Chapter Text
Askeladd sees the boy go down in battle, distracted by the sight of some English woman in the distance. When he doesn’t see him get back up, all he can think before parrying another strike in the thick of the chaos is, well, that’s that.
When all’s said and done, he finds that their haul probably wasn’t quite worth the price of such a useful scout, but Askeladd will make do. Ear could easily take up at least a few of what had been Thorfinn’s responsibilities, he figures. It’s not a problem.
Still, it’s a shame. The son of Thors, felled by a stray arrow from a man thought dead, distracted by—what even was that, sentiment? For all the kid’s skill, there’s no predicting what can happen on the battlefield. So it goes.
Bjorn finds Thorfinn buried under a handful of other corpses, body already cold.
“Anything you wanted to do with him, Askeladd?” Bjorn asks, already dragging the kid out. “A proper funeral?”
“Not worth the effort,” Askeladd answers easily, picking through what Thorfinn had on him. It’s not much. He reaches for the short swords in the kid’s grip—his hands are still startlingly tight around what were his weapons of choice—and tucks them away. Maybe someone else could get some use out of the knives. No harm in keeping them.
Askeladd stands back up at that, surveys the carnage. Ashes, blood, and bodies surround him. “Any other casualties?”
Bjorn looks over to where the rest of the band has gathered. “One or two men got a few bad injuries,” he says. “Just gonna have to wait and see if they last the night.”
“Alright, then.” Askeladd nudges Thorfinn’s body with his boot. Tips his head over, lets it fall on it’s side. As expected, there’s no response. It’s quite the unusual sight, seeing him so still. Like this, he seems smaller.
“Alright.”
—
The night’s quiet is broken by fearful shouts and yells. Askeladd would really rather not have to deal with whatever shit has men have gotten up to now, but he has little choice.
When Askeladd goes to investigate all the commotion, he goes straight to Bjorn.
“Askeladd, you’re up.” He sounds almost frantic. “I was just about to go and find you.”
“Hard not to be awake right now. The noise is enough to wake the dead,” he says, rolling his shoulders. “What’s going on?”
His men are crowding around something, but some look to be on the verge of bolting. Others already have, putting quite the distance between themselves and the gathering of men. Whatever it is, they’ve given it a wide berth.
“I…” Bjorn seems at a loss for words. “I’m not sure I could put in a way that you’d believe,” he says. “You should go and see for yourself.”
Askeladd hums, skeptical. He starts pushing through the crowd, tells the band to settle down—whatever it is can’t be so interesting.
As it turns out, it can be, because there Thorfinn is, standing before them all, good as new.
Well, maybe ‘good as new’ is too generous a descriptor. He smells of rot and death—worse than he ever had as a flea-ridden boy, and his clothes and skin are stained with blood both fresh and dried. A hole in his stomach leaks guts and bile and viscera. It’s an impossible sight.
Askeladd makes eye contact, sees the boy’s eyes glow dimly with awareness. Then, before he can even register what could possibly be going on, Thorfinn—is it even Thorfinn?—charges at him, letting out a sound no human could possibly make.
The crowd around them scrambles into action, but they’re too slow. Thorfinn brings Askeladd to the ground before any other reaction can turn into movement—except for Askeladd reaching for the short sword he had taken from the boy only a few hours before. He brings it forward, slicing the space between them just as Thorfinn raises a clawed hand.
Thorfinn stills at the sight, then scowls. He stands, before making a retreat.
“Stay back,” Askeladd tells his men, because there’s no telling what could happen if they don’t. He stands himself up as well, brushes himself off, keeps an eye on what may or may not be Thorfinn.
“Askeladd,” the thing rasps, voice scratchy and heavy with hate. “You promised me a duel.”
“Huh,” Askeladd raises a brow, not bothering to hide his surprise. Everything that’s happened has already been shocking enough. He keeps the short sword firmly in his hand as he asks, “You really are Thorfinn, then?”
The thing growls, like an animal. “Of course I am.” He doesn’t even seem to care about the string of intestines pouring out of his body reaching the ground. “Who else would I be?”
“Hm.”
“Did you hear me?”
“Yes, yes,” Askeladd sighs, deciding to deal with the brat by slipping back into old habits. When the whole situation is so strange, feigning normalcy is the only thing he can think to do. “You’ll have your duel, Thorfinn.”
