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It is hot. Summer evening. The smell of smoke and roasting meat wafts on the breeze that disappears into the trees. On the edge of the village, just before the forest begins, there is a rosehip bush. A small thing, barely a few years old, but already in full bloom. The other wild roses have yet to show their blossoms, but perhaps this one wanted to be ready for the upcoming solstice celebrations.
Maybe the village boys would pluck its white, pinkish flowers to put them behind the ears of their chosen ones before running off into the woods with them after the festivities. Nobody would have shamed them for that, not when summer is at its peak. Warm weather makes all people a bit wild, controlled by their primitive urges. Not for nothing is love as hot and wet as summer.
But there is one bud on this rose bush that is still closed. Small, tightly shut, waiting for who knows what, because a better time will not come. The tightly closed green sepals are already a bit separated, allowing just a peek at the bright, unready petals hidden there. It's a belated little runt of the litter, practically begging to be forced open.
Thick fingers brush the bud between the fleshy mounds at their tips, feeling the hard resistance of the green protective leaves that clasp the soft petals. They are already all there, squeezed into the small space that keeps them from unfurling. Perhaps this little shy blossom naively thinks it is better than its companions who already shouts their colours to the world in full bloom.
But nature cannot be resisted.
The rough fingers squeeze the bud, cracking the thin joints. Released at once, the white leaves practically pull themselves out, eager to taste the dying sunlight despite being still thin, still wrinkled and fragile. In a way, they are ready. They would bloom on their own, given a day or two. It would become rose by itself given enough time, so despite the absence of choice, despite the flower being unfurled by violent fingers, it might still survive.
It doesn't matter that its pure petals are unwrapped prematurely, that it’s an alien hand and not nature that separates them and folds them into the shape of a real rose blossom. It doesn't have to die of this. The others have already bloomed and so even this, albeit late, blossom still has a chance to adorn the bush, and to feed other creatures with its pollen. It can experience the beauty of the inflorescence before it turns into the equally miraculous rosehip, continuing the cycle of life of the bush that created it.
As long as the hand unwrapping it doesn't tear.
The white crumpled petals are spread slowly, one by one. They are all immaculate and soft, truly reminiscent of the rose blossoms the shrub boasts. The newly unfurled petals shine unbroken white on the bush in the dusk of the coming evening. The fresh blossom shines in its immaculate whiteness, getting a chance to breathe the life-giving summer air for the first time. Perhaps it might be the most beautiful after all. Since it takes the longest to wait for a miracle.
Bored now, having already unfolded the flower, Askeladd plugs it.
The smell of smoke from the burnt village begins to waft up here to the forest. Apparently he can't avoid it.
Mindlessly, he puts the rose into his mouth and bites the petals off, before heading back to his men. Although they have no taste, he likes the way their texture feels on his tongue.
It's smooth.
✥✥✥✥✥✥✥✥✥✥✥✥✥✥✥✥✥✥✥✥✥✥✥
They celebrate.
There is much to celebrate. The solstice marks a new raid season, their first job was quite successful and the new men are settling in quickly. They must now drown their feelings from their first slaughter in the alcohol, wine and slaves they captured.
Askeladd wishes he could drink faster himself. The older he gets, the more annoying he finds all this euphoria. The men are loud, drunk on looted beer and wine, kidnapped women and hot weather. Their laughing faces are like the stretched-out grimaces of beasts and uncouth barbarians. The summer heat and victory goes to their heads and makes idiots of them.
Even Thorfinn is not hiding somewhere in the woods or in the stable this time, leaving his usual caution behind. Maybe the winter break was too long for him too.
He's grown up, Askeladd sees it now. Despite still being stunted and painfully unkempt, his facial features are becoming more masculine than childlike. But he didn't get any wiser. On the contrary, apparently he doesn't realise the danger he's in right now, perhaps because he's no longer an insignificant little spawn.
Bored, Askeladd watches as the boy empties one cup after another into himself, not protesting when the man offering him free booze refills it. It's one of the new recruits, but not from Grom's village. By Hel, if he was, Askeladd would never let his uncle live this down. But no. Grom might be a fool so big that he could become a court jester, and would probably really do it for a pretty silver, but he would never send Askeladd an argr.
