Work Text:
“Faith makes men into scavengers.”
(Donald Revell)
***
I.
Bjorn took a final taste of his stew, careful not to burn his lips on the broth and the tender chunk of meat he’d fished from the cauldron, smiling small and satisfied at the piney spiciness. As he carefully ladled some of the stew into two wooden bowls he had balanced in one of his large hands, he scanned the crowded longhouse for an aquiline nose and sharp eyes.
The smell of herbs and rich, earthy mushrooms was enough to make the stomach grumble even if it mingled with the musk of the sweat and leather of the men milling about the firepit’s wide circle of light and smokey heat, waiting for Bjorn to move away from the food. There wasn’t enough of Bjorn’s cooking to go around, so only the most eager and senior members of the warband remained, as relentless as crows.
He took his time, relishing the security of the longhouse’s wood-and-clay walls and the pleasant din of overlapping conversation, slurred gambles, and raucous shouts. Contained in muted warmth, he felt gratitude to the steadfast bulwark from the flurry of ice that battered the roof and chilled the bare portions of the floor. It was a homey feeling, a nice change from huddling around a campfire in the damp cold while out on raids. It did well to be present in the time away from the constant struggle of life-or-death, even if Bjorn did take solace in the thrill of battle.
Most of the men felt the same way, it seemed. They’d been feasting as often as the winter rations— and Gorm’s tight pursestrings— would allow for it. But the riches had been plentiful this raiding season, and so now the mead flowed in revelry. Roasts turned on their hooks above the other firepits and there were even some sweetcakes with honey laid out on the tables. The smoke filled the hull-shaped arch of the roof, creating a hazy shadow that hung like a wool blanket over the shoulders. Some men played toga-honk on the far end and most of the sheepskin-covered benches were clustered with people playing games or listening to the skald tell of mighty Þórr.
Even through the dim light and the mass of bodies Bjorn could usually pick out Askeladd right away; he tended to be just off-center of the main chatter, interrupted by several of the village maidens and flashing his characteristic smirk to anyone who met his eye. But this night it took Bjorn longer to spot the man, only catching a certain shade of cropped blond after pausing to pick out more juniper berries from the stew, unexpected in a quiet corner.
He stood up from the edge of the firepit, placing the ladle across the lip of the cauldron. Slipping into his signature dead-eyed scowl was easy enough as he turned around to face the group of men hanging around him. Though Bjorn truly felt no real agitation any longer, he settled the look on one of their newest recruits, Vidar, who was sulking with his arms crossed, trying not to shrink back from the withering glare sent his way and looking rather indignant at the poorly-stifled guffaws from the others.
It was good to set the men in place before they grew more confident, and one of those places was that you simply didn’t poke fun at Bjorn for cooking in the winter, even if there were plenty of women around who were there just for that job.
The scowl fell back into a soft, lazy smile again as he passed out of view, especially when one of the other men elbowed Vidar in the ribs, showing off his bowl full of Bjorn’s notoriously delicious brace o’ rabbit stew as the others shoved each other to get their portions before it was gone.
“Don’t bite the hand that feeds you, eh?”
Their laughter faded into the din as Bjorn found a seat next to where Askeladd had hidden himself, and he heard the man scoff at the idiom under his breath. He held out a bowl for him and bright eyes flashed with subtle mirth as he took it from his hands. In this little alcove it was much cooler and less smokey, and Bjorn found himself thankful for the change, the prickle of sweat cooling on his neck as he settled, leaning back against the tabletop. Askeladd seemed bundled well enough against this cold spot, his cheeks flushed with the stuffiness of the longhouse. But despite his seeming contentment, Bjorn could tell something about his leader was amiss.
As if anticipating Bjorn’s questions, Askeladd made an exaggerated yawn, the excuse of sleep clearly written on his features for a moment— dulled eyes and heavy lids— before being smoothed back into his usual. Bjorn dropped their silent conversation with a nod; Askeladd had dealt with Gorm all day, after all, he was sure to be tired after listening to the man ramble on about figures and ‘the price of spices these days’ and other such calamities.
“You know, Bjorn,” Askeladd said after a moment, mouth curved into a sly grin. “Worrying over me like a hen is just going to give the men more fuel to fire you up with.”
Bjorn shrugged, chewing on a mouthful of carrot and chanterelle and watching the drunken banter of the others nearest to them, chuckling at the eruption of applause when one of the men fell ass-over-kettle and yet managed to spill not a drop of his mead. Shaking his head, he turned back to Askeladd who looked on without his usual boisterous interjections, staring off into some neutral distance with the light of the firepits making the blue of his eyes more pale and watery.
“They won’t say shit about it again,” Bjorn mused quietly, spoon poised above his bowl. Askeladd tipped his head to show he was listening. “Not after I knocked out Aksel’s teeth.”
