Work Text:
One.
Weak, they say. They say he is weak. A weak fool, isn’t he? Something to laugh at, something to piss on as they step over him in the gutter.
A fool, of course. He IS a fool — shall I do a dance for you? Shall I make you laugh as you cut my throat? Sometimes he even knows it, he knows he is a fool, and in those moments he tells himself: BE A FOOL. Be a fool, because the Earth is full of dead aethelings. Throat-cut aethelings, back-stabbed aethelings, elf-shot aethelings, aethelings with blood soured by poison, aethelings dead and dead and buried — most CURSED among God’s kin are aethelings.
Be a fool, he says, and what is a fool? What IS a fool? Is foolishness caught from the drink like slurred speech? Does it come from the cunts of loose women? WHAT IS A FOOL — is it a man who drinks and fucks — a man who knows the curse of the aetheling — a man who knows the Earth is just shit and piss — and ice at the edge of the trough — and a short life — and a long death — and a longer torment beyond —? Is that a fool?
God is in the suffering, they say. In the hiss of sin, but only in its shame. God is in the shame, and the punishment, and the cold bite of iron on flesh, and the cold bite of the stone when the fire has gone out, and you must endure, endure, endure without reprieve. That is God, they say. That is godliness.
But HE knows, he knows that God is in the wine, that God is in the tits, the soft curve of flesh, the warm comfort of a body. God is the rush in the belly from the ale, and the hard, hot laughter that lives in the throat when the world is softened for a moment, by pleasure, by ease.
It’s the Devil that’s in the shame.
He should know.
He should know about shame.
So now: a dead father, a dead king. Which is worse? Now, an unloved aetheling, a foolish aethling, which is worse? Now, a cold blade, or a hot shame? He knows which one is worse.
But for that, he is a fool. So he will be a fool. And he will try not to die.
Two.
He’s doing alright. Truly. A clean face, a clean tunic, not so drunk right now, don’t you see it?
He’s doing alright — the flower of Wessex sold to Mercia for the price of a song — he’s doing alright — two brothers sold their freedom for the price of another man’s life — he’s doing alright — a fortress selling itself for the price of vengeance, for the price of greed. He’s doing alright.
He watches, and he understands. It is a selling place, this world. This world, it’s a place of shit, and piss, and selling. And that’s alright, he’s alright, he can learn - buying, selling — land, honor, dignity — it’s alright. Even though the cost always changes, even though the price is never fixed, or rather, it is fixed, but it is fixed on someone else’s will. Even though HE never has enough to pay.
It’s alright.
He’ll watch, as land and wealth is divvied out among men while he, he is always somehow missed. He’ll watch, as Wessex sells itself back for the flower it already sold. He’ll watch, as men more powerful than himself deny their own ambition, for the sake of — what? Disgust? Of him? Fear? Of Alfred? Of Wessex? Wessex, HA, Wessex. Wessex is just the bodies of men, pissing, shitting, dying men. It does not breathe, it does not die like men do.
But still, he will act.
He will act, while others simply talk, and wait, and PRAY — HA-HA-HA —!
He will act, and they will not know that is was he who wielded the blade, the blade that saved Wessex from itself.
Three.
What is Wessex?
Is it Alfred? Is it Edward?
He thought it was God, and dead men, and soil filled with dead men. But now it’s just Alfred, and Edward, and England.
What is England?
What is another dead Dane? The soil is full of them, too, it’s choking with them, full of dead Danes like it’s full of dead aethelings, and they do not rise, they DO NOT, he knows that now. What is a brother, a lover, a cousin, a leader? IT’S JUST ANOTHER DEAD DANE. Another DEAD DEAD Dane. And the Earth is full of them, and the air is thick with them, and he could build a wall around the whole of Wessex just with the corpses of dead Danes like stones, and their blood the mortar, and their shit the mud.
But such a wall would be for Alfred, for Alfred’s kin, and for Alfred’s fruit to ripen on the vine. So he will not build such a wall. But he will not weep, either, not for another dead Dane.
What is another dead woman? What is a cousin, a kin, a Queen, a daughter of Alfred — just ANOTHER DEAD WOMAN, and the Earth is full of them, too. Bellies stretched to bursting from birthing, blood sick, bone weary, spilling their lives on the soil like seed, rotting into something God might love. What is another dead woman to Wessex?
Nothing.
Nothing.
Not this woman. England has already eaten her. She was the sacrifice at the foundation — her marriage the builders’ rite, her body the stone. They all watched as her blood was left on the altar, so why should she not be the broken cross laid before the conquered hall? What’s another dead woman to Wessex? Everything, and nothing.
What is another dead King? Aethelred Cyning, Alfred Cyning, Edward Cyning, AETHELWOLD CYNING, what is another DEAD KING? The world is built on the backs of dead kings, the swords are forged from the bones of dead kings, so what’s another dead king to Wessex? Wessex IS a dead king.
What is another dead friend? What is a friend? A FRIEND? A friend, he laughs. What is a friend in a world of lords and serving men? Uhtred is not a friend, Cnut is not a friend, Offa is not a friend, Sigebriht is not a friend. Shared blood in battle is not enough to make a friend, shared treachery is not enough to make a friend, shared silver is not enough to make a friend, THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS A FRIEND, there’s no friend for an AETHELING, not when one man must be the lord and the other his hand. And if he’s not a friend, he’s just another man.
And what’s another dead man to Wessex? What’s another dead man to England?
Just another dead man.
And the ground is full of them.
And they will not rise.