Now, Askeladd doesn't take bad fighters, and this is clearly a guy with potential, so he'd overlook even that; if he was simply more inclined to fuck male slaves instead of female ones. After all, sometimes he needs someone to plough the enemy - a little power play is needed here and there - and most guys don't want to do it, so this would get by too. But this bastard's gaze didn't linger on a slave or any enemy. Shit, if he was subtly fucking his buddy, Askeladd couldn't care less too, but no. This bastard is pouring alcohol into the boy here, into his comrade-in-arms like he is a tavern maid or something. And the little idiot fell for his game.
Askeladd can tell from the pout on Thorfinn’s face every time the guy refill his cup, that he knows something is off. He probably doesn't want to even drink anymore, but to say no would obviously be against his honour. Stupid boy. He still thinks honour means something.
Meanwhile, the bastard smiles. He knows exactly what he's doing and why he's getting away with it. Askeladd feels like rolling his eyes. Tricks like this are a disgrace, even when tried on a hot woman, let alone a kid. This guy has no self-respect or class. He's a coward. Argr.
From where he sat, far from Askeladd and the fire with the roasting lamb, Thorfinn suddenly gets up. He pulls it off quite casually and his face is as sullen and dislikable as ever, which honestly deserves some recognition considering how drunk he must be, and walks away without a word.
So this is the plan. Askeladd almost chuckles. Well, they were all there the first time they actually drank, no? When they were young and stupid enough to think it can't do any harm to drain as much alcohol as they could and get away before it got to their heads. In a kid's eyes, it must look like a win; a free drink with no penalty. Those who are in need will not miss the opportunity to obtain a resource that is offered without obvious catches.
Shame, it never works out like that.
At the first house, Thorfinn staggers. Askeladd would chuckle and mock the kid’s misjudgment of his own tolerance if he didn't understand the situation. There is no way he could tell what so much alcohol would do to him, especially if he pours it into himself in such a short time, and amateur mistakes should be punished, sure. But Askeladd’s eyes are not on stumbling Thorfinn.
Instead, he's been watching the man who poured the alcohol. The man that himself watches the boy’s movements with obvious satisfaction and poorly concealed hunger. The man who's obviously experienced in cub hunting.
He doesn't get up from his place where he's enjoying his share of dinner. Not yet. He has no reason to. Thorfinn's steps grow more unsteady, and when he gets far enough to think no one can see him, he has to brace himself against the wall of the hut.
Askeladd can see the scheme now. If Thorfinn’s plan was to crawl somewhere and hide like he always does, he won't make it this time. And this bastard, a disgusting pig who's got a taste for young meat, just needs to wait and then quietly pick up what's left; a defenceless, non-scratching kitten.
The whole thing is so gross even Askeladd finds it dishonourable. What's fun about getting a wet dick by trickery and from someone who's out of it. A dumb kid, moreover. Where's any fucking effort in that? That man has no decency. How a bastard like that can get up every day and live with himself is beyond him.
He puts down the rest of his lamb in disgust, meeting Bjorn's arched eyebrows as he does it.
"Got a sour taste in my mouth. Probably a bad stomach or a premonition.”
The berserker grins at that explanation. "And what vision did the norns give you this time? Good, or bad?”
Rising to his feet, Askeladd stretches. "You know that one how a farmer is looking for a stray sheep and in the meantime wolves tear his flock apart? I think I'll let you watch this herd. And if anyone asks, I'm on the wolf's trail.”
Bjorn grunts and asks no further questions. For one thing, he understands that he will learn everything important in time, and second, he knows that Askeladd won't tell him more than is necessary anyways.
Feeling a sudden surge of sympathy for his second in command, Askeladd nods at the unfinished portion before he departs.
"If you want it, it's yours.”
There are hardly any footsteps on the dirt road between the silent houses. But even that didn't deter the boy from trying to cover his tracks. Askeladd would almost be proud if it wasn't a shit-job and if it wasn't Thorfinn's own idiocy that got them here. Leaving him to the consequences of his own stupidity is not an unattractive idea, but it is a market that even Askeladd does not operate.