Askeladd snorted, leaning back with a mischievous glint. He had been mightily amused when he heard about the brawl that ensued after Aksel drunkenly proclaimed how Bjorn would make a great bear of a housewife and wouldn’t let the analogy drop, going so far to suggest he’d been tamed by their Captain. That had been a few years ago now, and needless to say, the older members didn’t push the joke again.
“Didn’t see any teeth flying from Vidar,” Askeladd drawled.
“Too scrawny for that, just gave him a good scare is all,” Bjorn grunted. Although Bjorn was no stranger to violence, he preferred not to have to beat on his men when intimidation would do the job well enough, especially to those still young and wet behind the ears.
He made to take another bite before turning and gesturing to Askeladd’s bowl.
“Besides,” Bjorn continued, just loud enough to be heard over another roar of laughter. “Someone’s got to keep an eye on you Captain, make sure you remember to eat for all your scheming.”
Askeladd gave him a light smile— not the usual biting retort, which was another cause for concern tamped down by another yawn. A look of contemplation submerged the other man again, a pool of shadow settling into his eyes, making the reflected firelight seem to become overwhelmed by a deeper sea. He took a spoonful of the stew.
“You’re the only man for it,” he muttered, so low that Bjorn barely caught the words over the racket.
***
II.
He made it back to his dwelling house late, the light of the stars and moon luminous on the snow, guiding him along the footpath to his door. Pleasantly buzzed with the dry, sweet taste of the mead lingering on his tongue, Bjorn wondered why he bothered to make the trek back when he could’ve just slept on one of the benches and avoided the assault of frigid winds worthy of Niflheim.
Or why Askeladd hadn’t invited him back with salacious looks and bold hands.
He got the fire started quickly, striking the flint into a pad of dried moss before dragging the wool blankets from his bed onto the fur-lined floor nearer to the newborn warmth. Soon enough he was staring into a healthy crackling, the black bark split with incandescent red, the wind’s roaring stifled into a low whistle that didn’t reach him. Eyes heavy with the bliss of good food and drink, Bjorn soon realized he had needed space away from the snoring and drunkenness to think free from scrutiny. And to address the twinge of intuition in his gut.
Something didn’t sit right. Typically, Askeladd slipped between tired boredom and disdainful scoffs at the men’s readiness to brawl— despite gleefully provoking them with well-placed jabs— and had a boisterous exuberance the entire night that meant it fell to Bjorn to drag him out for one final hurrah before collapsing in satiation in his bed.
Tonight, Askeladd barely ate or drank, slipping back into his usual self only when others came near, smoothly brushing off the attention of the ladies with enough charm that they giggled as they left. In those moments Bjorn wondered which Askeladd was nearer to true expression, and it was difficult not to conclude that it was likely the latter. Unless there was something else going on?
Every year Bjorn realized, in some varied way, how out-of-place Askeladd seemed. Sometimes it was the strange tunes he hummed under his breath as he worked, or the effortless way he dealt with Gorm’s fretful appeals to his coin, or even just the way he seemed to become both greatly amused and deeply resentful of the fights that broke out every time a group of men swigged enough alcohol. The way his brow furrowed slightly at the stories the skald told to the rapt attention of the other listeners.
And each time the revelation smarted, a vision so poignant and obvious Bjorn wondered how it didn’t remain in focus. Then, inevitably, it would fade back into the ease of having him as a leader, the rhythm of falling-in-step behind him, the camaraderie they’d built after years together. It was easy to forget Askeladd’s ability to mask his intentions when constantly moving from village to village or when out at sea, or managing wounds after a battle; tough not to realize when safe in the village they wintered at, with nothing to do but pass time and wait for the thaw.
Of course, Askeladd spoke in that easy, confident drawl that made light of everything. And he never seemed outright awkward. Rather there was something vaguely incongruent about him, a nobility in his gestures, a gleam of disdain in his eyes. Manipulation was second nature. The question was, then: which was more real? What was he really after?
Bjorn grumbled, turning onto his back and bringing the wool blankets up around his shoulders after bunching a pelt under his head as a cushion, staring up into the dark of his cottage. His eyes were heavy with sleep, but his mind raced on.
Some days he thinks Askeladd would just up and leave him, abandoning his warband because it had fulfilled the purpose he needed in his Lokkemand-scale plans. Other days, Bjorn was under the impression that he was fae with a terrible, barely-smothered rage, and he understood with a prickle on his neck that Askeladd could, if he so wanted, kill them all and be done with it.
Sure, the riches were a way of life and the killing was savored just as much as the spoils: but on these rare glimpses Bjorn caught of the man he realized with a disturbing jolt that he barely knew Askeladd and yet knew him so well they didn’t need to speak. How on nights after hardship, after Askeladd pulled them through the battlefield victorious, it seemed impossible not to notice how the glory of it all never quite filled out all the blue in his eyes, never quite reaching the depth of the genuine.
He considered simply just asking once, nearly a year and two seasons ago now, when the village they had raided was bountiful with ale and the air was warm and close, sweet with the late growth of summer. Just ask, a voice inside Bjorn had urged.
