Archive of Our Own ^beta

Thorfinn can't pinpoint the exact moment when things started to go wrong. His plans were sketched down to minute detail and promised an answer for anyone who asked, “Where is left for me to go to?” He had heard this question too many times before - ever since he met that newly-arrived slave girl in Gorm’s village and lastly when Arnheid died under their very eyes, for there was nothing and nowhere that could make her life worth living.

Hope, salvation, reform, all in vain - the promise stands broken. If the answer was a land free of war and slavery, then half of it failed already, and soon, it would fail in its entirety. Or at least that was bound to happen if he didn't make the decision.

It was one hard to make, as it comprised years of hard work, everyone's blood and sweat, joys and aspirations. Those few who survived must hate him right now, stand disappointed. As they approach the cold strands of Iceland, he doesn't have the heart to ask them, seeing how dreary they look, just like he doesn't have the heart to ask the dead on his shoulders if they've forgiven him, if he's atoned.

Images of the settlement rewound in his mind’s eye, how prosperous it used to be, shining golden under the cheers of joyful children; how they built a small community of their own, with farmers and carpenters, roles well limned and established, an harmony of the minds who were drawn together by their aversion of war.

The statue of Arnheid used to stay in the center, watching over them, and it was more than a monument or a symbol - it was the sun which gathered everyone around her, giving the tiny stars a place on the map. Both a gentle ruler and a mother angel, now stands in shambles amidst a decaying establishment. All is left to the crows and the wolves.

Arnheid has been betrayed two times - on earth, and in the afterlife. ‘I hope she and Einar get to meet,’ Thorfinn thinks as he looks over to a pile of bodies that accompany them, not too many in number; covered by rugs and placed securely with the remaining baggage. They're going to receive a proper burial once they arrive home, but for now, Thorfinn clenches the gunwale hard, painfully so, until his fists start to ache.

A few dock workers spot their boat from a distance and alert the rest of the villagers. In a short time, the entire village is gathered on the shore, chatting among each other. Shock and concern are painted on their faces. Gudrid stands at the forefront of the group, hugging her torso and shaking. Ylva is right behind her, trying to pull her back, which is nothing but understandable as the woman appears to be in bad shape. She gave birth not too long ago, so she must still be recovering.

As they arrive ashore, Thorfinn exits the boat to make room for Cordelia and Vargr, who are carrying the lifeless bodies on wooden stretchers safely across the gangplank. He runs to hug Gudrid in a haste and lets out a few tame tears of relief, but the woman pushes him away, slightly, to observe the others. She suddenly looks pale, robbed of her usual rosiness.

“How is our baby boy doing?” Thorfinn asks, drawing Gudrid's attention back to him. The woman frowns and her voice comes out rough, intertwining sickness with grief.

“Snorri’s doing fine, he's in good health! Where is Einar, though? Is he—is that—is that?”

Thorfinn lets his wife find her words, however, seeing as she’s unable to and her composure decreases by the moment, he takes pity and puts an end to it. He nods in affirmation, albeit with great difficulty, which makes Gudrid break out into weep.

“How… why…?” she starts, unable to continue. Her sobs are virulent, keeping her voice from coming out. Thorfinn embraces her once again, much stronger than before, summoning all his strength not to break down himself.

He doesn't want to keep her in the cold any longer, so he passes her to Ylva, who has given them a moment of privacy before. Now that they're both on their way home, he meets up with a few representatives to discuss where the deceased will be stored and when they can bury them at the earliest. Few people mirror their turmoil as they barely got to meet them before, not enough to form an emotional attachment altogether. To them, they’re just a bunch of travellers who disrupted their peaceful day with demands, which they must comply with given Thorfinn’s heritage.

Vargr, however, carries a permanent shadow over his eyes, tired and old, while Cordelia’s are red from all the unshed tears for every soul she had to witness leave their company. Bug-Eyes is probably home already, going ahead to check on his old man Leif and comfort him about their lost friends. Hild, however, since she doesn't have any connection of any sorts to anyone here, takes on the task to sculpt the caskets and thus wastes no more time.

Thorfinn thanks everyone for cooperating and takes on his path, where familiar landscapes await him. Grown-ups carrying buckets of water, children playing sword-and-shield, they all eye him curiously. But Thorfinn only smiles as fond memories fill his mind, a short break from all the chaos that has been going on lately. He even passes by the smithery where his father used to work.