He finds the kid hiding among the barrels by what may have been a granary or pantry or whatever needs big wooden casks. It's ridiculously easy, he didn't get very far. His legs probably refused to take him further. Askeladd almost sighs when he sees a lone barrel standing among the others with a single lid; the most obvious hide spot possible.
He kicks it for good measure, before opening its lid to look at the scowling, drunken child inside.
“You managed to hide pretty well in the end. But I found you, so it wasn't enough.”
“Fuc— Get the fuck—”
The boy sputters and hisses and pulls out his knives like he always does, as if he doesn't mind that he's so drunk that his curses are almost unintelligible.
Askeladd is bored.
“I don't think so, kid.”
“Leave me alone!”
“Is that what you want?” he asks, suddenly irrationally angry and irritated. By Valhalla, how he hates this brat. It takes one sentence and he's already sick of him. “If I found you, everyone can find you. And you know exactly why you're hiding, no? You wanna wake up tomorrow and find out half the guys took turns on you?”
Thorfinn swells at the bottom of the barrel like a corpse in a lake.
"Better them than you!"
Well, if that's his choice, he can get raped until the next day, it's not Askeladd's problem.
"Really? I'll leave you to it, sorry to bother you."
Thoroughly pissed off, Askeladd is ready to slam the lid back on the barrel. Maybe the brat will get lucky. Maybe that bastard with a taste for scruffy kids lacks intellect in addition to morals, and won't be able to find him in such an obvious place.
Little scarred hand stops him before he can shut Thorfinn inside and leave him to his fate.
"Wait- Wait, Askeladd.”
So in the end, the idea of a torn ass isn't better than him? Uncanny.
With a reproachful expression, Askeladd puts the lid down on the ground, but doesn't catch the boy's outstretched hand. He got in on his own, he better get out too. Let this be his first punishment as well as a lesson.
"Can you stand?"
“Yeah,” Thorfinn mutters, biting his lip. It's clear that he has to force himself into verbal expression even more than usual. “But I think I might vomit.”
Well, who the fuck would be surprised after seeing the brat pouring booze into his throat like he were fish on the shore.
Askeladd takes a decent step back, just to be cautious.
“Don't puke on my shoes.”
His prediction comes out to be very accurate, because the moment the kid stands up, and basically falls out of the barrel, he stammers, and then immediately bends in half, violently vomiting all over the dirty ground. Askeladd barely steps out of range.
He rolls his eyes, but deciding not to waste his energy, he gives the brat the courtesy of saying nothing. Only when Thorfinn manages to stand up again, hair messier than usually and disgusting ropes of spit glistening on his chin, Askeladd asks him very neutrally,
“Can you walk?”
Honestly, if the kid had said no, he might not have left him there at the mercy of the hungry monsters anyway, but on the other hand, he'd really like to see a guy that would be willing to fuck all this gross mess. Fortunately for everyone, Thorfinn grunts in agreement. But then, Askeladd didn't expect anything less.
Their way to the house where Askeladd sleeps is not as trouble-free as he would have liked. Thorfinn walks ridiculously slowly because his legs are tangled and he staggers so much that he bumps into Askeladd twice. When he does it a third time, the man can't take it anymore and finally grabs the drunken kid around the waist for support.
Almost immediately, Thorfinn's head lowers, forehead resting almost limply against Askeladd’s chest.
“Seriously?”
Being bashed under the table or out of brains is one thing, but this is almost cuddling. It's a miracle no one's around. All it would take is for one of the guys to take a piss and it'd be the topic of the week. That would get the raid season off to a great start, there's nothing better than a bunch of distracted guys chattering like chicks at the market.
The brat murmurs something that might be 'Fuck you,' but realistically it probably isn't even supposed to take any proper verbal form. Askeladd sighs mentally, feeling suspicious wetness on his tunic. The brat is probably drooling on it. If it's not vomit, it's not terrible, but it's still disgusting.
"You move or I'll leave you here.”
“My head’s heavy–”
Yeah, Askeladd bets it fucking is. He ponders what to do next.