(As if Askeladd didn’t play games, as if he wouldn’t just laugh it off. He wondered if Askeladd would even be surprised Bjorn had given in to asking, wondered if he already had an answer prepared. Did he consider all the different paths the conversation could take, crafting a rebuttal for each possibility?)
“Be plain with me, Askeladd. What is it you’re really after? What are you waiting for?”
But Bjorn hadn’t asked.
Just leaned in close, blood alight with drink and ears full of the summer song of humming and chirping bugs in the long grass of the tree-shaded knoll, the chill of autumn yet to creep in on the lengthening nights. Remembered how he’d learned so well the waiting game from his mother, even if playing such a game was futile. It had been years already, after all, and Askeladd had given him his trust in battle, his leave to take charge when necessary, and had even given him the pleasure of his bed. That counted for something.
Yet he couldn’t help but yearn for more. For whatever else he could give; anything and everything.
Askeladd had tugged on his beard, running the braid through his fingers and pressing against him insistently enough that he couldn’t be ignored for troublesome, meandering thoughts, admonishing Bjorn for thinking so loud when he could be making it difficult for him to ride the horse tomorrow. And once Askeladd’s lips were on his, teeth pulling on his lower lip just hard enough to sting, hands wandering lower, Bjorn had eagerly taken him up on the offer.
The night dissolved around them, enigma forgotten for a time.
***
III.
In the morning, Bjorn decided to head over to Askeladd bright and early, packing up his Halatafl board and the tiny wooden pegs as a routine excuse to check in on him and soothe his own anxious thoughts building from the night before. Askeladd may be a puzzle of a man, but Bjorn had always known him to be steadfast. It was probably nothing but his mercurial moods and being cooped up for the winter that made him seem off.
But still. Discomfort ate at Bjorn, even as he bundled up for the short trek, sliding a wool hat over his unruly hair and tugging it firmly over his ears.
Sometime last night, Askeladd had slipped out from the longhouse unnoticed— a rare occurrence that he didn’t bring Bjorn along with him into the cold night, hand on his lower back firmly guiding him out. Askeladd liked to sit outside in the dark first, with the hard winking stars and the glowing silver disk of the moon stamped into the black, listening to the far-away sound of their warband’s deep voices punctuated by the higher laughter of some women. Even in the freezing winter he’d pause, let Bjorn cover him with his oversized cloak and press another horn of alcohol into his hand to keep him from freezing both inside and out.
But when Bjorn had finally noticed he was gone and slipped out the door, he was nowhere to be seen. No good.
His soft leather boots crunched on the ice-encrusted snow and the morning was a pale wash of dull colors; grey sky and muddy white path. Askeladd’s winter dwelling was just up ahead, smoke puffing weakly from the roof— the fire was going out from the long winter night. Bjorn hurried to the door, making quick work of the lock despite numb fingers and ducking under the frame, shutting the winter out behind him and knocking off some snow from his soles by tapping his feet on the jamb.
Askeladd was usually an early riser, up and animated before Bjorn even felt human as if he didn’t need sleep; strange that he wasn’t now, the lump of him under the rich blankets still in the quiet dark, the unfriendly sun casting thin light from the roof-hole of the firepit. He set the Tafl board down on a table and kneeled down next to the pulsing embers, grumbling to himself: Askeladd would always kick him out of the bed with cold feet to stoke the fire when he stayed in his bed, but it seemed like he neglected to do it himself.
He worked the flames back up into a hungry heat before he turned.
“Askeladd, afraid I’ll beat you at Tysdagr Halatafl?”
No answer. The sound of the wind on the walls and roof, and a drop in Bjorn’s stomach that he refused to acknowledge more than necessary.
Bjorn slid on the fur-covered straw mattress, not even caring if he would get chewed out for waking him on the one day he decided to sleep in, pulling aside the woolen hood he’d made of the blankets to see an unkempt head of hair and hunched, shivering shoulders.
Stubborn ass. Bjorn wanted to grumble something about letting his fire die out, climbing into bed and pulling him over, but the blanket stuck to the sweat that gleamed on his cheek and neck, his skin flushed to a clammy, sickly pale-pink. Immediately, Bjorn pressed his hand to his forehead, feeling the impossible heat against his calloused skin that could only mean fever. He felt the blood freeze still in his own skin, hard little crystals that pricked him from the inside in a surge of worry .
Askeladd huffed drowsily, a thickly congested cough wrecking his chest before he had the wherewithal to jerk up, arm swinging under the covers to clearly find and flex around a concealed dagger, only to relax when dazed eyes fell on Bjorn’s hulking frame blotting out the newly-stoked fire and the aura of warmth that soaked into the cooled blankets.
Askeladd’s let go only to convulse into a shiver and a cough that he quickly turned into a clearing of his throat, his eyes shedding that guarded battle-sharpness for a flippant light that did nothing to hide the deep weary ache.
