As time goes on, he thinks of England less and less.
It isn't that he stops missing home; it's that he feels like a traitor in his own skin. He knows the Bible by heart, whispers the words as he drags his finger across the page though the text is all-but unreadable. It doesn't make up, though, for the fact that he's seen death, seen men with their heads cut off right in front of him.
After a while, he stops mentioning it. Bjorn seems to like him more, after that. (Ragnar has never cared.)
*
He doesn't get used to it.
It doesn't matter how many times he sees it, he never quite gets used to the sight and smell of blood pouring over him. His fingers tremble and he wants to fix it, wants to save every life, but he cannot.
(There is beauty in a Viking death, yes; beauty in the funeral pyre, beauty in the words said, in the idea of Valhalla. There is no beauty in this. There is no beauty in war, in savagery.)
*
"Father," he whispers, when he cannot sleep. He is at a loss for words after that. How can he apologize, how can he atone for the sins he has witnessed? He has wrought none of the suffering but been implicit in the actions.
He clasps his fingers together, leans his forehead against them, and thinks I am sorry, Father, forgive me. It doesn't help.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2013-07-24 06:30 pm (UTC)As time goes on, he thinks of England less and less.
It isn't that he stops missing home; it's that he feels like a traitor in his own skin. He knows the Bible by heart, whispers the words as he drags his finger across the page though the text is all-but unreadable. It doesn't make up, though, for the fact that he's seen death, seen men with their heads cut off right in front of him.
After a while, he stops mentioning it. Bjorn seems to like him more, after that. (Ragnar has never cared.)
*
He doesn't get used to it.
It doesn't matter how many times he sees it, he never quite gets used to the sight and smell of blood pouring over him. His fingers tremble and he wants to fix it, wants to save every life, but he cannot.
(There is beauty in a Viking death, yes; beauty in the funeral pyre, beauty in the words said, in the idea of Valhalla. There is no beauty in this. There is no beauty in war, in savagery.)
*
"Father," he whispers, when he cannot sleep. He is at a loss for words after that. How can he apologize, how can he atone for the sins he has witnessed? He has wrought none of the suffering but been implicit in the actions.
He clasps his fingers together, leans his forehead against them, and thinks I am sorry, Father, forgive me. It doesn't help.