Chapter Text
Canute was aching, tired, and possibly worst of all, he was cold. The storm had only gotten worse the farther they marched, and he threw a silent glare in the direction of Askeladd’s shadow. It was depressing, and a sense of frustrated hopelessness had fallen on the men in the band. The snowfall was so thick and blinding they could barely see a foot in front of them. Canute could just barely make out Ragnar's shape ahead of him, and he had lost track of Thorfinn a while ago, not that he cared much about that. The impudent boy could freeze for all he cared.
However, a wave of guilt washed over him nearly as soon as the thought passed through his mind. Yes, Thorfinn was rude and crass, and an absolute jerk, but no one deserved to freeze in this snow. What would his Father think of these wrathful thoughts? He would have to pray later, when they settled down for camp. Whenever that may be.
He looked up at the sky then, risking his face to the freezing wind. The clouds above him were a dull white, the same white on the ground and in the air, and the sun above them was still bright enough to hurt his eyes. It was absolutely dizzying, being surrounded by a never ending expanse of the same white, and he had to stop to blink and rub away the sudden tears of pain when a body bumped into his back without warning. The body growled in his ear;
“What’s the matter, princess? Keep walkin’.”
Ah… the subject of Canute’s guilty thoughts. Thorfinn growled again and elbowed passed him, making Canute flinch away. That had hurt, how dare he! Canute was going to give him a piece of his mind.
“H- how d-dare you! Don’t touch me! You… you’re not allowed to touch me unless we are in dire circumstances!” Canute thrust an angry finger at Thorfinn’s face, who in turn raised an unimpressed brow.
“I think you getting in my way is a pretty dire circumstance, Freja-face.”
“You wish you had my face, you ugly dog!”
“It’s funny how you think yer opinion of me matters.”
Canute seethed, gritting his teeth. The biting wind whipped the parts of his hair that weren’t hidden under his hood against his face, and snow clung to his fringe and eyelashes. Thorfinn’s words always stung, though he didn’t know why, and that in itself was frustrating beyond belief. It shouldn’t matter, he shouldn’t matter, much less his opinion, but it did and it made Canute hate the other boy all the more. This hate was petty and ugly and went against everything he was taught as a Christian, he knew, but he couldn’t help it. Guilt be damned, may the Lord forgive him.
Turning away from the boy in front of him, Canute turned his nose high in the air. “Whatever. I don’t care about you or your words. I’m going to-”
But the words died on his tongue as soon as Canute opened his eyes. Panic clawed up his throat like a mad hound; cold, sharp claws digging into his very core, making him feel feverish even through the chill.
He couldn’t see Ragnar.
He couldn’t see anyone.