The brat doesn't look like he's able to walk. And although he is pretty light and small, drunken dead weight is always hard to drag. Maybe he could have let the kid fall to the ground and kicked him. Unfortunately, despite how pleasant it sounds, violence only works on people who are lucid.
He grabs the boy by the shoulders and shakes him. As gently as he can, honestly. He doesn't want to have puke on him if he can avoid it.
"Do you want them to see you like this and realise how easy you are?"
Angrily, Thorfinn straightens, his eyes barely focusing, but frowning regardless.
“‘m not– not eas… ’s not my fault.”
“No? And whose fault is it then, huh? I didn't notice him forcing you to drink.”
The brat puffs up like a peacock. but when Askeladd moves, he follows. Slowly, but follows.
“I didn't... I, uh... wasn't expecting it.”
“That's on you.”
Thorfinn vomits twice more before they reach the house. Askeladd watches him as the brat shakes on all fours, his head in the drainage gutter around the village road. It’s almost amusing. To think that someone could now track him simply by smell alone. From a radius of three hundred cubits, probably.
More and more he'd like to see how determined is that bastard who got him drunk. Having a taste for children is one disgusting thing, but not stopping even when they're in this state? Now, that takes a lunatic.
"Do you think your suitor is crazy enough to try to steal you from my bed?"
It's a real question, even if he frames it as a joke. It would definitely make the night more fun, but also Askeladd is too old to be accelerating conflict for kicks alone. Some things are better handled without clutter.
“Wha– He’s not–” Whatever was Thorfinn going to say gets lost in more vomit. Askeladd turns up his nose in disgust.
It takes another five minutes for the kid’s stomach to calm down. Finally, Thorfinn falls back on his butt and stares wearily.
“I don't… I don't get it. Why me, I'm not– Shit.”
“When you catch a rabbit you don't look to see if it's a pretty piece, you're interested in the tender meat.”
Thorfinn makes a puking sound but since he doesn't actually vomit this time, it's probably an opinion, not stomach activity.
Askeladd pushes the brat through the door first, and decides that's it for him. If Thorfinn falls face down on the floor and stays there until he sobers up, that's his problem. Askeladd has already done enough good deeds for the rest of the year just by not leaving him between the barrels.
The night is still young, but Askeladd is not about to go back to drinking by the fire. He sighs and, ready to stretch out on his bed, motions to the boy still standing in the doorway for good measure.
"If you're gonna puke again, you better do it outside. Now take off what you're wearing, and throw it out of the door too, you smell like shit."
The boy gives him a look that's as frowning as he can muster.
Askeladd looks at him unimpressed, annoyed but with such a display of disobedience.
"Do you sleep in your coat even in the summer?"
The boy's frown deepens, if that's even possible. His hands tuck protectively into his overcoat. "It's mine."
As if someone would take such hideous old rags from him. Askeladd doesn't understand why the boy doesn't at least just pull new clothes off the corpse if he doesn't buy them like everyone else.
"You're not going to stay here all night stinking with your vomit."
After a moment's thought, Thorfinn obeys, pulling off his tunic. Askeladd doesn't pay much attention to him at first, ready to see nothing but bones and ribs almost piercing his skin, perhaps the sunken belly of a malnourished child, or something similarly depressing. But when Thorfinn turns and staggers towards Askeladd's bed, his figure is surprisingly shapely. Relatively broad shoulders cross a young man's chest, and the shadows of evening reveal even a hint of abdominal muscles.
This is not a body of a child, Askeladd notes in surprise. How old is the brat anyway?
He is snapped out of his momentary confusion when Thorfinn stops himself in front of the bed leaning against the headboard.
"Alright, hold up here, boozer,” he straightens up to put the brat in his place. “You sleep on the floo-”
“Doncha look at me like this,” Thorfinn growls at him. His head must be heavy and probably spinning, because he props it up with his hand on his forehead. His eyelids droop, he can't even hold his hateful gaze, but at least he's still scowling. “You've no right to look at me like thi- You don’t.”
