Disclaimer: I own nothing

VISION ON

There were birds flying around his bedroom again, birds with bold paintery wings and blue beaks. Athelstan was sure that no pictures existed of them in any library or online. He was used to that. He squeezed his eyes shut though and willed the birds away.

Please, God, please.

When he opened his eyes again, the birds were gone. He should have felt relief and gratitude; instead there was a hollow ache under his heart, which he tried in vain to ignore. He could live with it though; he had done for as long as he could remember.

Athelstan started each day with prayers, thanking God for all His generosity, asking quietly for peace from...from what he saw. He ate quickly and quietly and then began his working day. He had several books to sketch out illustrations for and a few to colour. He had emails from his agent to answer and letters from a more reclusive writer to go through. He had a full day ahead of him. If he was lucky, he wouldn't have to step outside the house.

He put the kettle on, relieved beyond words that there were no mice with glossy black fur and bright green eyes scuttling out of the sugar jar again, and booted up his laptop. One of his hands stayed tangled in a rosary at all times.

When Athelstan was a boy and still had parents, he thought that everybody saw the same things he did. But one day he saw a dragon – covered in shiny black scales and breathing purple fire and smoke – and nobody said a word or even glanced at it. So he knew then, with a deep terrified certainty, that only he saw such frighteningly unexplainable things.

It was strange that he remembered the dragon so clearly, but not his parents. When he tried to focus on them, they were smudges of pastel colours, always in the background. Sometimes in that place between waking and sleeping, he could feel his mother's hand on his shoulder, warm and comforting and just the right weight, and he could remember how his father drew with him, chuckling over pictures of sea creatures, butterflies, and battles. But he still wasn't sure if those memories were real; he had that problem a lot. He clutched his rosary beads hard enough to hurt his fingers.

He entered a seminary as soon as he could. He found a sort of peace there, in singing, fellowship, and prayer. But he still saw things, creatures who didn't make sense, people who couldn't be real. And whenever the visions disappeared, Athelstan felt a strange gnawing emptiness inside. He began drawing what he saw and Father Cuthbert told him that he had a great gift, a gift that the Lord wouldn't want him to suppress.

"But Father, these aren't...these aren't mine," Athelstan tried to explain, desperate and exhausted.

Father Cuthbert nodded and didn't look scared or angry. "The Lord wants you to see them though."

Why, though? Athelstan didn't get any answers and his peace was short-lived – his visions didn't stop. Eventually he left and was able to buy himself a small house in a quiet neighbourhood due to his parents' sudden deaths and their generous life insurance policy. The internet was a blessing, he could work from home, he could order his groceries and any entertainment he wanted. He only ventured out for church, odd jobs, and because he needed the exercise and exposure to natural light. He never enjoyed it.

Every day, he prayed for answers, for blessed peace, for a normal unexciting view of the world. But God always had other ideas.

Usually, the visions ignored him and Athelstan tried to do the same in return. But one morning, when he had to post a letter, he spotted a man leaning against a nearby wall. His eyes were almost a translucent blue and his hair was pulled back into matted blonde braids. He was eating a hunk of meat and was dressed in a black leather jacket and jeans, both worn and patched, and heavy biker boots. He fitted right in, except for the two long-bladed knives on his belt. Athelstan tried not to stare, though the man was a rough-hewn kind of handsome, exuding a coiled power that both drew Athelstan in and put him on edge. The man glanced at Athelstan as he passed, Athelstan immediately darted his own gaze away.

Please, God, please.

After he posted the letter, he bought milk, bread, and a couple of packets of chocolate. The man was still there, staring at Athelstan with a lot of interest. Athelstan's heart beat faster and he clenched his fingers around his rosary. The visions had never noticed him before, what was God trying to say? What had Athelstan done wrong?

But the man didn't approach, he just watched Athelstan with a calculating gaze and a slow dangerous smile. Athelstan couldn't take a proper breath until he got home again, locking the door securely behind him before reaching for his tea collection.

Oh, God. What does it mean? What should I do?

Athelstan got very little work done that afternoon and when he did put pencil to paper, he found himself continually drawing smirking blue-eyed characters who knew far more than he did.

Athelstan hunched down in his pew and tried to focus on the singing. He shouldn't have been distracted – no visions had appeared during morning mass. But his thoughts weren't focused on the beautifully sung expressions of worship. He hadn't been able to stop thinking about that unusual unnerving vision of a man. What did that say about Athelstan?

Forgive me, Father. What do you want?

He closed his eyes and tried to give himself over to the music. It reminded him of when he'd sung in the seminary, when his voice had made people happy. He only sang now as part of a congregation, or when no one but God was around to hear him. It still brought him something like peace.