As he arrives home, an air of mourning already floats around, a laden weight of the soul. Gudrid sits in front of the fire between Ylva and her children, propped on the taller woman's shoulder and weeping. Helga stands up as soon as she spots her son and walks up to him with slow, elderly steps. They meet in the middle into a warm embrace. Ari is diligent and brings little Snorri over to him; followed by Karli. Thorfinn bends down to kiss his eldest on the forehead, as if that could wipe the gloom away from his face, then takes his newborn into his arms and takes a first good look at him.

The infant is frail, barely able to open his eyes. He carries a wisp of blonde hair - his blonde hair - and coos with a little dose of anxiety. Thorfinn can’t help but think that this child is the first and last one to be born on Vinland soil, a prophet of sorts, teller of tragedy. What Thorfinn sees is joy, however, a meaning to life which was unimaginable to him before, and at the same time he asks himself whether he deserves it.

Little time he has to ponder, however, as everybody is waiting to hear all about the expedition’s progression and outcome. The hardest time has come, and Thorfinn takes a deep breath before recalling everything - how they thrived, how they met with the Lnu tribe, how there used to be a time of peace and trade, and how ultimately a weapon fallen into the wrong hands brought everything to war and ruin. He doesn't give too many details about what had transpired before they were forced to leave the settlement, too distraught to relive the gruesome images.

The next days are spent tumultuously, as the village stirs to prepare for the upcoming funeral ceremony - nobody wants corpses to linger around too much, as they might come alive and haunt the living. Hild and the carpenters are quick in finishing the wooden tombs, which soon host the dead bodies for the next step, kistulagning. Thorfinn and a few other lads take on the task to beat nails inside the deceased people's soles, while the rest of the villagers prepare food, drinks and other trinkets to offer the dead something to carry in the afterlife.

The ceremony is short and dull, almost as if it never happened. Thorfinn asks for Einar to be buried first, thinking that he's the most apt to watch over the other spirits, while taking one last look at him. He doesn't feel anything, which terrifies him to the core. He's simply so drained and worn-out, the fire inside him stands close to being extinguished, as if there's so much he can do to stoke it.

Now he just stares into the fireplace of their own home, feeling neither sadness nor joy. Gudrid sleeps close to him clutching Snorri to her chest, and he doesn't want to disturb the peaceful image. He can’t share his demons with her—with them. They don't deserve it, wouldn't understand it either; and Thorfinn is left feeling like a major piece is missing from his self, something more than Einar, something more than the settlement, yet he is left chasing the answer through the void which is now his heart.

Ylva and her family are out at the Thing to discuss how they will go about the newcomers and the losses, while his mother is doing housework around the yard, as much as her old bones allow her to. Thorfinn hears a couple of muffled voices outside and then his mother shows up before him, carrying a wooden box. She places a cold hand on his shoulder.

“Follow me, my son. I would like to give you something in private!”

He follows her inside what used to be Thors’ storage room. If there’s any memory Thorfinn has of this place, that would be the moment he first touched a weapon - a real one, and how his father clutched it in an attempt to teach Thorfinn the greatest lesson of life. He doesn’t dwell too much on the memory, however, as Helga hands him the box.

“Thorfinn Leifsson came by and left this with me. He said he found a belonging of yours at his father’s place, and you should open it alone.”

The man can't help a sneak peek inside the box and notices that there are a bunch of rolled-up papers.

“What could this be, did someone write something to me while I was gone? What did Bug-Eyes say?”

“He said they're from the king.”

Thorfinn snaps his head in shock, seeing as his mother's crystal eyes shine with sincerity. They crinkle slightly as she smiles at him, sensing his unease.

“They were collected by senior Leif over the years. Apparently, a messenger from overseas would arrive in the port on occasions and Leif stumbled upon him and offered to take care of them to be delivered.”

Thorfinn grunts slightly. How would Canute know where his hometown is? People in Iceland have little interest in going on trips on the mainland, and Leif is too forceless to set veils on the sea, unless—he is struck by a recollection: once they arrived back from Miklagaard with the resources and with Vargr’s ship, in an odd manner of events, Vargr sent one of his men away on said ship.

“Did he mention anything else? I didn’t receive any letters while I was away. Why are they still here?”

“That is…” Helga starts, coughing a couple of times - mendaciously or not, no one can tell. “Senior Leif is of advanced age. He had meant well by his intention, however, he had stored the letters so safely even he forgot all about them.”

Helga giggles awkwardly and then continues, “Your friend Thorfinn said he arranged the letters in chronological order for you, and that you should read them post haste. Perhaps the young man bears some sort of hope for himself.”

She exits the room shortly after, leaving Thorfinn in solitude to study the parchments. He places the box on the floor and kneels in front of it, conflicted.

Why would Canute even bother?