Askeladd would like to say he doesn't know what he's talking about, but some of the lies are too obvious. Something suddenly weighs on his own throat. Something he refuses to acknowledge.
“What will you do about it, brat?” he laughs falsely instead and tosses the brat one of the woven blankets.
He catches it with a gritted-toothed snarl, but rolls to the floor just beside Askeladd’s bed like he really is a mutt. There he lies motionless for a moment, as if he fell asleep immediately after changing position to horizontal, or finally realising that he is incapable of coherent thought at the moment. If Askeladd knew how and thought it would do any good, he'd almost pray it would end there.
Of course, then Thorfinn attempts to speak again, much to Askeladd's aggravation.
“Would ya – W– Would y–”
“I think you should do us both a favour and shut up.”
As he lies with his eyes closed, Askeladd suddenly feels an incoming threat of a great headache. He tries to ignore the boy for the good of them both, but Thorfinn is clearly determined to dig up enough incoherent words to be understood.
“But someone will do it,” the little idiot murmurs, proving he has no frame of reference of when to stop. “One day– It can as well be you, no? Would y– do it to me?”
For fucks sake, he won't leave the topic, will he. Askeladd doesn't look at him because he doesn't have the nerves to even lay his eyes on this drunk menace, but it sounds like he's biting his nails. He thinks about maybe hitting the brat with at least some stuff, but there's nothing in his reach.
“I don't do men. Or boys in this case.”
“Y–”
The boy curses so earnestly that it would probably make even some of the warriors blush like the court ladies.
Askeladd turns on his side to face the wall. It's as good an answer as any.
“Good night, Thorfinn.”
“Yer tell me good night now– like we’re human or s’mething?”
First of all, Askeladd is not sure that he heard correctly, because the drunken kid is babbling and secondly this sounds too complicated for him, even if he were sober. But that much alcohol will probably make a philosopher out of anyone.
“I knew you'd have a funny reaction and I wanted to provoke it,” Askeladd yawns.
No answer comes, thanks Hel. For a while it looks like the brat is struggling with what to say until he just falls asleep. But the moment Askeladd himself starts to drift off, the blanket on the floor rustles as Thorfinn rolls over for a moment, clearly settling his thoughts along with his body.
“Ya think Bjorn would?”
“Oh for fucks-” Askeladd’s eyes shoot open in disbelief. “Bjorn?”
Another long pause follows during which the boy hopefully regrets all his life decisions and his idiotic idea to grow a tongue, before a shy answer comes.
“He's… tolerable. Unlike the rest of them.”
Honestly, Askeladd thinks he would pick Bjorn too if I had to choose a man, but that's not the point here. He rolls over to the edge of the bed and pokes the curled-up brat under the naked ribs until he hiccups, but it doesn't bring him much pleasure.
“Why won't you just try a girl? You are fine enough to get one if you force yourself to be a bit civil. Or I can find you some job and pay you some silver for once. It buys women, you know. Not necessarily good ones, but it'd do the trick if losing your boyhood is what you are after.”
“No, I– Girls are weak. I don't like them.”
Hah, now that's something. Silly kid, shouldn't he be long past that stage when he thinks women are boring? But on the other hand, he doesn't get to interact with them very often. His most frequent contact with women is when they kill or hunt them, which might twist the perspective a bit.
Askeladd, however, is not about to admit any role he plays in Thorfinn's condition. It would mean admitting any responsibility for the brat, which he ostentatiously refuses to have.
“Oh. Is that right?” he mocks instead. “Why are you hiding here, then? Should I tell that guy who got you this bashed, that you are interested after all? He surely was willing enough.”
“No! That– no! I want… If I have to, then I want– I want to choose. Someone. What he wanted to– It's not–”
He stumbles over his words, unable to express the essence of his thoughts, though they are so common. But how could he know that what he is trying to say, this raw plea from the very core of his being, is the same thought that makes all those victims of their raids cry, run and scream in a language Thorfinn thankfully doesn't understand.
For a moment Askeladd wonders if it would finally break the brat if he realised the incredible extent of the suffering in the spread of which he participates, or if it would make him as indifferent as himself. He immediately dismisses the thought as he does with everything else; relegating it to the dark corners of his mind, where he leaves anything that threatens his own sanity.
