The price of hospitality

The night air was cool, and the stars above flickered like distant flames. Elyswith sat beside Athelstan in the farm house, the flickering fire casting long shadows along the walls. The warmth from the hearth provided little comfort as she watched her brother drink more and more from the cup Ragnar had given him. The mead flowed freely, and Elyswith couldn't help but feel a knot tighten in her stomach as she watched her brother lose himself in the drink.

Ragnar, ever the generous host, continued to pour the drink, refilling Athelstan's cup without hesitation. Elyswith had already declined Ragnar's offers more than once, seeing the alcohol as poison, but Athelstan had no such reservations. It was clear to her that he was becoming drunker by the minute, his words slurring and his movements sluggish.

"No more," Athelstan muttered, his voice unsteady as he pushed the cup away from himself.

Ragnar, with a playful glint in his eye, smiled and filled Athelstan's cup again. "We don't like our guests to go thirsty," he said, his voice teasing.

Guests. The word gnawed at her. Her heart clenched at the thought. They weren't guests here—they were prisoners, held in this strange land.

The Viking's smirk deepened as he raised his cup toward Athelstan. Athelstan tried to return the gesture, raising his own cup, but Ragnar pulled his back, denying him. Finally, after a beat, they clinked their cups together, the sound more like a challenge than a toast.

Athelstan rocked in his seat, clearly unsteady. Ragnar leaned in, his gaze sharp. "I am curious," Ragnar said, his voice lowering slightly. "Tell me, how is it in England? Is there one king ruling the whole land?"

Athelstan chuckled softly, the alcohol thickening his speech. "No," he replied, his words slow. "There are four kingdoms... four kings."

"Ah," Ragnar said, intrigued. "And which kingdom did we see?"

"Northumbria," Athelstan said, a hint of certainty creeping into his drunken haze. "The king of Northumbria is Ælla... He is a great king."

Ragnar's eyes narrowed. "Then why didn't his men protect your temple?" he asked, genuinely puzzled. "Why didn't they guard it from us?"

Athelstan's eyes grew distant, the question clearly weighing on him. He took another swig of mead, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. "We never needed protection before you came," he said softly. "We lived in peace. Everyone respected it as a place of god."

Ragnar filled Athelstan's cup again, his face thoughtful. "And yet... your god needs silver and gold," he said, his tone more teasing. "He must be greedy."

To Elyswith's surprise, Athelstan didn't seem offended. He merely took another drink, his features softening, as if the words meant little in his current state.

Elyswith felt the tension in the air, her stomach twisting. "Our god is not greedy," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "Christian people give away their riches to save their souls."

Ragnar raised an eyebrow, the playful edge in his gaze sharpening. "What are souls?" he asked, genuinely curious.

Athelstan, drunk and exhausted, smiled softly, though his eyes were glazed with confusion.

Ragnar's gaze now focused entirely on Elyswith, as if sensing her discomfort. He seemed to enjoy the exchange. "I want to learn your language," he said suddenly, his voice rich with interest. "Teach me. I want to understand."

Elyswith froze. Her heart skipped a beat, her thoughts clouded by his words. She tried to push back the unease flooding her chest. Ragnar was a master of words and charm, and she knew—she knew—that if she wasn't careful, she might be swayed into saying something she didn't mean.

But Athelstan, still in his drunken stupor, didn't respond. Ragnar, with a quiet smile, clinked his cup against Athelstan's once more, clearly enjoying the moment, despite it not benefiting either of them.

Elyswith, feeling the weight of the tension in the room, stepped back. She needed space to breathe, to think. As she moved toward the corner of the room, she could feel Ragnar's eyes on her, watching her with that quiet, intense gaze that always made her heart race.

She paused, closing her eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. This place, this world—it's all so strange. And yet...

Athelstan, still lost in the haze of mead, had nothing left to offer but soft, distracted smiles and slurred words. The moment had grown heavy with silence, the only sounds being Ragnar's low, contented laughter and the occasional clink of their cups. Elyswith turned her gaze back toward them, feeling an unspoken pressure building within her.

Athelstan's cup was empty again. Ragnar, not missing a beat, was already reaching for the jug to fill it once more. Elyswith couldn't watch her brother spiral further into this drunken haze.

"He's had enough," she said, stepping forward, her voice clear, though tight with frustration.

Ragnar leaned back in his chair, taking a long sip from his own cup. His eyes flicked between Athelstan and her, and then, with a tilt of his head, he gave a small, amused shrug. "Very well," he said, his tone playful but laced with something else—something that made her feel uneasy. "If you wish it."

Elyswith took the cup from Athelstan's hand gently, her voice soft as she knelt before him. "Rest now, Athelstan," she whispered, her fingers brushing the sweat from his brow.

Athelstan blinked slowly, his face flushed, but he let out a soft, apologetic chuckle. "I... I'm fine," he slurred, but the wobble in his voice betrayed him.

Ragnar, watching them both, stood with a fluid motion too graceful for a man who had been drinking. He stepped toward Elyswith, his presence overwhelming in the small room.

"I see you care for him deeply," Ragnar said, his voice lowered, heavy with a new, more serious tone. His gaze lingered on her, intense and penetrating.

Elyswith's breath caught in her throat. She tried to focus on Athelstan, but her brother's drunken state and Ragnar's presence made it nearly impossible to think clearly.

"You're a good sister," Ragnar continued, his voice almost admiring. "It's rare to see such loyalty."

Athelstan, though still drunk, was calmer now, no longer demanding more mead. Elyswith helped him sit up straighter, brushing his hair back with a tenderness that spoke of years of caring for him.

She glanced toward Ragnar, who had now stepped away. Elyswith's heart fluttered in her chest, but she quickly turned away, focusing back on her brother. This place, these people—it's all so strange.