“Ah, Bjorn,” he greeted gravelly, “Seems you’ve let yourself in.”
(As if Bjorn didn’t have Askeladd’s key weighing in his pocket, as if they didn’t play Tafl every Tysdagr, as if they didn’t work out their winter cabin-fever in this same bed every other night, as if Bjorn didn’t sit by the fire and sing softly while they whittled wood to pass the time, as if…)
Askeladd leaned back casually against the wall, but Bjorn just crossed his arms.
“You’re ill.”
Bjorn couldn’t keep the thread of anger from lacing itself in the syllables. How long had he been feeling unwell? Why would he keep such a thing from him? Was he just going to wait until Winter Fever filled his lungs with fluid?
He had the decency to at least grimace, though Bjorn wasn’t convinced it wasn’t just for his own benefit. Well, at least he had an explanation for Askeladd’s odd behavior, but something about it rankled.
(Something about trust, an annoying voice supplied. He tamped it down.)
“How do you feel?” he grunted, sitting back on his haunches and still looming above him.
He sighed, readjusting the blankets around his shoulders and looking off to the draperies that surrounded his bed, and Bjorn was close to losing his cool if Askeladd thought this was a joke like everything else—
“Like shit,” the other man admitted, dark smudges of shadow under his eyes only adding to the admission. He smiled, coughed. “How do I look?”
Bjorn can’t help but snort.
“Like shit.”
Askeladd laughed hoarsely, but Bjorn just shook his head, watching as the other man waved off his concern. He continued to stare at him in one of the few expressions of ‘done-with-your-shit’ that Askeladd might just listen to. For a long moment it was the sound of fire and wind, and the smell of smoke collecting in the low roof, and the rough sound of Askeladd’s breathing.
“I suppose you’re going to insist,” Askeladd eventually sighed. “‘Keep an eye on me,’ and all that.”
“Don’t need to insist if you aren’t resisting.”
Askeladd smirked, but it wasn’t as convincing as usual with bloodshot eyes and the sickly-sweet smell of a fever clinging to his skin. Really, would he make light of everything?
“Where would the fun in that be?”
“Where would the fun be, indeed,” Bjorn muttered to himself as he trudged his way through the crunchy snow up to Eir’s cottage. The bitter air cooled the frustration burning his cheeks and helped him recenter his focus. Eir would be glad enough to see him, always willing to show him all the right herbs and poultices, and surely she would show him how to make a draught “just in case” it would be needed to treat his men in the future while on a raid. Bjorn had learned much from her over the years— he’d been decent enough at treating injury, but stubborn sick men?
“You’re the only man for it,” Askeladd had said during the feast, and Bjorn couldn’t help the flush that burned up to his ears.
He had his work cut out for him.
***
IV.
It wasn’t the first time that Bjorn had caught a glimpse of Askeladd at unawares, but it only happened a handful of times before. He kept those snatches close to him, held them to his chest like an injured animal— at once secure and delicate, with the distinct feeling of possessive preservation. Like the jötunn Hrungnir, Askeladd seemed made of stone; he was that unshakable, unreadable. Only the impossible can do the impossible, and sometimes the man seemed larger than life. All the more did Bjorn treasure the few hairline fractures in the facade.
One glimpse in particular stuck with him.
It had been a successful raid that day. The villagers amounted to little resistance and the celebratory bonfires roared, the spoils plentiful enough for a settlement of such a size, the men cheerful and rowdy as they wound down from the excitement and settled in for a night of rotation on watch, ample food, and decent drink. Bjorn had gone around helping tend to the injuries— lancing, making rows of neat stitches, and slathering honey over each wound. Honey bear, the men guffawed as they usually did after battle, giddy from the adrenaline and riches, clapping Bjorn’s shoulder as he wrapped linen strips around an arm. He just shook his head.
No losses. Mostly minor injuries— a very good spot Askeladd had picked. He packed up the remainder of his herbs, bandage strips, and his trusty curved bone needle, washing the blood off of his hands in a nearby stream before setting out to find Askeladd, as he was wont to do.
It was growing dark, the sun having fallen behind the dark tangled line of trees, the crickets already beginning their nightly chanting and a distinct chill shivering from the east. He warmed his wet hands by the fire, letting them dry as scanned past the blister of light and into the shadows, finding his Captain only by the gleam of orange on the glossy black of his chestplate.
The men around him crowded the fire, eating their fill and picking through the remnants of the houses. Their chatter filled the village, and when Bjorn approached, Askeladd didn’t notice him right away, staring off at the main group with his brow creased in concentration.
The low light made his hair shine like fine-spun flax, a shadow falling from his hooked nose down across his cheek and shading the hooded lid of one of his bright eyes, the flat line of his mouth pressed down into an indifferent frown. One of their warband whooped over a find, causing a minor ruckus. It should have been a moment of reprieve, a breath taken, a job well done.
And yet.