“Yeah, I get it,” he yawns, sparing them both from Thorfinn's stuttering, which is unlistenable anyway. “You are strong, Thorfinn. If you won't behave like an idiot, no one will do you against your will.”
Not that it's true, but he thinks that maybe, if he calms the kid down, he'll shut up.
It even seems to work, because the kid on the floor stutters, and if Askeladd didn't know him, he'd think that was a laugh.
“You and your– words. You always have words.”
“You're the master of eloquence today, too.”
The boy doesn't answer anymore, maybe he's finally falling asleep. Askeladd closes his eyes contentedly, hoping that this will be the end of it for him and that he too will now fall asleep and when he wakes up in the morning there will be no today, no strange thoughts, nothing. Maybe just a bit of a hangover.
Unfortunately, the sleep doesn't come to him before thoughts do.
In front of his closed eyelids he sees Thorfinn's big eyes and his naked, filling shoulders. That second of shock before his expression returned to his angry normal, and he told Askeladd that he had no right to look at him. Those narrow boyish hips in trousers that only hold on the cord and the flat stomach.
Askeladd turns over on the bed again. The sour taste of wine creeps menacingly up at the back of his throat, and this time it's not as pleasant as it was when he tasted this particular alcohol for the first time that day. He doesn't want those thoughts, whatever they are. It must be the alcohol and hot weather, it makes men stupid.
Even Thorfinn must be dazed by the weather, because there is no way he would actually see something in Askeladd’s expression. He certainly wasn't looking at him any differently than usual, because he had no reason to do so. The most he could do was wonder how the boy grew up so fast. That was surely it.
This brings some peace to his mind and he hopes that this time he will drift into unconsciousness, but he is pulled out of it by another thought.
Why shouldn't he look?
Thorfinn was openly offering. It may have been a naive and childish offer, but he certainly knew what he was asking for. And if he even prefers men, then there is no reason why be dismissive. In ancient times, they wouldn't shame Askeladd for indulging himself. In fact, Thorfinn is in the correct age and position for it to be completely acceptable. They liked that kind of thing, back then. In the eyes of those ancient men it would just be another lesson dealt by Askeladd's hand.
To his horror, he finds that he can imagine it just fine. Thorfinn is small and thin. He would look pretty in his arms. Askeladd prefers experienced women who know what they want and don't bullshit around, but there's something sentimental about having a virgin and showing her the beauty of pleasure.
Well, Thorfinn is very clearly not she, but perhaps it would finally wipe off that perpetual frown from his face if he relaxed a bit.
Would he be cute?
It's hard to imagine Thorfinn not looking like an angry mutt, and it's worked out great for both of them to date, but now that Askeladd thinks about it, Thorfinn doesn't look like Thors. So he must have his mother's face, and she was a renowned beauty.
That mother to whom the boy never returned because Askeladd took him far from home. After he killed his father and made him do a lot of other things that little boys shouldn't do.
Shit. What the hell is he even thinking about? Askeladd curses himself and pretends he doesn't feel the starting pressure in his dick.
Thorfinn was fucking right, Askeladd had no right to be looking at him, or even thinking about him. His ancestors would have been disgusted.
He turns around one last time and closes his eyes. Finally, he sleeps.
There is a small body underneath him; petite enough to be female, but the absence of the soft swell of breast says otherwise. An unmistakable nest of dirty-blond hair falls over his eyes, so their colour isn't visible, but Askeladd knows they'd be as brown as doe's.
Did he climb up on the bed by himself, or did Askeladd pull him up during the night?
If the boy has an answer, he never gets a chance to say it. His skin is still soft and sweet with youth, and the lips full when Askeladd claims them.
There is no protest. It would be useless anyway. Askeladd is still so much taller and stronger than Thorfinn, maybe he'll always be. The brat should have been in his growth sprout already, but instead he remains stunted. He is still a kid. Askeladd’s weight must be crushing him because he's struggling for a breath even without a hand on his throat. But that too might be a good lesson, after all. If he never grows up, he should feel a reality of his own size.
