Chapter Text
Askeladd hates kids.
But perhaps hate was too strong of a word. Hate required effort. What he felt instead was a chronic indifference. Children were delicate creatures and Askeladd was not a delicate man. It doesn't take much to break what's already broken. Harder still not to cut yourself gathering the pieces. Best, usually, to leave such things alone.
Unfortunately, Thorfinn refused to be left alone.
It became impossible to ignore the boy who trailed him like a rabid hound, snapping at his heels, forever demanding a duel. Especially in winter, when they were stranded in Gorm’s village and there were no raids to distract him with. During the pillaging season, Askeladd could send him off on errands, missions, pointless tasks that kept him occupied and bloodied elsewhere.
Winter offered no such relief.
While the men drank themselves stupid, tumbled into the furs of village women, and enjoying the spoils of a hard summer at sea, Thorfinn rotted. His temper only festered, curdling into violent, destructive fits as he waited for the ice to thaw and with it, another chance to challenge Askeladd.
Only ten days into winter, and Askeladd could already feel it building. It was only a matter of time before the tantrums began.
The boy was sitting outside of Askeladd's cabin, cold and freezing in the snow no doubt, sneaking glares through the frost bitten window whilst sharpening his dagger to exhaustion. He had thrown him out there because even the cool air did nothing to quell the stench that always permeated from the boy, and forcing him to bathe was a trial for another day.
He stretched out on the bench inside, boots crossed on the table, basking in the warmth of the hearth, Thorfinn certainly wouldn't be enjoying today.
“You’re really leaving him out there?” Bjorn asked, tilting his head toward the window. Outside, Thorfinn’s furious little silhouette was barely visible through the frost. Glaring at Askeladd who hadn't even spared him a second glance. “He’ll catch a cold.”
“He’s from Iceland, isn’t he?” Askeladd took a slow sip of mead. “You’d think he’d be used to it.”
He remembered the last time the boy had been sick, about two winters ago. He’d found Thorfinn in a stable, vomiting onto the hay, trembling so hard his teeth chattered. The memory of dragging that shivering mess to Bjorn was not one he cherished.
Bjorn hummed and took the horn Askeladd passed him. “This winter’s going to be a long one,” he muttered. “Skarde says some of the village girls are sick. They’re confined to their cabins.”
“Is that so?” Askeladd sighed. “The men will get restless with less women to go around.”
Restless men meant fights. Fights meant Thorfinn will get baited into one since he’s incapable of controlling his temper and all his pent up rage someone will end up dead. Not that Askeladd is against the prospect of even one less dane scouring the earth, but the reality was they had lost enough men this season and couldn't afford to lose more before the spring.
They fell into silence that could almost be considered comfortable if it weren't for the irritating sound of Thorfinn clumsily sheathing and unsheathing his daggers from outside in a futile attempt to stay warm, and growling with the frustration of his fingers undoubtedly freezing off.
As predicted, only three days later, Thorfinn restlessness finally manifests into one of his temper tantrums. His face burned red with fury, shouting something about a duel, teeth bared in an ugly snarl, more animal than boy.
Askeladd is just tired. Of course thorfinn chooses the worst times ever when it comes to his tantrums, its fucking cold out, he hasnt slept and he just wanted to take a piss, but with thorfinn making a scene he couldnt even do that in peace anymore.
“You owe me a duel you fucking piece of shit”
“Last I checked” Askeladd drawled not even bothering to summon his usual teasing lilt, “we had one two weeks ago. You ended up on your ass.” He was sure his voice portrayed the tiredness that seemed to burrow into the marrow of his bones and the itchiness in his throat and chest that followed hadn't gone away since the night before making it difficult to even vocalize anything beyond a rasp.
“That time I got that generals head!? You owe me a duel for that”
“I don't remember asking you to do that,” Askeladd mocked, trudging past him. Thorfinn’s shrill screaming followed, echoing across the village and no doubt waking every man, woman, and goat within the area. And then Gorm would give him shit about it later and he’d have to apologize for the fact that the child they keep for company doesn't know when to shut up and even hitting him over the head doesn't work anymore.
“That’s not—! Not fair—!” Thorfinn stuttered, tugging on his hair, a habit he’d developed during these outbursts. Straw-colored strands tore free. If he kept it up he would be as bald as Askeladd almost was in a few short years, though even that prospect doesn't bring him any pleasure.
Askeladd opened his mouth to deliver some snarky remark, no doubt to make it worse but it died on his tongue when a sharp ache tore through his chest. His body convulsed before he could stop it.