They've decided to go their separate ways, so much so that Thorfinn didn't want to let him know of the specifics of his new journey. There was no need that Canute had of him, any longer, and neither had he of him.

However, if he were to remember his old friend by anything, that would be the last words he addressed to Thorfinn each time they crossed paths.

“Is there nothing I can do to change your mind?” he asked Thorfinn inside his underground cell, between four eyes, before making him walk a slave’s path.

“Can you really not tell me where you will go?” he asked Thorfinn on a lonely beach, with only the waves as witnesses, before withdrawing his army from Ketil's farm.

“Do you have no place to build your new settlement around here?” he asked Thorfinn inside his tent as they signed off the agreement regarding the Jomsvikings’ army disband, before seeing him off on his departure on the Baltic sea.

“Will we meet each other ever again?” he asked Thorfinn as he approached him on the dock, while Thorfinn was fixing some veils by himself, before departing to a whole new land with a new crew of sailors.

And each time, Thorfinn would shake his head in negation, and then Canute would retreat humbly with eyes not meeting his.

A strange sense of curiosity draws Thorfinn to open up the first letter. He breaks the royal seal and unfolds the paper as cursive futhark flooded his vision. The paper is yellowed by age, but the ink still stands proud and clear in contrast.

“

If you are reading this, you are probably wondering how this letter has found its way between your fingers.

I apologise to you in advance. The truth is that the price for letting Vargr and his company leave unscathed was higher than you were aware of. I asked the captain to send me one of his men back so I would know where to send my correspondence to. It was dastardly, and it was unbecoming, I know.

Now that the cat is out of the bag, I dare ask how things are going in your corner of the world. I keep thinking every night about the words which you have told me, the land you are planning to build. Have no concern, I will keep my oath and try not to sail over there, only in my dreams perhaps. But whatever makes you uncomfortable, I dare not do.

And still, my heart frets with questions: how is the land which you will have found? Fruitful? Are there fields full of flowers and wheat, and the sun is scorching? Are there snowy mountains and pine forests full of mythical creatures? Perhaps you might even reach an exotic land brimming with strange trees, sandy fields and shrubs rare in sight. Are the grounds virgin, or are there peoples whose language you can't make out? Have you reached this territory by foot, by cart or by boat?

It gives me delight just imagining it, a worthwhile break from my paperwork. I often find myself daydreaming about setting sails towards wherever you are. I picture myself as a little boy all over, going on an adventure beyond the boundaries of my own stronghold.

But have no worry, I will keep my oath.

Perhaps, if I wasn't born a prince…

_______________”

A burst of nostalgia fills Thorfinn's heart then. Oftentimes, he forgets that before Canute claimed the throne and a bunch of kingdoms with it, becoming a feared emperor, he was just a boy who loved dilly-dallying and cooking. Heck, he even remembers that one time when Ragnar and Askeladd were discussing important matters and Canute interrupted to make a remark about a hawk. Thorfinn used to resent him, think he was a weakling in a tough world he had no place in - when in reality, Thorfinn despised something he secretly wished he himself had, and that was the luxury of breaking the chains of his own reality.

Now the situation is reserved. The chains are back but on Canute this time, while Thorfinn is the one who affords to look in the skies searching for hawks. Oh, how he wishes Canute could find his freedom too, perhaps if they work together this time they could have a second chance at building their dream.

The heavens are not so merciful, unfortunately.

He unfolds the second letter, this time a shade lighter than the previous one, but still tattered.

“

I have received no word from you back. I assume you are a busy man nowadays, too engaged in your expedition to bother yourself with petty correspondence.

Make no mistake though: I bear no grudge against you, for you see, we are birds of the same feather. I am a busy man too. Both England and Denmark stand under my full command as I’m writing this letter, and I face less opposition than you can remember. Two lands which have waged war for decades—as you are already aware, for you were an unfortunate part of it—now stand united!

You must probably wonder why I should tell you things which you already know. And to that, my dear bosom friend, I make a confession to you: it is not enough for me. Just like you, I need to expand my message further, across the borders, where war still torments those who were forsaken from the heavens. My eden will grow, friend, so much so that it makes me wonder… will our two edens get along?

I take the chance to announce that I'll campaign in the Northern lands next. Might I find you there, perchance? Part of me wishes so. Part of me wishes to meet your friends, your followers, your opposers, your children, your wife—I only saw her scarcely, but I assume you must have a big family by now. But most of all, I wish to see you.

And then, as sense and sensibility return to my mind, a part of me wishes that you are spared from my wrath, from my ambitions, from me.