How thin and how vibrant the shadows had seemed at once, substance and smoke, a tangible mirage. The way the darkness filled out the sharp lines of Askeladd’s profile, the way they poured into his pupils like into the eye of a storm, swirling— it felt to Bjorn like he had dropped a leg into a deep, freezing puddle, the shock of it traveling in a lightning-strike up his spine, a sharp fracture that passed as quickly as it came and yet left a brilliant afterimage as searing as a migraine. A mistake, perhaps, a play of mischief by the fickle light.
It was just Askeladd, standing there keeping watch over his men. Conniving, smug. Pleased as a cat-that-got-the-cream. His plan had worked after all, and with its usual flair.
But it had been the eyes. Bjorn had seen it: the absolute and all-consuming hatred they contained.
No other expression had ever come to such fullness on Askeladd’s face, had ever been so coloured by soul, had ever been expressed with all the use of his features. This had been genuine. Unrefined. Raw. But it had been so fleeting, the twist of contempt so readily smoothed back into carefully-set neutrality that Bjorn wished it had been nothing, told himself it was nothing until the enigma faded into distant memory.
It must have been nothing. After all, how could a man conceal so much bitter hate? How lonely would that be, with no one to share in the burden?
***
V.
“What did you tell them?”
It had been a full day of bedrest and Askeladd had done nothing but sleep, cough, and pester Bjorn incessantly for information about the goings on of his men and the village despite knowing very well that nothing happened in the winter months but debauchery and utter boredom. He finished drying his stone mortar with a twist of the rag and spared a quick glance at the other man. He was just barely sitting up in bed, propped up by all the pillows Bjorn could find and looking somehow insufferable despite being very clearly miserable. Chills wrung from his shoulders and sweat glistened on his temples, but Askeladd still prodded.
Bjorn sighed.
“Told them that you’re in your typical brooding before spring, pouring over maps and supply lists and last repairs.”
He placed the pestle back in its bowl with a clink and hefted it onto the shelf before pulling a few logs from the stack and laying them over the fire, pushing the charred remnants around carefully until a shower of sparks licked his hand and the fire took to the wood, sending a pleasant smell into the air of the cabin.
“Hmm,” Askeladd hummed, breaking off into a cough even as he tried to save face and stroke his beard. “A little early for it, but I’m sure they’re too busy killing each other to notice anyways.”
Bjorn snorted, turning towards him and crossing his arms.
“As long as they don’t pester me about it, they can trudge all the way up to Eir’s. I’m not kissing their wounds in the winter.”
Askeladd’s smirk broadened and he leaned back into the cushions, drawing a smaller square of fur around his shoulders only to stumble into another fit of coughs as he opened his mouth for a no-doubt sarcastic retort. Bjorn simply watched, giving him a pointed look at the tea sitting on the stool he’d just made, resisting the urge to step over and rub a hand along his back like a child.
He shook his head to clear it rather than to admonish, making to put another pot of water over the fire instead. The snow he’d scooped earlier already partially melted at the bottom, and it sloshed as he hung it from the iron hook over the quiver of flames. This would hopefully make the air less dry and crackly, the inside smokey with the haze of the fire and stuffy from shutting out the cold.
“You’re not so easily provoked into brawling as the other men,” Askeladd stated hoarsely, taking an obnoxious sip of the tea— mallow root and honey, the best for fever and cough.
Bjorn busied his hands idly, pretending to work as he mulled over the question posed behind those words. Askeladd already knew that he liked fighting the men well enough; it was important to stay sharp in the winter months and hone any skills that may have dulled from disuse. He was also no stranger to responding swiftly at tests of his authority. He was, after all, the Captain’s right hand, and couldn’t allow disrespect out of principle. So what was he on about?
“You know I’m interested in sparring,” he said carefully. “But not the drunken petty insults.”
Askeladd set the cup down, arching a brow to less effect than when he was in full health. Right now his cheeks were flushed like a maiden’s and his eyes had that half-submerged sheen, bleary and heavy-lidded.
“Come now, Bjorn,” Askeladd rasped. “Surely it’s un-Dane of you not to defend any insult to your honor with blood.”
Bjorn scoffed, brow knitted. He stopped fidgeting and leaned back against the footboard of the bed, stealing a blanket from the mattress as a bulwark from the draft coming in from the door, the cold undulating like a snake along the pounded earth. He settled, puzzled over the angle Askeladd was trying to work from, knowing from experience when he was searching.
“No one throws insults well enough to insult my honor after hearing all of your barbs, Askeladd.”
“Bah,” Askeladd grunted, waving him off with a small smile. As if he decided it didn’t really matter. “And no one flatters me so well as you, Bjorn.”
***
VI.
Askeladd had struggled to fall asleep after the tea, twisting and turning in the bed and grumbling to himself after every cough. Bjorn sat up now on a chair beside him, monitoring his fever and pressing a snow-chilled cloth to his forehead when even the air seemed to burn his skin. After a while he seemed to let out a final rough sigh, the breath unwinding from deep within his chest as he finally surrendered into a fitful sleep, sinking deeper into rest as the evening wore on.