He doubled over, coughing violently, one hand clutching his ribs.His eyes are unfocused, his lungs seized, breath stuttering.
It disappears after a few agonizing seconds, leaving behind a dull throb in his sternum. He’s thankfully still standing, but with the way Thorfinn's face is twisted in utter horror and shock, it makes it seem like Askeladd had just kneeled over and died right in front of him.
“You’re sick” Thorfinn gapes, it's framed like a question, like he doesn't quite believe it. All of the previous anger had drained from him. What replaced it was something Askeladd hadn't seen on the boy's face in a long time, fear.
“It's just the cold air” he lies, if only to get Thorfinn off his back for a few hours so he can fucking rest.
He makes his way towards his cabin and he knows something is wrong, his limbs are heavier than before, each step is effortful, he hears footsteps breaking against snow behind him. When he reaches the door, Thorfinn looks like he's about to say something, but Askeladd doesn't let him finish before entering and shutting it behind him. He doesn't hear the sound of the boy leaving from behind the door.
Thorfinn knows better than to follow him inside.
Askeladd still attends the nightly feasts with his men, Gorm still bitches about how much it all costs but at least the mead is still plentiful as ever. The men sing their merry songs, and get into brawls that have Bjorn jumping in to break up. There are less women at the feasts as usual, many having been confined to their sickbeds according to Bjorn, and the men grow restless at the lack of attention. Through it all Askeladd easily charms the many women that come to his lap. Still, the itchiness in his throat seemed to grow worse, blossoming into a deep ache in his chest. His thoughts seemed shrouded in a fog, and he has to put more deliberate thought into each word or others would grow suspicious.
Thorfinn had also been acting more subdued, he still glared at Askeladd, even came to the feast just to sit in the corner and yell at anyone who came too close especially when Atli and Torgrim tried to drag him into one of their drinking games. But he didn't fuss about a duel nor was he directing his unfulfilled tantrum onto the other men. He only tugged on his hair more and more, plucking out golden strands with a newfound fervor.
Then the sick woman died. All of them.
By morning, every sick woman in the village lay stiff and pale, their bodies frozen on the outskirts of the village, the ground was too hard to bury them and the snowstorm made cremation impossible. But still the sickness spread. Skarde and Atli were confined to the healer’s house. Half a dozen others followed.
And Askeladd was coughing blood into his sleeve by then, the pain in his chest cutting deeper each day.
It is during one of these moments when Askeladd is spitting up bile that Thorfinn of course, with his impeccable timing bursts through his door. Askeladd gripped the oak table to stand upright, a cough bubbling behind his lips. Thorfinn froze at the entrance.
“Oh great it's you, just who I needed to see” Askeladd coughs but the sarcasm is lost in the congestion.
“You're sick” Thorfinn shouts like he can't quite believe it, and it's no longer a question, and even if it was he’d be foolish to deny it.
Askeladd tries to answer, perhaps to send him away, but another coughing fit ripped through him. He seized the edge of the table, knuckles white, lungs burning. Thorfinn darted forward, hovering uselessly, wide-eyed and panicked.
At the very least the boy's indignant anger seemed to be lost under his veil of pathetic worry, so if he came to continue his outburst from a few days ago, it's all but disappeared now.
Askeladd felt fever settling into his bones. Heat and cold tangled beneath his skin. A ghost of his mother flickered through his mind: hollow-cheeked, coughing into blood-soaked rags, but he dispels the thought before it depresses him further, he hadn't been this sickly since he was a slave.
“Forhead” the boy is muttering something and that's all he hears “Your forehead—”
Thorfinn is standing up on his toes to reach his forehead with the back of his hand, a stupid gesture that isn't helpful in the slightest and Askeladd easily swats away.
"You're burning up! You're sick!” Thorfinn shouts, trying again.
“Yes,” Askeladd rasps “thanks for that astute observation thorfinn” he’s able to pull himself straighter against the table to tower over Thorfinn. “I am sick, which is why I need you to fuck off-”
The words dissolved into violent coughing. The world tilted. His knees buckled. His vision blurred in and out, the room spinning in slow, nauseating arcs. His chest felt like it was cracking open. His mothers face flashes in his mind yet again, her sickly pallor, her thin frame wracked with coughs. He feels two scrawny arms straining with the effort to keep his head from hitting the solid ground, and the kid is screaming in his face, telling him to stay awake, cradling the back of his head as though he isn't his fathers murderer.
His head throbbed, vision flickering.
Gods above.
Askeladd really can't stand children.