Every man is a slave to something, and I am to my longing…

_______________”

Askeladd's words of wisdom come to Thorfinn's mind at this moment. He remembers that the man's sacrifice was to place a crown on Canute's head, even though he was too blind to realise it back then - but again, he was a nobody.

He wonders whether Askeladd would be proud of Canute's accomplishments, if he would support him gobbling so many territories. Canute is terrifying in a way, he has turned into what Thorfinn used to mock him for. Perhaps it's truly better for them not to cross paths again.

The thought brings a pang of sadness in his heart. He unrolls the next parchment, which is considerably in better shape than the others, wondering what Canute is up to nowadays. He secretly hopes that he's doing well and not committing too heinous a deeds.

“

Tragedy has befallen my kingdom. The claws of the black death ensnared my people in an iron grip and doesn't care to let go. There is chaos and fear at every corner, even I would wake up every break of the dawn in qualms, searching for my fingers to see if they've blackened.

I'm desperate. I'm tired. Thorfinn

Remember when I said I'm ready to taint my hands with the blood of the few to save the many? I now stand tested by fire and sword, doomed with the fate I had feared.

If you bore any concerns until now, let me prove them true. I have sacrificed entire villages of infested citizens so that the burden of the plague won't entrap us all. And if you wonder whether I regret it, I don't. The path I must walk is sewn with sacrifices.

And yet, I still halt myself sometimes and ponder on what you would do if you were in my stead. And in my heart of hearts I know that you would never do something so cowardly. I know that you would walk till the end of earth to seek their salvation. That's who you are, Thorfinn, not me, and I've come to terms with it.

And yet, I still halt myself and ponder whether you will hate me once you find out. Will you loathe me for the methods which I have decided to use? My heart keeps me awake every night with this question, burning in the back of my mind with the same lack of rue which I have shown my people.

Perhaps no one can escape the curse of the crown.

Do you know? When I had first heard of the curse, it was by reports of an unknown shipwreck along the coast. A dreadful thought travelled through my mind then.

Will I ever hear from you, I wonder? I bear hope that you are doing alright!

If it were you…

_______________”

Thorfinn is too shaken not to open the next letter in a haste, which doesn't even have the royal sigil any longer. Their struggles have been common all along, except that, as disheartening for Canute as it might be upon finding out, Thorfinn ran away. Just like he always chose to.

“

I hope your land has flourished and your family has grown numerous and healthy.

My mission here is done for I have now been crowned by the Holy Roman Empire as the Emperor of the North, ruling over Denmark, England, Norway and parts of Sweden. This is probably the closest to my dream as it could ever be, and I happen to stand as the most powerful man on earth. A secular god, if I may.

And yet, as I put my crown aside each evening, I don't feel as such. The burden of my past deeds is great, and my bones ache from the unseen weight on my shoulders.

I am guilty, therefore you must despise me. You despise me, therefore you will never write back. I face it like a blizzard that casts ice over my face, but I face it nonetheless. The ones before you would have felt the same. My foster father must probably wail from the afterlife, and my brother's soul is doomed eternally due to my betrayal. If they were alive, they would have hated me too, as they should… so I am not blaming you if you do. Just like back in the day of Askeladd's death, I have nothing more to say to you, other than: I won't ask for your forgiveness.

You are free to go wherever—as far away from me as possible.

Hate me if you will…

_______________”

The tone shift takes him by surprise. He now realizes that all this time, Canute had been expecting a reply from him, one which never once came for reasons outside his control. In hindsight, the situation seems extremely strange as some information has been clearly lost in this whole chain, however, it is too late to find a culprit. Besides, he isn't sure if he would have replied either, and the thought leaves him regretful, yearning for this friendship whom fate never gave a chance.

He quickly unrolls the next letter, hoping that Canute didn't take it to heart and didn't bear any grudge against him. He feels both pity and unease for the man and hopes that he didn't lose his soul along the way. Perhaps, in another universe, Thorfinn would have loved to be by his side and help him carry the weight of the world, share a part of it; be there to soothe the tragedies he has to endure and come with a new, clear perspective - be his hand, his eye and his heart.

“

Please forget my old words, your hatred is the last thing I would ever wish for. I let my rage blind me and turn me into a fool, and our friendship stays as payment because of it.

I carry sins. Too many to grant me a place in the heavenly abode, too few to proudly declare myself an emperor of the living. Enough to create distance between our twinned souls and make you turn away from me and never look back.

And yet, my soul yearns. It yearns and weeps and in my cowardice, I ask you to send me a word back. Anything would do… even if you see me and my doings with bad eyes, tell me so. Even if you hate me to my marrow, I'd humbly take it, blessed that I crossed your mind at least once.