“Askeladd—!” Bjorn shouts suddenly from the crowd. As he approaches, he hesitates to get as close to Thorfinn as Askeladd is. “This is…” He stops, pauses, thinks. “Are you sure any of this is a good idea? Shouldn’t we…?”
“Bjorn,” he starts, “if you’re trying to say what I think you’re trying to say—he’s already gotten back up once. Let’s not toy with fate and see if it happens twice.”
“But—”
“You’ll have your duel in the morning, boy,” Askeladd interrupts, shifting his attention back to Thorfinn. “It’s been a long day.” Experimentally, he moves to put the short sword away, and as he does, Thorfinn is quick to shift his weight—ready to move—but he makes no further action. “Don’t cause any trouble.”
Thorfinn scoffs, then turns on his heel and walks away. The men are quick to make way for him.
When the boy disappears into the night, and once everyone is sure that he’s gone, all eyes are on Askeladd. It’s only a brief moment of silence before the dam breaks—he is surrounded, questions of what to do about Thorfinn are raised and answers are demanded.
“He was dead, Bjorn said so—how is it that he’s returned!?”
“You’re not going to let him stay, are you? He must be some sort of walking curse! He’ll doom us all!”
“Askeladd, what are you going to do with him?”
“That’s enough!” Bjorn shouts before Askeladd has the chance to. “Askeladd knows what he’s doing, and none of you are owed any answers. Go to sleep or don’t, but the party’s over." When the crowd fails to dissipate, Bjorn growls, "Go.”
The band falls still, then slowly, gradually, the men walk away—though they stick close to one another, an uneasy air surrounding the whole lot of them.
“...Do you really know what you’re doing?” Bjorn asks once they’re finally alone.
“What kind of answer are you expecting?”
“Probably not a truthful one,” Bjorn admits. “But one that at least sounds like you’ve got a plan.”
“I do,” Askeladd says, toying with the short sword in his grip. He turns to leave, patting Bjorn as he goes. “Keep an eye on the men, tonight. Don’t let any of them do anything rash.”
“Sure,” Bjorn says. “If… Thorfinn—” he says the name with uncertainty, furrows his brows. “If he shows up again, what should I do?”
“He won’t.”
“You sound certain.”
“No matter what the circumstances were that brought him back from death’s door,” Askeladd muses, “he’s still the same.” He looks over his shoulder, his confident gaze meeting Bjorn’s unsure one. “I’m not worried.”
—
Sure enough, Thorfinn shows himself once dawn breaks. The light of day makes his presence no less unsettling, but he’s at least seemed to manage to stuff his organs back inside his body since last night.
Now that Askeladd can get a better look at the boy, he sees not just clawed hands, but sharpened canines and slits in his eyes. He’s surrounded by a heavy aura—has death turned him into a beast?
Askeladd’s men have gathered to watch, but there’s no cheers or taunts like there might have been under different circumstances. Instead, a wave of silence and precariousness blankets them all.
“Askeladd,” Thorfinn says. “It’s morning. Don’t forget what you’ve promised.”
“I haven’t,” he answers easily. “But first—”
“Don’t try and weasel out of it!”
“I’m not.” Askeladd pulls out Thorfinn’s short sword, holding it out in the space between them. Thorfinn is quick to quiet at that.
“Thought so. This is too important to you.”
Thorfinn looks away, growling.
“Is there anything else like this out there?”
“How should I know?”
“Well, it’s about you, which should probably be reason enough.” When Thorfinn doesn’t respond, Askeladd continues. “I’ll keep the duel fair. I won’t take advantage of this during our fight—”
“Then give it back to me.”
“That’s not happening.”
“Why not!?” Thorfinn shouts. “What good is killing you if I can’t even do it with my father’s own weapons?”
“I don’t think you’re seeing just how bizarre this whole thing is,” Askeladd says. “I’m not sure if you’re just so blinded by your vengeance that you can’t or if you’re truly just so dull, but I’ll be keeping this for as long as you decide you want to remain a stowaway.” He peers down at the boy’s claws. “Besides, you’re plenty weapon enough on your own, now.”
Thorfinn’s fingers flex—his palms bleed.
“I’ll give you a choice, anyway. Use that mangled body of yours against me, or take up these weapons instead,” Askeladd says, tossing two knives onto the ground before Thorfinn’s feet. “Not that it matters. Either way, you won’t be besting me.”
“I’ll do more than that," Thorfinn says. "I'll kill you.”
