Chapter Text
The icy cold of the North Sea was not for everyone. Askeladd had witnessed firsthand the death of many men who didn’t last when the cutting wind struck their windpipes, freezing their throats and raising every hair on their bodies. It didn’t matter whether it was a burly warrior or a scrawny archer—the cold hit everyone the same.
He, on the other hand, was already used to it. Most of the men in his crew were too; they all knew what to expect when sailing those dangerous, frigid waters. They also knew what rewards awaited them once they were finally on solid ground, ready to enjoy the fruits reaped during a whole season of raiding and piracy. There was nothing to worry about—except for that stubborn and stupid brat.
When Thorfinn started coughing, Askeladd tended to ignore it. He didn’t want to show any kind of empathy toward that kid—and most of the time, he truly didn’t feel any. But when the boy stopped acting like a small, annoying killer creature and instead looked sick, more like a child, Askeladd tended to weaken. He felt pity. The cough hadn’t stopped this time. It had begun as something cautious and quiet, but now the little shit was coughing his lungs out the whole damn way home. If he were truly sick, he might infect the others, and at that point, Askeladd was seriously considering throwing the boy into the sea.
— The boy’s going to die — It was Bjorn who pointed it out. He was a smart man, probably the only one in that ragtag bunch who actually paid attention to Thorfinn. — He’s been coughing for nearly a week.
— Funny, I was just thinking about throwing him overboard right now.
— You think it’s contagious?
— I have no damn idea.
Thorfinn wasn’t tossed into the water, but now he had the full attention of the man he hated focused on his misery. Askeladd knew Thorfinn hated that. Every time he turned his attention to watch any task he was doing, or emotion he was feeling, he was rewarded with a scowl—as far as he was concerned, Thorfinn’s face was the ugliest thing on that ship. But even against his will, he noticed Thorfinn’s lungs rising and falling with difficulty. That was probably where the pain was. Askeladd wondered if he had a fever, but doubted that animal would let him touch his forehead unless it was to smash his head into the ground in a duel. Frankly, Thorfinn was a headache.
— Hey, boy, what’s wrong with you?
— Go fuck yourself.
Well, he tried.
Maybe the gods really were on that kid’s side. When they finally arrived at their destination, the brat was still alive—and even better, none of the other men on the ship had been infected. That alone was reason enough to celebrate.
His men were loud and ill-mannered. Now and then, Askeladd tended to hate them for that, but he had spent enough time among the Vikings to get used to the noise and filth. These days, it was the closest thing to home he had—which didn’t make it any less of a pathetic thought. Gunnar seemed pleased to accept all the gold and riches the Welshman gave him. It was enough to buy comfort, food, and fun for his men while he thought about his next move.
At nightfall, while everyone was getting drunk and filling the air with their dirty and pointless talk, a strange feeling struck Askeladd’s subconscious. He remembered Thorfinn and his cough, which he hadn’t heard in a while—a sign that the idiot was outside, in the cold, at the start of winter, making whatever he had even worse. This pissed him off. Sometimes, the old man wondered if Thorfinn was truly the son of the strong and honorable warrior he had murdered, since, so far, all he had shown was undeniable pride, hatred, and stupidity. How could someone make life so hard for himself? Don’t get him wrong, he knew he didn’t make things easy for Thorfinn, but that child was the type who would rather starve than join the banquet with his men. If no one went over to shove food down Thorfinn’s throat, he’d probably starve, eat scraps or… go hunt a rabbit.
It all started to make sense. Thorfinn, the stupid little brat that he was, would sneak into the forests of the lands they passed through to hunt rabbits and other small animals to feed himself. He remembered seeing him do it once or twice, so he assumed that’s how the kid survived. It would be admirable if it weren’t so stupid. He had food. It had already been years since his own warriors got used to Thorfinn’s presence and had no issue sharing their spoils with him—the boy was useful. A great assassin, and fun to watch on the battlefield. But all that stubbornness, rancor, and disgust he harbored for Askeladd’s men—and for Askeladd himself—kept him from allowing himself anything better than half-cooked rabbit and a pile of hay.
That was how Thorfinn got sick.
He hunted some infected rabbit, was now suffering the consequences of eating the poorly prepared meat, and would probably die in a few weeks if not treated.
— stupid boy — Askeladd sighed aloud, catching the attention of his berserker companion.
— What did you say?
— Nothing, I need some air. The beer’s already kicking in.
He’d curse himself for this—missing out on his moment of celebration and victory to go after a brat he shouldn’t even feel responsible for, all to, most likely, be met with curses and ingratitude from Thorfinn. Gods, was this what having a son felt like? If so, he was very grateful never to have subjected himself to the experience, even if, apparently, Thorfinn was his karma.
It wasn’t hard to find him.
Collapsed over the old hay in the stable was the blond child with tangled hair so matted it could be mistaken for the hay itself. Askeladd had thought about offering to cut Thorfinn’s terrible hair a few times, but he knew the boy wouldn’t let him get close with a sharpened blade not even for all the gold in the world. Smart kid.