Silence, ignorance, having no meaning to you, those are things which I can not accept. So would this wretched one, rich in earthly possessions but poor in spirit, wish to ask for your mercy.

Tell me, has your community developed over time? Are there more people incoming, and do you have enough land to accommodate everyone? Are you at peace with the neighbouring folks, and are you well-resourced? Just say the word, and there is little I wouldn't do for you. Have your children grown strong and healthy, and how many of them do you have by now? Does your wife make you happy, do you get along well with her?

My soul wilts in your absence. I rest my eyes each dawn trying to picture your face, struggling to remember its shapes and curves, the knife cuts which you've gathered, the shade of your eyes and how your hair falls upon your shoulders, and in my despair, I realise that with each dawn, my mind falls victim to the curse of time.

But I think of you nonetheless.

Do you have a single thought to spare on me?

_______________”

Thorfinn caresses the page softly, tapping his fingers over a few spots where the beige had been tainted by something watery. He had never realised the intensity of Canute's emotions for him nor could he guess that in another corner of the world, someone was thinking incessantly about him, awaiting his response.

The guys used to joke around him, those who afforded to, calling Canute his ‘putrid rich wooer’, yet Thorfinn had always brushed it off. He had never regarded it as more than just manly humor.

He had never asked Canute about his family either, but he had learned from hearsay that he had not one, but two wives, and that his whole family kept increasing. So he had always assumed that Canute was well off in his quest of conquering the world.

He presses the letter against his face as if he could feel Canute's scent, or his fingers as he wrote those woeful words. There is no more doubt in his heart, he needs to write a reply as soon as he finishes all letters.

He looks inside the box where only one final letter awaits him, and a small leather cover. With shaky hands, he unfolds the paper first. He is surprised by its unruly handwriting and spots of black peppered all over the page.

“

The great bane is finally on my doorstep, whose curse not even the greatest ruler can outrun. I am once again forced to bend the knee in front of the skies and admit that in front of God Almighty, I am but an ephemeral bundle of flesh. I can not command neither waves, nor epidemics to halt, for this kind of power is reserved for Him, and Him only.

My hands are weak as I'm writing this letter, and the room stands engulfed by darkness; only the candle on my desk guides my fingers. I can see Him in the corner, I have been seeing Him for a while: a rotten angel with eyes set on me, waiting to pin me to my bed for days to come. There will be one day when I will succumb to Him.

I have long since given up the hope of hearing from you, let alone seeing you again. My secret messenger brought back word that you have successfully established a settlement in a faraway land over the seas, and more people set sail to move to this new continent, emboldened by its success. He said that you are doing well and you are happy with your family. That's all that matters to me.

P.S. I kept dreaming of sunflowers lately. Custom dictates to visit an astrologer and have the meaning deciphered, however, I feel like this is a private matter that no one else should hear, but you. For you see, sunflowers remind me of you.

Your face has faded away from my memory… my old, sick memory. But my heart tells me that you would look like a sunflower. Your petals shine like gold, soft to the touch but sturdy to the wind. Your seeds are earthy and savoury, hiding so much richness waiting to be reaped. And your gaze sways nowhere but towards the sun.

Now that my days on earth are numbered, there is nothing left for me to fear. I love you, Thorfinn. I love you like the crops love the rain. I love you like the fire loves the wood. I love you like the hawks love the sky.

I love you in a way that defies even God Himself.

And as I close my eyes, you are the last dream that I have.

On my last day, I feel alone.

_______________”

Thorfinn grips the paper tightly as tears flood down his jaw. He puts the paper away and takes the last object out, covered by a case made of the finest of leathers. He then unsheats a dagger which brings him too many memories, too painful.

Practical to its grip, coated by a cloth in a cross pattern; two ᛏ stand at the edge of the blade, which looks polished and far from rusty, as if it had been painstakingly taken care of - his father's former dagger.

Canute wrote that he didn't remember Thorfinn's appearance, but Thorfinn does. Canute’s face had always been soft, no matter how many hardships it endured, and his beard sprouted with great difficulty - Thorfinn used to mock him about. His hair was like silk, and his eyes reminded him of the sea, the one which he dreamed of exploring ever since he knew how to walk and talk. He had the allure of a valkyrie, and it never failed to capture his gaze, enchanting as it was. He was beautiful, oh, so beautiful. There was only one flaw about him, one which Thorfinn had created himself.

He grips the dagger firmly, the same which had seen too many crimes, and crests his left cheek below his eye. The blood mingles with his tears and falls in drops to the ground.

It's the seventh day, and Canute is resting.

Thorfinn is too late now, but he made sure the memory will never fade.