“Ah, will you really, though? A fool for a father makes a fool for a son, don’t you think?”
Thorfinn’s temper is lost. Askeladd’s almost impressed at how quickly it’s happened this time around—it seems death has done little to restrain his emotions.
And with that, the duel is already decided.
—
Somehow, things slip back to how they were before Thorfinn was thought dead. Pirates have to be quick to adapt, after all, and for all the ways in which the boy has changed, he’s stayed the same in more.
Still, that doesn’t stop Thorfinn from being a common topic of discussion among the band.
“He must be a draugr,” many say. “Those claws—and his return from certain death!”
"Not to mention his stench," a particularly uncharitable viking voices.
“If we had given him a proper funeral,” others muse, “would he still be haunting us now?”
“The Christians speak of demons and devils,” an English-speaking one informs. “He could be possessed.”
Well, whatever Thorfinn’s become, he’s still useful.
He smells constantly of decay—no amount of washing rids him of the scent, and it’s harder to use him as a messenger because of it—but so long as he keeps his distance, he’s still as effective a scout as he’s ever been, if not moreso. He even seems able to see in the dark, if an instance of Askeladd and Bjorn getting caught together in the woods is to be believed.
Thorfinn’s as effective a fighter as he’s ever been, too—though he seems to… bite more than he used to, judging by how many raids end with blood dripping from his sharpened teeth. He hunts more meat for himself, as well—it seems sustenance is still a necessity. He needs less sleep, but if there’s no task at hand the boy’s lethargy peaks at noon.
Even his obsession with an honourable vengeance has stuck with him through life and death all the same. Askeladd keeps Thorfinn’s short sword with him at all times, just as a precaution, but he thinks he doesn’t truly need it. Maybe it could even be returned one of these days.
—
He’d seen Thorkell once before, heard him compared to jötnar of legend for his battle prowess alone. Some even went so far as to claim that he was a direct descendant. Askeladd hadn’t believed it at the time, but seeing him now—especially after Thorfinn—maybe he feels just a bit less like a skeptic. It would certainly explain the size.
Well, whatever the case may be with Thorkell, it’s starting to look bad, and Askeladd’s already prepared to leave Thorfinn behind if need be. Whether he comes back or not makes no difference—though, given that he’s already seen Thorfinn back from the dead once, he’s anticipating his return, regardless of the outcome.
Then Askeladd sees Thorfinn getting thrown about like a ragdoll, and he almost winces in sympathy.
Almost.
“That’s the signal to retreat, Askeladd,” Bjorn tells him.
“Right.” He nods. “Well, let’s go, then.”
As the ships begin to withdraw, Askeladd spares a glance back towards Thorkell and Thorfinn, only to see the boy shift his shape into something… other. Some sort of quadrupedal beast wreathed in shadow, about the size of a young wolf, flecks of black peeling off his body like ash and dust.
Then, Thorfinn bites two of Thorkell’s fingers off before making an escape into the water below.
“Huh,” Askeladd says, raising a brow. “Might have to keep that in mind for the future.”
—
Canute and Ragnar alike had been appalled at Thorfinn’s assignment at first, Askeladd recalls, even after being assured that, no, Thorfinn is (probably) not a demon, and yes, he is without a doubt the most reliable bodyguard you’ll get.
“If it bothers you so much, princess,” Thorfinn had angrily retorted one day after a truly monumental number of complaints regarding the smell of rot, “then why don’t you do something about it?”
Canute seemed to take personal offence at that, and proceeded to immediately ask Ragnar for something that would dampen the scent.
“Highness, when we stop for the day, perhaps we could go out looking for any flowers that might have survived the winter chill,” he suggested. “If we’re lucky, their aroma could mask the scent.”
“That would be much more pleasant, yes,” Canute agreed, solemn.
Thorfinn had just scoffed.
Miraculously, the prince and his retainer had found a batch of some exceptionally hardy lavender that night, protected from the worst of the weather by surrounding brush. After some delicate picking, Canute and Ragnar spent the next week of travel carefully drying them as best they could.
“Here,” Canute had said, holding out strings of dried lavender to Thorfinn, “wear it.”
“What?”
“Wear it,” Canute repeated. “It will lessen that awful scent of yours and make your presence bearable.”
“I’m not wearing shit, princess.”
“You’re wearing clothes.”
“Tch.”