When he exited the church, he saw a woman on the other side of the road staring at him. Athelstan glanced at her and then just as quickly turned away. She was beautiful; long blonde hair, taut but expressive features, a slim body dressed in dark trousers, a fitted top, and was that a cloak? She was looking at Athelstan as though she was trying to learn everything about him. Athelstan swallowed hard. She really was beautiful, her intensity shone.

His fingers itched to draw her. He looked at her again, as quickly as he could, and then almost ran home, head bowed, determined to concentrate on anything else.

What have I done, Lord? Please make it stop.

Athelstan didn't pay much attention to the child with the braided brown hair and cheery smile who sang softly as she walked past him. The singing stopped suddenly, Athelstan didn't turn around.

He had other things to think about. He had deadlines to deal with, Ron's story needed several pages of illustrations so when Athelstan got home, he began sketching out a blonde woman, eyes bright and dress green. She smiled towards the lead character, just like the prose described, just like the man had when he'd spotted Athelstan. Athelstan jerked back in his chair and stared.

He tried working on a different book for a younger audience. He drew a boy with dark hair and a familiar intense gaze. Athelstan gripped his pencil so tightly that it almost snapped in half. He held his head in his hands and despaired.

His visions were a disease, not a blessing. God, what is your will? He hadn't drawn anything other than characters who seemed possessed by the two people that Athelstan knew weren't real. He could feel a headache blaring at his temples; he still had deadlines to meet. So he scanned what needed to be emailed and shoved everything else into appropriate envelopes.

Then he went to lie down, fingers wrapped around his rosary, his Bible open.

What does this all mean? What do you want me to do? Please, make it stop.

He was walking near the pond a few days later when he caught sight of them again. He was looking into the grey water when a reflection appeared beside his own. The woman still wore a green cloak and she smiled this time, it was a small smile, almost triumphant, amused at least. Her eyes were still hungry when they fixed on Athelstan.

She was so close that Athelstan could feel the warmth of her skin. But she wasn't real...

When he looked up, she was still there, still looking at him. She was still beautiful. There was a short sword fastened at her hip and she seemed made of sharp edges. Athelstan was afraid to move, he was afraid of the fact that he didn't want to look away. When he did, he found himself faced with another familiar vision. The man's smile was very similar to the woman's and had exactly the same effect.

Oh, God. Help me.

The man's smile widened. "You know us."

Athelstan shook his head wildly, his heart was beating too fast and he couldn't feel the comforting pain of his rosary beads. "I...You're not real."

The woman laughed and touched Athelstan's shoulder without warning, a pointed deliberate gesture. Athelstan shivered. The woman raised an eyebrow. "As real as you."

Oh, Lord God...

"You can't..."

The man stepped forward and his breath was warm against Athelstan's ear. "We can."

"Your name?" the woman asked.

Athelstan choked on air. His visions were talking to him and he'd talked back.

The woman touched his chin, then gripped it to direct his gaze towards her. Her fingers were cool like river water. Athelstan closed his eyes for a moment, only a moment because he had the strong urge to look at her again. The woman's eyes were narrowed.

"Lagertha."

"Ragnar," the man added, his words warm on Athelstan's skin.

And those words were...their names. They both seemed expectant now and Athelstan felt oddly anchored by their presence, by their touch. He felt far safer than he should. Still, his name escaped his lips like a sigh, like a plea. The woman, Lagertha, smiled and her touch lingered like a caress before she let go. Athelstan felt oddly empty. It was a horribly familiar feeling.

Ragnar sounded like he was breathing Athelstan in before he stepped away too. Athelstan turned, but Ragnar was gone, as was Lagertha. They had names now, they were solid and real. His head didn't hurt.

He still hurried home to pray though. And afterwards, he couldn't stop drawing. Was this the gift that God had intended all along? The sudden torture of lust? Muses? Inspiration?

Thank you, Father.

Athelstan,

Love the latest illustrations. Could we change the dress to blue on page four? And make the girl a little younger on six? I showed them to Ron and he approved. This is exactly what we're looking for.

The next sides by the end of the week please.

Marissa Collins,
Editor at Boat House Publishing Ltd

Oh, God, what does this all mean?

Athelstan had seen Ragnar and Lagertha several times since the pond. They always watched him with interested intense gazes, and they always touched him. Their touches burned and made him tremble. Ragnar always chuckled and pressed close.

Then one day Athelstan saw somebody else – a thin wiry character, with thick black lines painted around his eyes. He seemed completely focused on the knife and wood in his hands, and he didn't disappear when Athelstan closed his eyes and looked again. When Athelstan took a step closer, the man muttered something in another language, a grin on his face.

"You're not seeing at all," he said in thickly-accented English.

He was still smiling, genial and intent on his task. His hands were skilled and quick and Athelstan watched as a tiny boat appeared out of the rough chunk of wood. The man smiled at his creation, scraping carefully at its lines.

"The future," he proclaimed.

He smiled directly at Athelstan for the first time, his thumb rubbing against the boat's prow affectionately. His eyes were keen and bright and there was a seriousness running through his mood despite his blurred strangeness.