Bjorn had busied himself with whittling a block of wood mindlessly, settling into a knotwork pattern with a dragon’s head biting into the delicate point of its own tail, content to listen to Askeladd’s snores and the hard crystal chime of the snowflakes hitting the roof. There was something hypnotic and comforting about the in-and-out of Askeladd’s sleep, melting the hours into an indistinct meditation. It had to have been quite late when Bjorn realized he hadn’t even moved his hands in several minutes, that he had just been staring into the fire and blinking slowly with sleep creeping in from the periphery.
It was in this hazy, ill-defined drowsiness— the fire blurred into a glow of dappled light-and-shadow, the cold faraway, sleep holding out its arms for an embrace— that Bjorn crawled onto the mattress next to Askeladd and nearly drifted off as soon as his head hit the pillow. Nearly. Until he heard the faintest murmur, so soft he likely wouldn’t have noticed had not the sacred rhythm of Askeladd’s breathing been disturbed.
Bjorn sat bolt-up in the bed, the wood creaking, heart-stopped, the exhaustion clearing from his eyes. Surely this was another one of his jokes, a jab at Bjorn for fretting over him like a woman would, sitting up late into the night and dabbing at his forehead with a cloth. But no, it couldn’t be. Not with the timber of that cry, not with the trembling rawness that was so rare to his character that Bjorn had questioned if it was even there at all. He’d never gone so far, and this bit right into the bone, this shattering, this voice like a cut in the night.
Askeladd shuffled in the bed, delirious with the remnants of his fever-dreams, eyes darting wild under his closed lids and the shape of him rippling with shivers in the low, wavy light. Damp droplets clung to his hairline, his cheeks florid and pale at once like a dusk-stained cloud stretched thin over the white winter sky. He was completely unconscious, slipping closer to Bjorn’s side, muttering incoherently.
He couldn’t say that he ever moved so gently and so quietly, placing his square hand over Askeladd’s forehead and pressing comfortingly against the baked skin, the pressure drawing a relieved sigh from the other man’s lips. No matter how much Askeladd had made light of and tried to act nonchalant about being ill, a pit had opened in Bjorn, swallowing any and all of their usual boundaries: captain and second, battle-tested friendship, even the intimacy that was allowed away from prying eyes. These crumbled to dust.
This fever had become dire, and Bjorn needed to help him make it through the night.
Bjorn sat up against the headboard, slipping under the blankets and letting Askeladd rest his head in his lap and curl against his legs, a hand clinging to one of his thighs. Bjorn often forgot how much smaller he was, all lean muscle and wiry strength. But there was none of that impeccable confidence now, breath in ragged mumbles. No, Bjorn couldn’t sleep tonight. He would keep watch, press his hand to his forehead and wipe away the sweat there, let him take from him all the body heat he could. Wake him up in a little while to drink, replenish.
This sick-dream wrung from Askeladd another slurred and raspy call, a plea to Mother which Bjorn soothed, running his hand along a burning cheek.
***
VII.
Bjorn could recall easily the heat of his mother’s pyre, the way her last fine dress caught in the blaze. He could remember the blót, sacrificing the best of their animals and letting the rest go free because he knew he wouldn't need them any longer.
“Weak heart,” the healer had told him, a kindly old woman who patted his hand in consolation. One of the few from the nearby village who helped them when they were in need. “Make her comfortable.”
And Bjorn had, as best he could.
Combed her hair every morning, then set her out all comfortable near the garden with a folded blanket in her lap as he went about feeding the animals and tending to the crops or chopping more wood for the fire. He’d help her back in at midday. Sometimes she’d ask him for a bit of sewing work, darning Bjorn’s clothes meticulously and with more technical decoration than needed for working garments, unable to let go of her past. He’d kiss her on her cheek as he left to finish tending to their homestead, returning late to find her in the same spot staring wistfully out the window, a distant glaze in her eyes.
He’d listen to her ramble as he cooked about how charming his father was and how she loved him the instant she saw him, how she didn’t regret for a moment wedding below her standing because she had something infinitely precious that the plight of their exile couldn’t sour: a few years of happiness in the senseless world. What more could one ask for?
Oh, and how delighted she would be when he trained in the yard against burlap and straw dummies, how her hazel eyes would thaw free of that numb doll-eyed stare, the green in them like newly-furled leaves. “ Bjorn, how much you look of him! The very image… and how you haft a spear like him too! ”
Years and years had passed since she died, but Bjorn remembered her like it was nearer. The presence of his mother stuck with him always, like a frail but steadfast hand on his shoulder. But all he remembered of his father was a few moments: his first lessons with a sword, the way the lines around his eyes crinkled against the sunlight. How he had doted on his mother even when things got tough. How he’d taken the last of her old jewels to trade for coin and then disappeared. Had he ran off with them or had he gotten robbed on the road— who knew?
