passed on to him. He could get away with it like this. Nobody asked questions. When had Patrekr got closer? Had he got closer? Pete may be losing his mind, this was it, after years and years in God’s service, eh was going to go mad on an island in the middle of nowhere.
The fire was cackling away to itself as Patrekr touched his fingers to Pete’s lips like a child feeling its way through the world. Pete gulped heavily, not daring to back away, not sure what this savage wanted from him, why he’d taken him . He figured it was best to do as he was told, as was wanted from him and if… Patrekr wanted to touch his face then…
Pete had only ever kissed one person in his life and that was little Hollis, when they were both children, hidden away behind the bramberry bushes and the eyes of their parents. Innocent kisses the way children share them when they think they’re in love. That was nothing like this.
Patrekr’s lips were more demanding, more certain of what they were doing, of what they wanted. And Pete knew he couldn’t want this, but-
“What are you… stop! Don’t…” Patrekr rocked back on his hands and knees, just a fraction, but enough so Pete could meet his eye. Dread settled in Pete’s gut, that feeling of inescapable anxiousness when you want to get something behind you but you can’t, when you’re waiting for the inevitable, when you have a secret that burns you alive but you can’t tell a soul.
He tried to explain it as disgust, as shame, as fear, but somehow a part of him was telling him it wasn’t directed at the man in front of him. Pete drew a sharp breath when Patrekr moved forward again, his entire body tense and ready to run as he was reclaimed.
Everything about this was wrong. Surrounded by savages, kissing a… a guy and…
Pete tried to scramble free as he felt himself being pushed backwards until he was lying on the floor, trapped between the man above and the pelt below.
This was wrong this was wrong this was so, so, so, so wrong…
But Pete stopped struggling. He suddenly realized how gentle it was, how warm and soft and comforting. He wasn’t sure how it happened, but he found himself cupping Patrekr’s face as a hand stroked over his shaved head. He knew he should stop. He knew. Pete whimpered quietly, trying to protest because this was wrong , everything about it was just… was wrong! Eden was burning.
But he didn’t try to calm the flames.