Canute lightly shook the lavender in his hands, holding it closer to Thorfinn’s face, as if hoping to somehow hypnotize the brat into taking it.
Askeladd had watched the interaction from afar with some amusement, and privately hoped that Thorfinn would just suck it up and go along with the whole thing. Constant raids and pillaging meant the smell of death wasn’t one he was unfamiliar with, but having to deal with it every hour of every day could certainly take its toll.
“Fine,” Thorfinn conceded, after a few more rounds of verbal battle, reaching a hand out to take it before Canute moved it away from his grasp. "What—? What now!?"
“You’ll ruin it with those claws of yours,” the prince had explained. “Let me.”
Thorfinn rolled his eyes, but went still all the same.
Canute threw a string around his neck, wrapped his wrists, and stuffed a few pieces into his belt. Satisfied, the prince took a step back and nodded. “There.”
To the lavender's credit, there was a noticeable difference. It wasn’t completely gone, no, but, as Canute had said, it became bearable.
It was better than nothing.
—
Thorfinn seems uncomfortable in the presence of the cross that the prince and his cohorts have set up, Askeladd notices. The boy stays as far away as he can from it, only ever near it at all as a result of his assignment as Canute's guard.
Perhaps that English-speaking man of his was right. Maybe a demon of some sort really has taken up residence in Thorfinn’s body, puppeteering the boy’s corpse for its own ends.
Then Askeladd gets called ‘baldy’ and he thinks—no, that must still be Thorfinn. No devil would be so unoriginal as the brat.
—
His arm tears off at the elbow.
It’s quite the sight, really. Thorfinn startles at it, lets out a shout that’s both pain and anger, and Thorkell is gracious enough to give him time to mend his wounds.
If Askeladd hadn’t already seen the boy show up one night with his own guts leaking out his body only to be fine the next morning, he’d wonder what, exactly, Thorfinn would be expected to do in this situation.
But there’s no need to wonder.
So Askeladd makes his way over to Thorfinn—carefully, in an attempt to avoid aggravating his own injuries. He very nearly gets bit by the brat when he first tries to help, the ungrateful bastard. The resulting agony from the force of the movement makes the boy relent, at the very least, giving Askeladd the chance to tie the lost limb back to his elbow as Thorkell tells his tale of Thors.
All the lost limb can do is hang limply, Askeladd finds—if anything, it’ll become dead weight. But Thorfinn seems the slightest bit more at ease with it in place, so Askeladd ties the cloth as tightly as he can.
“Will this work?” he asks.
“Fuck off.”
“I will in a minute,” Askeladd retorts. “But I want to be sure we’re on the same page.”
“Fuck off.”
“Hm.” Askeladd turns to leave. “Be sure to keep an eye out for my position,” is all he says.
Askeladd isn’t graced with another curse hurled in his direction.
Thorkell laughs once he sees Thorfinn stand, ready to throw himself back into the fray. “I know your type,” he says, jovially, idly swinging his axes about. “I’m sure you’ll be fine within the year.”
Thorfinn says nothing.
“But I’m not the patient type.”
—
Thorkell always seems to find a way to set Thorfinn off during their travels to Gainsborough. Perhaps he’s just not quite the most lovable great-uncle for the boy.
Apparently recovery comes easier for the boy in that strange, wolf-like form of his, and Thorkell’s coos over how cute he is like that—a highly questionable descriptor to be used in conjunction with Thorfinn in any context, if you wanted to ask for Askeladd’s opinion—certainly does the giant of a man no favours.
Fingers already lost to the boy’s bite be damned, Thorkell takes any chance he can to go in for a pet, like a child with a dog that’s long had enough. He taunts Thorfinn with stories of his father, and openly ponders the possibility of future duels with the lad.
Thorfinn snaps at Thorkell nearly every chance he can get, but he never manages to get another one of his fingers.
—
Askeladd carries Bjorn’s body through the snowfall, feels the weight heavy on his shoulder.
For a moment, he wonders what he would do if Bjorn were to rise from the dead as Thorfinn had. He peers over his free shoulder, back at Thorfinn, sees his bloodied face and his arm once again coming loose, sees in his eyes what drives him, and thinks it might be for the best for those who have found rest to keep it—if rest is even what vikings like him and Bjorn would get.
He takes a deep breath, looks away, and keeps going.
—
So, this is dying.
To think his last sight would be Thorfinn making such a pitiful face.
He feels himself take his final breath, and thinks, well, that’s that.