If his mother was always present, though threadbare, his father was negation. Absence. A gaping wound.
Bjorn would direct her rambling somewhere else. Clench his fists behind his back before breathing out slowly and patting her delicate hand, asking her to tell him about the gods, if she would please tell those stories again. And how her face would light up and the years would dissolve until she was young again, a proud noblewoman who had been indulged like a princess, who had heard from the best skalds and even knew how to read runes.
She always remained unwaveringly faithful, to Óðinn and to father.
(Difficult to imagine her stillness during the day, sitting and waiting, sitting and waiting...)
But how Bjorn loved her voice more than anything, loved the way it animated her disparate features— she of long golden hair and slight stature, joyful eyes and thin fingers and a voice as soft as that. Of course he looked like his father.
Ár var alda
þats ekki var,
vara sandr né sær
né svalar unnir;
iörð fannsk æva
né upphiminn,
gap var Ginnunga,
en gras hvergi.
There was in times of old, where Ymir dwelt, nor sand nor sea, nor gelid waves; earth existed not, nor heaven above, ‘twas a chaotic chasm, and grass nowhere.
Bjorn didn’t hold it against her that she no longer could move from her chair, that she talked too often of father. And as time went on, he didn’t think her heart was weak at all. He thought she was the strongest in the world.
So he sat and listened to her stories every night until one morning, waking up to the spring rains and the smell of new green, he turned and she was cold next to him.
She had been the last tether that had kept him there in their squalid house next to the village they weren't welcome, in the lands full of the memory of his father. So he left. Knew how to fight decently enough, what herbs healed and which harmed, how to take care of himself in the forest. He’d been doing it some time now, after all, while his mother had waited, loyal unto the very futile end.
***
VIII.
Askeladd unfolded a map and supply list in the morning, exuberant in an exaggerated way partially because Bjorn had cooked up quite the concoction of dried mushrooms that took the edge off of everything from hangovers to post-berserk broken ribs and swollen knuckles. But there was also a guard to him, a faux-enthusiasm that was pushed just too far to be entirely believable. Something that lingered, left a warning in the air that quelled any pesky questions about the night before.
So. He remembered something.
“What are you doing?” Bjorn asked, brows knitted as he shut the door firmly behind him and tapped off the ice clinging to his boots.
“You told the men I was scheming,” Askeladd explained patiently, sparing him only a cursory glance. “Every lie has a kernel of truth.”
Askeladd’s fever had mercifully broken, but he needed rest even if he was on a high. Yet from the man’s expression Bjorn could tell it would do no good to try and force him back to bed.
He shook his head, wet flakes falling from the shaggy ends before he huffed, sliding into the chair next to the fire and deciding to let him work for a little longer until the effects of the mushrooms inevitably wore off and left him in an exhausted slump. Bjorn knew firsthand how hard it was to keep up after the mushrooms worked their healing magic. For now he would be content to wait, slicing off slivers of a wrinkled apple and a wedge of cheese he’d stolen from the longhouse stores as he listened to his coughs.
If Askeladd seemed surprised that Bjorn didn’t try herding him back to the bed he kept it off his face. They settled into a quiet that wasn’t as comfortable as usual— they were both thinking hard enough that the presence of the other was continually in awareness, like a shape in the periphery.
Bjorn had always assumed Askeladd had a grand plan in mind, a final scheme that all of his other actions would help bring to fruition. But for the first time Bjorn wondered if that was just another one of his bold facades… because maybe he was just waiting too. Like mother had waited.
How long had it been? Nearly a decade together now. Death so close and life always just out of reach, the nearness between them unquenched by the distance. An enigma. Just as Bjorn had seen the boundaries of their relationship dissolve into something more last night when he saw him, really saw him , the boundaries were back up again just as quickly, like nothing had happened. Askeladd didn’t permit ease: white-knuckled, indifference fixed on his face, jaw set.
Bjorn would be lying that it didn’t sting; he’d proven his loyalty with blood again and again, showing his faith to pull through on the handful of times things went wrong. Could he push? Ask, just this once, while they were safe within the walls of their winter home, while they took a break from violence?
“Askeladd, tell me about your mother. What was she like, what did her laugh sound like? What stories would she tell by the fire and what was it she waited for?”
“What do you wait for?"
For all that Askeladd spoke of every man being slaves to something— money, sex, violence, power— Bjorn had always found it more interesting to try and figure out what men waited for. It was easy enough to tell what a man wanted, but was there something greater in their heart, a tenderness, a loyalty, a faith? There was always something greater in Askeladd, he felt it as tangible and as overgrown as the ruins of an old castle. It’s why he started following him, after all.
Askeladd coughed, breaking the flow of Bjorn’s musings for a moment, though he ignored his worried glance. Stubborn man, continuing to work, or pretend to, eyes blinking blearily in the low light of the oil lamp.
He slid the blade under the flesh of the apple, turning it in his palm and tossing the bittersweet strip in his mouth.