Damn kid, always challenging something that's beyond him. Askeladd looks at the pale skin of the boy's shoulders and chest, at the hands reaching out to him, and it all annoys him terribly.
His hands have no problem grabbing the boy by the throat.
Short, petite legs try to kick off him, but the effort is pathetic at best. Askeladd pins them down with no hardship. For that too he has to be punished. Weakness has to be punished.
Thorfinn's hands are free but they're not doing much damage. With Askeladd towering over him, they can only flail desperately, hoping to latch onto some exposed skin and scratch. He's helpless.
With Askeladd's hand pushing him down, he can't do more than a kitten caught by the skin on his neck.
He's so pathetic. Askeladd hates him.
Under his grip, the boy gasps for breath, his mouth gaping open. His arms flail helplessly in the air, too short to even reach Askeladd's head. So. Damn. Pathetic.
“.......ther-”
Open lips gasp soundlessly for breath. They don't seem to be saying anything, perhaps Askeladd is imagining it. His hands tremble, but the grip on the boy’s neck hardens just to be sure.
“Fath-”
He jerks away as if scalded. In the afterglow, with his body still shaking, he feels warm drops of liquid rolling on his cheeks. The same that were landing on the kid's face.
Askeladd wakes up on his bed with a jerk. Judging by the darkness around him, it is still a deep night.
Forcing himself to empty his head and think of nothing at all, he looks at the floor beside his bed. The boy is still lying there, curled up in a ball, quietly sighing with the contented sleep of a drunk. It doesn't look like he's choking on his own vomit or anything.
Well, he'll have to die another way.
With an unexpected sigh, Askeladd lies down again, but the desired ease of mind doesn't come. His heart is still pounding and his breathing is rapid. Plus, he's starting to realise that his pants are still pretty tight. Fuck it. Fucking weather, it must be it.
Pissed off, he throws off his outer clothes, lying back down in just his tunic. A soft light penetrates under the door, indicating that sunrise will come in a few hours. He can afford to sleep longer now that the party is over, but something tells him he can't do it anyway.
Even though he tries not to think of anything to distract him and get his adrenaline up, the back of his mind is still screaming. And worse, every time he closes his eyelids, the outline of a boy's open lips appears in the darkness.
In the end he stares at the creeping light without moving before it dawns, then brightens, and finally the sounds of men getting up. After a while, he hears Thorfinn move too, the noises from the outside probably disturbing his sleep. He'll wake up soon. And then Askeladd will have to face him. Even though it's completely irrational, he doesn't feel like it.
When he hears that the kid has sat up, he closes his eyes like a coward. He doesn't want to look at him at all. The idea of laying eyes at Thorfinn and suddenly not seeing a dirty, neglected child but something else - the exact same thing he saw last night drunk, scares him.
The boy doesn't seem to be moving, he's probably just sitting there, feeling as sick as he should be. Apparently, they're both having a shitty morning.
Askeladd mentally berates himself. Why he feels bad about the nightmare is certainly not the first or the last.
As he might have expected, when he opens his eyes, there's an ugly, dishevelled boy sitting next to his bed, just like always.
“Thorfinn.”
When addressed, the brat looks at him with his usual hatred and additional hangover, but nothing else. It's the same repulsive bratty face he always has; no curves, cute cheeks or lips that are welcoming. His body is full of scars. He's not attractive at all. Askeladd doesn't understand what he was afraid of. Of course it was a dream. Quite possibly it wasn't even Thorfinn who he saw, just some strange mashup that his drunken dreams wove together. In a few hours he wouldn't remember it at all. He's worrying for nothing.
“Nothing that weird happened last night, if you are wondering.” he says, if by any chance the boy is going through the same mental torment as he is.
Not like he cares anyway. Everything's weird with a hangover.
The boy still sits with his head down, staring into his own hands.
“I… no. I remember everything.”
‘Unfortunately’ remains unsaid.
If Askeladd had the mood and energy, he would have laughed at him immediately. But this night had taken its toll on both of them. That's what he gets for deciding to do the right thing. He should have just let the kid get raped, it's not his problem.