As expected, Thorfinn had a fever. His flushed cheeks already gave away that his condition wasn’t good, but his burning skin was an indication that it was worse than Askeladd thought. How long had Thorfinn been like that? Judging by the dry coughs and labored breathing, the illness had progressed considerably, and the high fever must have been his body’s last-ditch effort to warn that poor stupid creature he was losing the war.
— Thorfinn, you must be the dumbest child I’ve ever seen. — He wasn’t listening, so Askeladd was basically talking to himself, not that every conversation with Thorfinn wasn’t entirely one-sided anyway. — I should just leave you here in the cold to die.
But he didn’t. Instead, Askeladd found a reasonably comfortable cabin for him, placed him in a real bed—warm and cozy—and asked Gunnar’s servant to put a damp, cold cloth on his forehead. Thorfinn, even unconscious, must have felt the effects of finally receiving a bit of care, as his face no longer bore that horrible scowl. Now, it was soft and fragile, the way a child’s should be.
You can’t be a monster all the time, and even he couldn’t deny the fact that he’d grown attached to Thorfinn’s annoying, ever-present figure.
Besides the inner guilt for what he did to Thors, there was also the fact that the boy might very well be the closest thing to a son Askeladd would ever have. He knew he wouldn’t be a good father, so he didn’t feel too guilty for the times he left Thorfinn to die somewhere or didn’t hold back from beating him when the boy came shouting about duels and revenge. He wasn’t much better than his own father and far worse than anything Thors could’ve been to Thorfinn. But he was what the boy had, and if he wasn’t happy with that, he could leave. In fact, Askeladd would be much happier if Thorfinn did leave—but that wasn’t going to happen, so he settled.
It was late at night, and he had a horn of mead in hand, a distant, vacant gaze resting on the Icelander’s face. The fever had gone down, which was good—it meant he wouldn’t die. Thorfinn’s care and medicine would cost him time and money, and he would make the little shit work it off later, but for now, he’d let the boy rest in peace. All that posturing and stubbornness, only to collapse with a fever and be cared for by the man he hated most— which was probably punishment enough. When Thorfinn woke up, he’d be furious. It would be fun to tease him about it.
— So, you’re here.
Bjorn. Askeladd swore that man always knew where to find him. He wondered if that was impressive or unsettling, but whatever the answer, it wasn’t worth the concern.
— You caught me, I’m being soft. — His tone was defensive and a bit cynical—a defense mechanism, maybe. Making puns and jokes about the situation would prevent Bjorn from making that observation first.
— Yeah, you are. — Bastard. — But I knew you’d end up here.
— A man can’t show a shred of compassion?
— I didn’t say anything.
Bjorn approached Thorfinn’s bed, standing near Askeladd. Thinking back, he was really invested in that kid’s fate. Askeladd had seen him offer food, bandages, even advice to Thorfinn. The boy, of course, cursed and rejected most of it. Even so, the Viking didn’t give up or seem to harbor the same irritation and resentment Askeladd sometimes felt.
— I think he’s a lot like you. If you had a son, maybe he’d be like Thorfinn.
It was a great irony, if you thought about it. Thorfinn’s blond shade did match Askeladd’s, and after spending so long with the kid, he’d noticed the boy had picked up some of his speech quirks and habits. Thors’ son looked nothing like his father. Instead, he resembled the man who had killed him. It could be either funny or tragic, but if Askeladd really had a child, he would never let them walk around looking as horribly wild and unkempt as Thorfinn.
— Ever wanted kids, Bjorn? You seem strangely fond of him.
— I like kids.
— Well, now that’s surprising.
In the end, Askeladd was a hypocrite. Taking care of someone he knew would someday manage to kill him. Maybe he’d use that in his final moments to throw it in Thorfinn’s face, or maybe, deep down, he hoped the boy would heal from his hatred and give up on that idea.
It had been five or six years—he wasn’t sure anymore—and he didn’t even know Thorfinn’s exact age. He still saw him as a brat. How much longer could this go on? Saving him from a fever wouldn’t calm him. It wouldn’t extinguish the fire of hate burning in his eyes every time he stared at Askeladd. But he wasn’t doing anything about it either. After all, what had he done lately for Thorfinn besides giving him more reasons to hate him?
He didn’t know what he expected, keeping this child alive. He didn’t even understand Thorfinn’s reasons for insisting on following him everywhere he went. Askeladd wasn’t a hard man to find; he could have left, gotten strong, become a warrior, and then come back. He knew where that old fox roamed with his men and where he always returned during the winter. But he didn’t want to leave.
He believed Thorfinn was also a wounded, sick rabbit—the kind that accepts its fate and runs into a predator’s den to get it over with. He stayed and got hurt, licked his own wounds, and limped back to Askeladd’s feet, then glared at him with hatred. As if it were his fault. How many chances had he already given that boy to just walk away? How many cruel missions and tasks had he ordered Thorfinn to carry out, offering in return a reward that would only hurt him? And yet, after all that, he stayed.
Thors, can’t you see you condemned your child to a fate worse than death?