"So what's yours?"

He didn't wait long for an answer, after a few moments he walked towards a nearby wall. When Athelstan squinted in the bright sunlight, the man wasn't there anymore. That evening, Athelstan drew a character with dark-lined eyes and a strange sort of cleverness, it fitted the story perfectly. It felt right.

Ragnar and Lagertha were stood in his front garden. They were kissing and didn't seem to notice that Athelstan was blushing and fumbling as he tried to lock his front door. When he turned back around, they'd parted and were smiling at him, both clearly amused by his embarrassment. Did they know how his thoughts yearned?

"We found you," Lagertha broke the silence, her gaze sweeping the garden and the plants that surrounded her.

Athelstan's eyes widened. "You were looking for me?"

Ragnar's laugh was loud but affectionate and it made something thrum under Athelstan's skin. He could feel his breath stutter as Ragnar beckoned him closer. Athelstan wanted to know more, are they here to teach me, Lord? Or for me to teach them?

His rosary clicked gently at his wrist as he took a step forward.

Lagertha touched his hand, running her fingers over his ink-stained skin. "All work..."

Athelstan swallowed a strangled laugh and twitched a shoulder upward. "I love what I do."

"And do you draw us?"

Ragnar knew about his job. Had he seen the books? Athelstan blinked and his silence was taken as confirmation because Ragnar's smile broadened. His arms were bare this time and Athelstan could see the tattoos that covered the man's skin. They were ornate and detailed, they fascinated Athelstan.

"Would you like to draw something there?"

Ragnar's voice was husky and Athelstan flushed. He was obvious and this was getting worse. What is this, Lord?

"Too much," Athelstan managed to choke out. "I can't..."

Lagertha drew closer and pressed a hand to his neck, then to his cheek. Her eyes compelled him to look at her. She held his gaze.

"You're exactly where you're supposed to be."

Athelstan almost sagged into her touch as, silently, a soft rain started to fall.

Athelstan,

You're really onto something here. Call me as soon as you get this email, okay? I want to talk to you about publishing a book just of your illustrations. Ron is happy for his characters to be used, his percentage has already been agreed on. We're all very excited about this.

Call me!

Marissa Collins
Editor at Boat House Publishing Ltd

Lagertha was wearing a purple dress, it reminded Athelstan of a bruise. Her cloak was thrown over a nearby chair and her practical leather shoes had been abandoned by the front door. She was leafing through Athelstan's worn beloved Bible, her expression drawn and disbelieving.

"This is what you follow?"

Athelstan nodded, his hands clutching a hot cup of tea. Ragnar was using the bathroom with the door wide open, Athelstan was trying not to look at Ragnar's bare muscled chest, at his scars and tattoos.

Lagertha glanced back down at the Bible. There was a tattoo wrapped around her wrist and thumb, made up of deep blue and green letters that looked almost liquid. Athelstan wanted to trace them and know their meaning. He wanted to know the meaning of all the couple's tattoos.

"You believe there are worlds beyond this one," Lagertha said, her fingers trailing down an almost translucent page.

Athelstan remembered Father Cuthbert's lessons. On particularly bad days Athelstan had fervently wished for the peace of Heaven, oh please, God.

"What if there was more?"

Lagertha's words sliced through Athelstan's remembrances. He stared and then quickly put down his tea before he spilled it. He could hear Ragnar coming back down the stairs, humming idly under his breath. Only nothing Ragnar did was ever idle.

More...? More worlds? Athelstan's skin prickled and he gripped his rosary.

"God made Heaven, the Earth, and the world below."

"He sounds like a very small god," Ragnar replied, his flesh still glistening from the rain.

Lagertha spoke before Athelstan could protest. "We are from outside your philosophy, and yet here we are."

"As real as this."

Ragnar kissed Athelstan without warning, a firm press of lips, a flicker of tongue, and then there was just cool air between them again. Athelstan could only stare, his heart thumping quickly. They were wrong, the Bible was clear, and yet here he was, talking to visions that nobody else saw.

Lagertha entered his personal space and kissed him, gentle but insistent. She tasted of warm berries and summer mist. She kept a hand to his neck, tethering them both. Athelstan wanted to pull away, to tell them that they were crazy and wrong, that they had to be...

"Does your god tell you everything?"

Lagertha's words hung in the air and Ragnar became a line of heat against Athelstan's back. Neither of them should have made sense. But that hollow place under Athelstan's heart, the one that always ached when his visions vanished, it didn't feel so hollow anymore.

Is this Your answer, oh Lord? Is this...

As Ragnar breathed warmly against Athelstan's neck, Athelstan himself raised a bead-free hand and hesitated a moment before resting it on Lagertha's wrist. His fingers traced her tattoo, asking a silent question. She stared steadily back and let him.

-the end