Strange as it is, this thought doesn't satisfy him; on the contrary, he suddenly feels sticky with sweat and urgently needs to rinse his face.
“Do you,” he finally mutters as neutrally as he can, throwing his legs over the edge of the bed. Getting up, however, is slower than he thought.
Thorfinn stares at him dumbly.
“You are wearing a nightshirt.”
“Of course.”
“Chm,” grumbles the little dishevelled idiot. “That's weird. I've always imagined you sleeping in your clothes.”
Askeladd doesn't know what to make of that. There are so many concerning aspects in that statement; for once, why by Hel would the brat imagine him sleeping. And more importantly, there is an implication that Thorfinn can't even think about him ever stripping down to his underwear, which is oddly innocent and which makes Askeladd's stomach make a few turns too, and it's probably not the result of a night of drinking.
"You should pick up your things and get out if you don't want to be seen leaving here," he warns the boy, and it's more or less for his own good. Askeladd doesn't want to see him for at least a week straight. He has a feeling that if he sees any short blonde hair today he's going to puke in his mouth.
When the boy doesn't get up, he growls again.
"They might get a bad idea if they see you here. And then even worse ones.
But Thorfinn is still not moving, visibly thinking instead. His head must be on fire because his eyebrows are practically joined. Askeladd almost tells him not to stop forcing himself into doing something he has no capacity for, but at that moment the brat finally decides to speak.
“Yesterday… I thought it might've been you. One of you shitty schemes. So when you came for me I thought…”
“You really think so little of me?”
Maybe it came out sharper than he wanted, but he of all people? He, who went through the hell of his own mind today to protect this little bastard, even though he probably didn't even deserve it. What kind of monster he would be if he'd only think about fucking a child that can't even imagine him in a night shirt.
He's ready to kick the boy, but then the moronic brat speaks again.
“Do you know what he said? That I will be spared just as long as I run faster than the senior men, fight stronger than the new men, and until you don't run out of money."
"Who said that?" Askeladd asks quite idiotically, even though he knows exactly who the only person Thorfinn has been talking to lately.
"What, it's true." the boy stubbornly shakes his head. "Now I know exactly what would happen to me if one of those things failed."
“Well, congratu-fucking-lations,” Askeladd tells him, not knowing how else to react to something like this. "Now get the fuck out of my house."
“You said it's you or half of the men," Thorfinn interrupts him again, suddenly sounding strange. "I thought that… it wouldn't be so terrible if it was you.”
Askeladd stares in disbelief.
“What the actual fuck, brat.”
“I hate you already. So not much would change.”
What the hell kind of argument is that? Askeladd feels like slapping both, himself and the boy, to make sure neither is delusional. But Thorfinn's eyes are present. That's probably the worst part.
“You don't hate them too?”
“I do. But that's different.”
“Well, shit." The words leave his mouth before he realises it, and suddenly everything is much harder than it was. "I really fucked you up, didn't I.”
Thorfinn looks at him in surprise with his brown eyes, as confused as Askeladd himself.
Fuck, this is where the madness ends. He grabs the boy by the naked shoulder and pulls him to his feet.
"Get out of here." He doesn't care if the men see him throwing the half-naked boy out of his house. “Get out!”
The kid stumbles out of the door without a word, and Askeladd realises that he actually prefers it when he keeps quiet. At least he's not talking shit. He practically falls out of the house, hectically picking up his dirty clothes that he threw there the night before. Even before getting his shirt on, he somehow conjures both of his knives from his pants.
Askeladd is about to slam the door in his face when his eyes fall on two short swords. The ones that should have been in his chest long ago.
“Thorfinn.”
The brown eyes that look at him are as pissed off as ever. Ugly, wild, unruly. If there was any hope of a thank you or anything else between them, it was a drunken illusion. As it should be. Thorfinn is as murderous as any Dane. Fearless and dull, wreaking havoc.
“Leave it after you get rid of the hangover. Don't make a mess.”
Thorfinn almost bares his teeth at him, but Askeladd knows he'll listen. Soon his group will be down a man. But he can't bring himself to consider it a loss.