When he left home he thought the only thing that mattered anymore was that he died fighting to make it to Óðinn’s feast hall, to become enveloped in the wings of the Valkyrja and be delivered. To sit, to wait, and to celebrate until Ragnarök where he would fight until the doomed end. It didn't matter how he died fighting. It was a dog-eat-dog world, after all.
But now, with the weight of all things unsaid draped over them both in the small room, Bjorn wasn’t so sure he wanted to die on a raid and leave nothing behind. And he was almost certain Askeladd felt the same way.
***
IX.
It hadn’t been long after Bjorn had been invited to join Askeladd’s warband that they began rolling in the hay, as the other man often put it. Askeladd had noticed with a frightening perceptiveness that he didn’t seem to take to the charms of women, on raids or otherwise, and it wasn’t a proposal Bjorn had to think at all about to accept: they’d been through the worst raid season and survived. And Askeladd had to have felt Bjorn’s lingering, awe-struck looks when he thought he wasn’t looking.
One night in those early years in particular stuck with Bjorn and came back to haunt him often in his dreams and in his lowest moods. It was late and he’d turned away from Askeladd’s languid sprawl on the bed, the rickety thing protesting his shifting weight as he dressed. Bjorn had still been white-hot with the last fatigue of pleasure wrung from him but the emptiness had felt too much to shoulder. He had no words at that time to explain to his partner the lump that had grown like a tumor in his throat, that stuffed the breath into an iron ball of ache that felt a lot like hunger.
(How could he be so mad with need, felt so satisfied in those few precious, precious glimpses of blue eyes thawed, reflecting back everything he’d felt and more and then, and then—)
Back to business. Shrug it off and smirk, a lecherous joke or two.
He stood up to roll his pants up to his hips only to the sound of a wolf-whistle. He didn’t turn to acknowledge it, just clenched his jaw and bore it. Those days, Askeladd’s every action landed deep, snagging on Bjorn’s heart like burrs. He had yet to figure him better, to understand how his needling and prodding and twisting was second-nature, practically survival instinct. He made pretense look easy, that’s how smooth words fell from his tongue.
(Was he being used by Askeladd through and through? Did it matter to him if he was?)
“You’ve a strange sense of duty, Bjorn,” Askeladd remarked when he got no response to his appreciative whistle. “I mean, you’re clearly not in this party for the women or the riches. Ah, the bloodshed is the joy of any respectable Dane, of course.”
His voice had fallen lower, then.
“But what is it you expect from me?”
At the time Bjorn continued to pull on his clothes and ignore him, but looking back on it now he realized just how uncharacteristically blunt Askeladd had been with his searching. He’d given Bjorn a small thing to grab onto, abrasive as it was or not— he should have pulled that thread of self-deprecation, reassured him of his loyalty, pointed out all the reasons he was born to be a leader.
But all Bjorn had heard was duty. And oh, how he despised that word. It was like a burden, that word, and nothing about Askeladd was a burden.
It was loyalty, faith that Bjorn cherished. He didn’t take care of his mother because of his duty as a son, but because he loved her and was loyal to that love. Because he had, in the deepest and most hidden of places inside of himself, had faith in her futile waiting. Just like Ragnarök, her fight against heartsickness was holy and righteous even if it was futile. And Bjorn had been honored to have fought with her to the very end.
No, Bjorn had no sense of duty. Just faith in his fists, faith in the wisdom of the Allfather. Loyalty to the Good Death and to the idea of a greater purpose that was just beginning to flower in his soul.
(What did he expect of him? To be his friend.)
He left their bed and Askeladd clicked his tongue in annoyance as he went, the smell of him clinging to Bjorn’s skin and the ache tougher to bear than any battle-wound.
***
X.
It’s two days after his fever that Bjorn feels Askeladd turn over, scooting up close behind him. The morning light shone from the chimney hole, a white-gold shimmer against the watery blue sky just tinged with the last flush of dawn.
He grunted, blinking the sleep from his eyes as he felt a nose nudge into his shoulder, cheek against his neck. No fever clung to Askeladd now, just the coolness of his touch, his eyes bright with mischief.
“Feeling much better now,” he murmured, “All thanks to you.”
Bjorn sighed, feeling heat rise to his skin in a low hum, leaning back into the lips and teeth that teased him, drawing him from the morning haze. A brazen hand wandered over the broad span of his chest, then lower, lower. He grumbled. Should’ve known it wouldn’t take long for Askeladd to return to his usual self, shaking off illness just as blithely as anything else.
This closeness with a calculated distance.
But Bjorn had taken care of him, right? He’d let him see vulnerability, let him hear it, let him keep it secret.
A hand suddenly grabbed between his thighs and all thought scattered. It didn’t matter anyways. He would wait for Askeladd until the end of time, even if to the other man there was no plan or no purpose to any of this. Because there was purpose here to Bjorn, and it mattered to him: Askeladd’s lips on his, for a little while.
Until the end.
***